Like a River from Its Course

by Kelli Stuart

  Anna puts her head down, her long, thin finger circling the rim of her mug.

  “Anna,” Papa says gently. “What’s wrong, Dochinka?”

  Anna sighs and looks at me, then at Mama and Papa. “I—” she begins, and I quickly interrupt.

  “Anna and I had a fight last night,” I blurt out, a little too loudly. “It’s my fault, really. I wore her only pair of good stockings and got a hole in them. I think Anna just wanted to get away from me.”

  Turning to my sister, I try to stifle my glare as I continue. “I’m sorry, Anna. I won’t wear your stockings again without asking, okay?”

  Anna narrows her eyes and nods slowly. Mama sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Girls, the whole world is collapsing and you two are arguing about a pair of stockings? Really, Masha, you have to be more careful,” Mama says, looking at me, and I nod in assent. “And Anna, darling, just because your sister upsets you doesn’t mean you run out into the streets and pout. Honestly, you two. This is all ridiculous.”

  Anna stares at me, and I ignore her as I focus on the swirling tea leaves at the bottom of my cup. My head snaps up only when I hear Papa laugh. It’s the happiest sound I’ve heard since the war began.

  Papa sees our astonishment, and his laughter fades. He looks as surprised as we feel by his burst of emotion. Picking up his mug, Papa’s mouth curves again into a soft smile, his eyes crinkling in the corners.

  “You fight over stockings,” he murmurs. I feel a grin spread across my face as well, and within moments we’re all laughing. It is a cacophony of joyous sound. After a few moments, Papa leans in and pulls Anna close, kissing the top of her head.

  “Happy birthday, Dochinka. I love you,” he says, his voice soft.

  Anna blushes and smiles at Papa.

  “I love you, too,” she whispers.

  “Alright girls, I’m leaving,” Mama says. “Please go take care of your morning chores and prepare for the day.”

  I push my chair back slowly and move to the bedroom, where the blankets and sheets are strewn about. Anna follows me and closes the door. Walking to the cupboard where we keep our clothes, she reaches in and pulls out her stockings with a sigh.

  “What are you doing?” I ask as she pulls at her stocking until a small hole appears.

  Anna looks up at me with a slight smile and holds up her stocking, and I giggle. “Sorry,” I say and Anna snorts, then throws her head back and laughs. I watch her for a moment before interrupting.

  “Papa’s coming back, Anna. For the first time since Babi Yar, he’s smiling and laughing. I’m not going to let you ruin it by telling him you want to go to Germany.”

  Anna stares at me for a moment before answering. “Masha, I don’t want to go to Germany,” she says.

  “You said you wanted to last night!”

  “No, I didn’t,” she answers. “I said it didn’t sound as bad as sitting here and starving to death, but that doesn’t mean I want to go.”

  Anna stops and takes a deep breath. “I went for a walk this morning to just think through a few things,” she says quietly. “I’m tired, Masha. I’m tired of being sad all the time. I’m tired of working so hard for so little. I’m just really, really tired.”

  Anna looks up at me, and I see the resignation in her eyes. She has always been the strong one. She and Mama have kept us all operating as smoothly as possible in the nine months since the Germans first sent their bombs.

  I reach out and grab my sister’s hand and squeeze tight. “We are all tired,” I answer. “But at least we’re together.”

  Anna pulls me into her arms and together we stand, sisters united in a bond that neither of us has ever known, equally annoyed and exasperated with one another but overwhelmed with love. My face is pressed in her neck where I feel warm and safe. A giggle escapes me as we embrace.

  “What’s so funny?” Anna asks, pushing me back.

  “Sergei would make fun of us cruelly if he saw this,” I say. Anna’s face breaks into a grin. Lips stretched tight over perfect white teeth. Together we giggle until the giggles turn into howls of laughter. Clutching our sides, we collapse in a heap on the floor, months of emotional strain falling from our shoulders.

  “Ahem.”

  We look up to see Papa standing in the doorway, staring at us. He has one eyebrow raised, and for the second time this morning, he smiles.

  “What’s going on in here, girls?” Papa asks.

  Anna and I look at each other and start laughing again, unable to stop the flow of emotional release because it feels too good. Before long, Papa joins us, and for some time we all laugh until our sides hurt and our cheeks are sore.

  I’ve never felt more alive.

  IVAN KYRILOVICH

  March 3, 1942

  I forgot what it felt like to laugh. I forgot the melody that joy could make, like a summer song on a rainy day, exhilarating and fresh.

  For the first time in months, I feel capable of living again. Though my heart still aches with a wretched heaviness, in this moment I feel the one thing that I thought I’d never feel again: joy.

  The sound of my girls laughing yesterday nearly took my breath away. To see my Tanya smile again was like magic. It’s as though all the strain and fear and pent-up doubts came bubbling to the surface and escaped through our laughter.

  It is Tuesday morning, the one day when Tanya doesn’t have to go to work. I’m grateful for her willingness to work so hard at the library every day. Work, I’m finding, is scarce for men right now in Kiev.

