by Kelli Stuart
I suck in my breath sharply. Suddenly his raw nerves make sense.
“We have a daughter, Polina. She’s close in age to your daughter, I believe.” I nod. I’ve seen her walking to and from school with my girls.
“What do you need?” I ask.
“Food,” he says, finally stilling his hands. “I’m afraid to leave the building, and we have run out of food. In fact, we have not eaten in three days.”
For the first time I look past him and notice his wife and daughter huddled on the couch. Polina is gaunt, her small frame thin, eyes circled in dark. Her hair hangs limply over her shoulders, and my heart cracks.
That’s the other thing about pain. Just when you think you’re incapable of enduring any more, you’re split wide open again. There is no threshold.
“I will bring you down some bread and borscht. You’re right to stay inside.”
Josef’s eyes fill with tears, and he grabs my hand, his palms cold and clammy. “Thank you,” he whispers. I nod, then turn to leave, walking upstairs briskly.
Pain can also lead to action, and the feeling of purpose is like a balm to the wound. It doesn’t close the hole, but for a moment the pain is silenced.
FREDERICK HERRMANN
September 24, 1941
Stepping out into the cool morning mist, I take in the sight of the city. After months of pushing our way farther into this wretched country, we finally reached our destination. Kiev was always to be the place that we stopped, but getting here hasn’t been without a struggle. Closing my eyes, I fight nausea at the memory of coming upon my own countrymen hung from trees, charred and grotesque. Their socks had been dipped in gasoline and lit, burning them alive from the feet up. “Stalin’s socks,” my comrades whispered late at night, and I pretended that it didn’t bother me. But it does.
And now this. Bombs went off three days ago just after we set up our command posts. How those stupid Soviets managed to coordinate the explosions is something I can’t understand, and anger mounts as I think of their defiance.
“Frederick!” I turn and fight a snarl as Alfonse approaches. I offer him a curt nod. “Do you know what the meeting’s about today?” he asks.
“Retaliation,” I reply. I hear the impatience in my voice, and I make no effort to disguise it. I find Alfonse annoying. I want him to know it.
“They killed two hundred of our men in those explosions,” I continue. “They’ll regret it.”
Alfonse nods. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it, then offers me one. I decline.
“Soviet tobacco is good,” he says, smoke unfurling from his lips. I choose not to respond. We walk in silence toward the building that’s been set up as the new command quarters.
“What do you think command has in mind?” Alfonse asks.
“I don’t know,” I respond. “But they will pay.”
MARIA “MASHA” IVANOVNA
September 28, 1941
The Germans are here. Papa came home ten days ago and asked Mama to put a little more water in the soup for he had invited Josef Michaelovich and his family to dinner. Papa told us the news that night as we slowly swallowed the broth in an effort to stave off hunger and mask fear. Polina grabbed my hand under the table and clung tight, her thin nails digging into my skin. I can still feel the terror in her grip.
My stomach is empty, and stress has made me anxious. Somehow my papa still manages to get food and even share a portion with Polina and her family, despite the fact that we rarely leave the flat at all. In fact, since we’ve been invaded, I haven’t left at all except to walk downstairs to Polina’s, where she and I tuck into a quiet corner and dream of all the meals we will someday eat. There is simply not enough food for all of us. I long for a steaming bowl of Mama’s borscht: the beet-red broth, the meat and vegetables, the sour cream, and a slice of warm bread to dip into the bowl until it’s mushy. My mouth waters, and I often wake up feeling crazed with emptiness.
Mama still makes borscht, but it’s weak. There’s no meat, and the vegetables are sparse. We receive bread sparingly and always share a portion of what we receive. So I live in hunger.
Today is no different. I wander around the house, looking for ways to occupy my time without thinking of food. Anna has begun unraveling old sweaters and blankets and using the thread to sew new clothing for all of us. I find myself jealous of her. I’m envious of her ability to find something to do.