  Most Tuesdays, Tanya goes to the salt piles near the Dnieper River and gathers sacks full of the precious ingredient. It’s now tainted and dirty, so my Tanya works late into the night, sifting and pouring the salt through cloth, carefully removing all the dirt, and wrapping it tight into small parcels, which she then sells to local markets and vendors. I marvel at her industry and yet feel so humbled by my lack of provision.

  This morning, as we sit together at the breakfast table, I look around at my three girls, and I take in the sight of each of them: Anna with her striking beauty and gentle eyes; Maria with the mischievous laugh and wild expressions; Tanya with her simple elegance and a look that instantly tells me I’ll always be hers.

  “Today calls for a celebration,” I say.

  “What are we celebrating?” Maria asks, her eyes wide with excitement. My Masha loves a party.

  “We’re celebrating life and family,” I say with a smile and touch her cheek gently. “And we’re celebrating Anna’s seventeenth birthday, a worthy moment indeed.” Anna blushes and ducks her head.

  I look around at their flushed faces, and I speak slowly and deliberately. “I’m sorry, my darlings,” I begin. “I’m sorry for abandoning you these last months.”

  Tanya reaches for my hand and pulls it into her lap. “What matters,” she says, her voice soothing and calm like a sleepy brook, “is that you’re back now.” I smile, pulling her hand to my lips.

  “So, how about that celebration?” I ask.

  “How do we celebrate, Papa?” Anna asks, standing up and smoothing her wrinkled skirt. “We have no food to prepare.”

  “Nonsense,” I reply with a wave of my hand. “Tanya, what do we have to eat today?”

  Tanya grins and stands up next to Anna. “I have four potatoes, half a head of cabbage, one onion and a loaf of bread. And, of course, salt.”

  “Very well,” I say. “We’ll have borscht.”

  “Papa,” Maria answers, “it’s not borscht if it’s just potatoes, onion, and cabbage. There’s no meat and no beets.” I laugh at the look of horror on her face.

  “Dochka,” I say with a grin. “It’s borscht if we believe it to be borscht.”

  Slowly Maria smiles back. She nods her head. “Fine,” she says with a giggle. “We’ll have borscht.”

  Tanya and Anna head for the kitchen to prepare the feast, while Masha and I go to the sitting room to prepare the table. We always sit together in this larger room when we ce
lebrate. I pull the small table away from the wall and wipe the thin layer of dust from the surface. The dark wood is scratched, but otherwise still looks beautiful and rich. It’s a solid table that I built for Tanya just after we moved to Kiev when I got my first construction job. I put it together with scraps and spent hours carefully cutting and carving away at the wood until it was perfect.

  Squatting low, I reach under the table and run my hand over the inscription on the bottom, which reads, To my Tanya. We will fill each corner with love. 1921.

  I crawl under the table and lie on my back, staring at the letters scratched into the wood. To the right of the inscription I carved the night before I presented my new wife with her gift is the name Sergei Ivanovich, July 28, 1923. Beneath his name reads Anna Ivanovna, March 2, 1925, and just below that, Maria Ivanovna, May 14, 1927.

  “We filled the table,” I whisper, running my hand over each name. My fingers linger on Sergei’s name, the child who made me a father, whose voice still rings in my head.

  Maria climbs under the table and lies down next to me, her shoulder pressed tight against mine. “I used to love lying under here when I was little,” she says with a smile. “I feel like our family starts right here at this table.”

  Turning my head, I study my youngest child’s profile—the way her nose curls in softly at the bridge and her long, dark eyelashes sweep like a feather up and down over her eyes. I grab her hand, my fingers interlacing with hers.

  “This is exactly where we begin, dorogaya,” I say.

  Maria turns and smiles at me, and my heart skips a beat. I didn’t realize how much she had grown. “I love you,” I murmur. Maria leans over, throwing her arm across my chest in a fierce hug.

  “I love you, too. Thanks for coming back, Papa,” she whispers in my ear.

  We lie like that for some time, as the smell of onions and potatoes fills our small flat. I run my fingers through my daughter’s long, wiry hair and remember it all. The shrieks of laughter when the children were little and I chased them in circles around the room; the pad of small feet as they stepped up to our bed each morning and climbed in close; the sound of Sergei’s voice when it dipped below the timbre of a child and into that of a man.

  These are the moments I cherish: the moments that will keep me living and breathing and fighting. My family. All that I have in this terrifying world. They’re my breath and the light that will outshine the horrors of the shadows.

  “Ahem.”

  I look up in surprise to see Anna and Tanya knelt down, bemused smiles on both their faces. “The feast is prepared,” Tanya says with a smile.

  I nudge Maria, who has fallen asleep, and she pushes herself up groggily, her hair matted to her cheek. “Time to eat?” she asks, and we all laugh. Maria and I crawl out from under the table and help Tanya and Anna bring the food in from the kitchen. As we pull our chairs up to the table, we all look at the empty spot where Sergei sat, always entertaining us with his vivid stories and wild antics.

  “Wait, please,” I murmur. I push back abruptly and grab the fifth chair, pulling it into his spot. I place my hand on the table for a brief moment as if to feel him near, then I walk around the table and sit back down in my place. The girls watch closely, waiting to see if I slip away from them again.