I spend a lot of time thinking of Sergei. Daily I retreat to the corner of our flat that has always been my escape. It’s dark and musty and befits my mood. I used to sit in this corner to read and draw. When we were young, Sergei joined me, filling my head with fantastic stories of talking animals, magical forests, princesses, and kings. He described every detail of his creatures: the green frogs with purple spots; glittered owls with tufts of blue springing from their bodies; majestic eagles that walked regally and wore crowns. Sergei took me to far-off places.
He’s been gone two months now. We received one letter two weeks ago. It arrived folded in a tiny triangle, Sergei’s neat block letters formed perfectly on the front. The letter was so heavily censored that we were unable to make out much of what he wanted to communicate. Entire lines of my brother’s voice were darkened with a thick black marker, edited out by someone for reasons I can’t understand.
But that small piece of paper is evidence of him, evidence that he’s alive, and for a brief moment I saw the old light return to Papa’s face. His beloved son lives.
Bombs went off again this week. They weren’t near our home, but we could still feel the rumble and knew that something happened. Papa quickly left to investigate. Every time he leaves, I worry. We all worry. But the war has only just begun, and I wonder how long we can all live in worry before we physically break.
Mama pushed open the windows this morning to let in the sun. We’re experiencing Baba Leta, the time of year when warmth makes one last effort to stave off the waiting winter. The end of September tempts us to enjoy her beauty before October swoops in and darkens the sky. From my seat in the corner, I see the trees outside. As I gaze at the brilliant leaves, I wish for a moment that I were the blackbird sitting peacefully on the branch.
What must it be like to be a bird with all the freedom to fly? I imagine spreading my wings and letting the balmy breeze of autumn lift me high above the ground. What does the world look like from that vantage point? Does the bird float lightly on the wings of freedom? Does he feel sorry for those of us who are chained to the ground?
I should like to be a bird.
My daydreams are cut short by four staccato taps on the front door. No one has knocked on our door since the war began, and immediately my heart drops. Is it the Germans? What do they want with us?
I step outside my bedroom only to see Papa wave me back in. I obediently shrink just past the threshold so that I can hear. Papa approaches the door.
“Kto tam?” he says firmly. “Who’s there?”
“Ivan Kyrilovich, it is I, Josef Michaelovich.” Papa quickly opens the door, and Josef enters. Knowing it’s safe, Mama, Anna, and I step out of hiding and nod politely at the perpetually nervous man. His bespectacled face is always filled with a sense of dread. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him without a thin line of sweat on his upper lip.
He clutches a paper in his hand. “Have you seen this?” he asks, his voice trembling and weak.
Papa takes the paper and reads quickly. He sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Where did you get this?” he asks.
“Someone slipped it under my door this morning. I know it couldn’t have been you because you would have knocked and given it to me personally. You know what this means.”
Papa nods gravely. “It means someone else knows you’re Jewish.” Papa looks somberly at Mama and hands her the paper. I look over her shoulder to read the notice:
ATTENTION
All the Zhids of Kiev and the suburbs are to appear on Monday, September 29, 1941, at 8:00 a.m. on the corne
r of Melnikovskaya and Decktiarovska streets [near the cemeteries]. They are to bring their documents, money, other valuables and warm clothes, linen, etc. Any Zhid found disobeying these orders will be shot. Citizens breaking into flats left by the Jews and taking possession of their belongings will be shot.
“What are you going to do?” Papa asks Josef, who flits from side to side nervously.
“We’re going to go,” he answers without pause.
My heart drops at his words. Polina is the only friend I have. What will I do if she leaves?
“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Josef,” Papa replies.
“I think it is necessary,” Josef answers back. His tone is mournful. He stops moving, and looks Papa in the eye.
“Someone else knows we’re here, Ivan. Someone knows we’re Jewish. If we go, maybe we’ll be spared. The notice says to bring our possessions. Perhaps they’ll send us away, and we’ll escape this horror.”
“Or perhaps the horror you’re sent to will be worse,” Papa responds, his voice soft but firm. Josef says nothing. His face reads defeat, and the stillness of his often-fluttering hands unnerves me. He has given up.
“I will take my wife and daughter tomorrow morning as the notice commands,” Josef says finally. “I don’t have a choice. If I don’t, I take the chance of being reported and killed.”
“No,” I cry. I wince as Papa turns and gives me a sharp look. “I’m sorry,” I say, softer this time. “Please don’t go, Josef Michaelovich.”
Josef walks slowly to me. Grabbing my hands he squeezes them tight. “Thank you, dorogaya, for your concern. You’ve been a good friend to my daughter.” He looks up at Mama and Anna standing silent in the middle of the room. “Thank you all,” he says, “for taking care of my family these months.”
Looking at me again, Josef smiles, thin lips stretched tight under his sharp nose. “We’ll go tomorrow and escape the uncertainty of this isolation.”
Josef steps past me, kisses Mama on the cheek, then reaches out and places his hand on Anna’s shoulder with affection. Taking the notice, he turns to leave, stopping to shake Papa’s hand.
“Good-bye, friend,” Josef said. “Spaseeba Bolshoya. Thank you for everything.”
Then he is gone.
IVAN KYRILOVICH
September 28, 1941
The images floating through my head are too horrific for me to fully succumb to the slumber my body needs. Each time I close my eyes, the visions grow darker and heavier. I see Josef and Klara, with Polina standing in front of them. Their mouths are open, but they make no sound. As I watch, the worms crawl out—hundreds of worms wriggling out of the open crevices of their bodies. I want to scream but can’t will my voice into action. Then the sky turns red and I shake, trying to pull myself from the horror.
When the image fades, a new one pounces. There’s a person in a field. The grass is tall, and as I slowly zoom in from above, I notice the sharp angle of this body. I move closer and make out the form of a man in uniform. I see the crimson ground surrounding him, and I try to pull back, to shudder away from the vision that looms nearer.
Finally I hover above him. My body doesn’t touch the ground. Like a bird floating on the breeze, I study close the profile of the man beneath me.
It’s my son.
I want to touch him, to call his name and reach for him, but I can’t make a sound. I will him to open his eyes … to breathe. I want to hear the timbre of his voice. And then slowly, his head moves. For a brief moment my heart soars, but then I see it: a hole in the middle of his forehead, the blood streaming, a river of life flowing out. His eyes are hollow, devoid of spark. I scramble, willing myself to retreat from this terrible dream. Just before I pull myself out, I hear his deathlike whisper.
“Papa …”
I awake with a start and jump out of bed. I’m covered in sweat, and I run my fingers through my coarse hair.
Standing, I quickly pull on my thick wool trousers and step into the dimly lit hallway where our shoes sit in a neat line. Four pairs of shoes where there used to lie five. I know what to do.
“Papa?”
With a start, I whirl around to find Maria standing behind me in her nightdress. She looks so young and innocent, her wide eyes full of question. Her thick brown hair cascades over her shoulders in long waves.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“It’s okay, dorogaya,” I answer softly. “I’ll be right back.” My voice catches in my throat, and I try to stop it. But she hears and she knows.
“But where are you going? It’s dangerous to go out at night.” Her voice rises slightly in panic.
“I’m not going out,” I assure her, reaching over to smooth out her hair. “I’m going downstairs to check on Josef Michaelovich.” My daughter, ever perceptive, studies me closely. Her eyes search mine, full of questions. She nods and steps back as I quickly, silently, slip out the front door.
“I’ll soon return,” I whisper just before closing it behind me.
I swiftly descend the steps and knock gently on my neighbor’s door. I know he’ll be awake. A man as nervous as Josef Michaelovich doesn’t sleep easily or often. I hear shuffling and a soft voice.
“Kto tam?” he asks.
“It is I, Josef,” I answer. The door swings open.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, looking around me, then closing the door behind.
“I’m going to follow you tomorrow to the meeting point,” I answer, looking at my friend evenly. He stares back in surprise.
“Nyet,” he says, shaking his head.
“Josef, you’re walking into a trap, I can feel it. I went downtown last week after the explosions. I saw what happened. The Soviets bombed German buildings. Retaliation will come.”
“I understand, Ivan,” Josef says, still shaking his head from side to side. “But I will not have you in danger on behalf of my family. What do you hope to do by following us? You put yourself at risk of deportation or …” His thin voice trails off.
I look past Josef into his darkened flat. “I want to be available to protect Polina,” I say quietly. “I’ll follow you at a distance where you’ll be able to see me. If for any reason you sense danger, I’ll take Polina and bring her home.”
The room is silent. Josef studies my face with tear-filled eyes. “Why would you do that?” he asks.
“Because she’s a child. Please, friend,” I beg, imploring him to understand the gravity of his situation. “Please let me protect her.”
Taking my hand, Josef bows his head low and kisses it. He doesn’t say a word, but I know his answer. “I’ll meet you here in the morning at six thirty,” I say, turning to leave. Something catches my eye, and I look back to see Polina standing in the doorway. She looks lost and terrified.
I open the door and walk out. I don’t know what I will say to my girls.
The next morning I leave promptly at 6:30. The girls don’t walk me to the door or say tearful good-byes. The tears have all dried.
Josef, Klara, and Polina say nothing as they exit their home. They each carry a small satchel, and they’re wrapped in their warmest clothing. Despite the fact that it’s unseasonably warm for the end of September, they are dressed for winter. They’re dressed for the unknown.
Once outside, I fall behind them and stay twenty paces back. We make the long hike toward Syrets, and along the way hundreds of other men, women, and children join the group. I am swept up in the tide of Jews, all of whom seem hopeful. They murmur of a better life, of being shipped to another country where they’ll be allowed to live in peace.
Some seem to believe they will be sent to concentration camps. “It’s better than living in constant fear of being caught,” I hear one mumble.
For a brief moment as I walk along the side of the road, the sun peeking up over the tops of the trees and kissing our steps, I feel as though I’m not truly here. Everything slows, and I see all things in full detail: The child with the dark brown ringlets, her red mouth a pe
rfect heart against her full cheeks. The elegant woman wrapped in a fur coat that stretches to her ankles. On her head sits a full fur hat, and she walks with the determination of one who is accustomed to getting what she desires. The old man walking slowly beside his frail wife. I observe the deep-set wrinkles on their faces, evidence of a lifetime of hardship, and the overwhelming tenderness in their eyes.
Half a mile from the meeting site, Ukrainian police officers begin walking alongside the mass of people, herding them into a line. I am stunned by this betrayal. I know it’s time to extract myself from the crowd, so I stop walking and step to the side, outside of the group. I cannot continue to walk alongside these men who call themselves my countrymen but who seem so quick to do the bidding of the enemy.
The street has narrowed onto a dirt road. Up ahead I see the line leading toward the old cemetery. My heart plummets. There is not to be a deportation. I see no buses, and we’re miles from the train station. Hundreds of German soldiers stand in wait, watching as the line of Jews stretches as far as the eye can see. I feel a wave of nausea overwhelm me as my worst fear is confirmed: they’re walking in willingly.
Jogging up a few paces, I search the crowd for Josef and Klara, having lost sight of them when the thick crowd narrowed. There’s still time for me to escape with Polina, but not much.
Finally I spot them and stride forward briskly. Josef looks up at me and shakes his head. I look over my shoulder to see a young Nazi walking toward me, his gun trained at my head. I freeze.
“Get in line,” the young man snarls. The other soldiers laugh, as if on a picnic, but the soldier before me holds no such cheerfulness. His Russian is thickly accented, and his eyes reflect the heat of hell.
“I’m not a Jew,” I answer haltingly.
The young man laughs. “I don’t care,” he replies. “Get back in line, Untermensch.”
I raise my hands in surrender and step back into the line. The women and children now cry softly, though panic has yet to set in. For the first time, I consider the foolishness of my actions.