  “I’m hungry,” I say, picking up my spoon. “Are we going to eat this fine meal or simply look at it?”

  With a laugh, we all dig in to the weak soup and stale bread. No meal has ever been grander.

  The week following our celebration meal is filled with much laughter and chatter. As though making up for lost time, the girls talk incessantly, sharing their fears and their own haunted memories. It’s my turn to listen, and I do, offering each one of them ample time to surrender her own heartache. They share their hearts, but mine remains vaulted shut. I cannot share the horrors I saw at Babi Yar. I cannot tell them what happened to Polina, that I saw her take a breath and that I failed to protect her.

  If I couldn’t protect her, will I be able to protect them?

  It’s Tuesday again, and we’re all going together to the market. Tanya has a bag full of salt to sell, and the girls need to get out and breathe in the crisp air. I sense their frustration at being cooped up inside the flat. I haven’t let them go back to school this year. It just isn’t safe.

  I step out of the bathroom to find them all dressed and ready, each in her best outfit and with hair pinned neatly in place.

  “You all look lovely,” I say with a smile. I pull on my warm boots and my tall, thick hat and coat. Though we approach the middle of March, the air is still cold, and last night new snow blanketed the ice-packed ground. Winter hangs on as long as possible this year, and I find myself longing for the respite of spring.

  “Let’s go, my beautiful girls,” I say, opening the door for them. As Tanya walks past me, I grab her hand and stop her. Leaning forward, my lips brush hers gently as I pull the heavy sack of salt from her hands.

  “You are breathtaking,” I whisper. Tanya looks up at me, her eyes dancing with passion. For a moment, we’re frozen in a time that can never last long enough.

  “Mama, Papa, come on!” Maria calls from below, and Tanya smiles wide. Stepping out into the dim hallway, I pull the door closed behind me with a heavy thud. Tanya and I walk down the stairs, our hands clasped tightly together. As we pass Josef and Klara’s door, my heart thumps wildly. Tanya sees my pause and squeezes my hand.

  We take our time walking to the market, relishing the quiet morning. Others are on the streets, but not many. Most people keep their heads down and move quickly, not wanting to be exposed for longer than necessary. Maria and Anna walk in front of us, Maria’s arm tucked tight in her sister’s. Their heads press together, and they laugh from time to time.

  Today is a good day.

  We step into the small magazin and Tanya pulls away, taking the salt with her. She knows whom to speak with to get the right price for her work. The girls and I take a few minutes to walk around the room, looking at the many bare shelves. There’s a short line of people standing silently, ration cards in hand, waiting to receive whatever they can to fill hollow stomachs. Three people stand behind the counter, the guardians of the precious commodity of food.

  As we wait for Tanya to finish, the door opens and four Nazis walk in. Instinctively I push the girls behind me, my entire body stiffening. I haven’t been in close proximity to a Nazi since that night in the trees, and I feel every emotion rush back.

  The men hold their guns in front of them and stand very tall. The oldest of the four clears his throat, then speaks in heavily accented Russian.

  “All boys and girls age fourteen to seventeen will come with us now for deportation to Germany,” he says, his words clipped and cold. My heart sinks. My hands quake. I feel Maria grip my shoulder as a small whimper escapes her throat.

  The older Nazi looks at me and moves my way. I don’t make a move, waiting until he’s just a few feet in front of me.

  “Nyet,” I say evenly. He stops and cocks his head to the side.

  “Excuse me?” he says.

  “I said no.”

  The man throws his head back and laughs out loud, then abruptly stops and flips his gun up, training it at my temple. I reach my hands back and clasp the hands of my daughters, but otherwise do not respond.

  “The two girls standing behind you will come with me and report for duty in Germany, or I will shoot you and everyone else inside this building.” His Russian is flawed and broken. I hate the way he taints my language.

  “They will not go with you,” I reply through clenched teeth, and I feel the terror closing in on me.

  “I’m going to count to three,” he says softly, his finger resting on the trigger. “I’ll count in your language so that you understand.”

  I grip tight to the hands behind my back, wishing to turn back time and stay home. Why did I bring them out of the house? I feel the horror of my failure once again press upon me.

  “
Odin,” the Nazi says, his eyes narrow and dark. No one in the store dares move as the other three Germans have all raised their guns as well. “Dva,” he whispers as a slight smile curls his thin lips upward.

  “Wait!” I jump as Anna tears herself away from my grasp and steps in front of me. She shakes wildly, her hands raised in surrender. “I’ll go,” she cries. “Please, don’t shoot. I will go with you.”

  The Nazi grins, then thrusts his chin forward. “Bring the other girl with you,” he purrs, and I feel Maria’s hand pull from my own. She steps out from behind me and grabs her sister’s hand. “I’ll go. Please leave our papa alone,” she says, her voice quavering. She sounds both terrified and brave all at once.

  The Nazi lowers his gun, motioning to the men behind to do the same. “Good girls,” he says. “It’s for the better, old man,” he says to me with a haughty grin. “They will enjoy living in the beautiful land of Germany.” He turns to a boy standing behind one of the counters, two fresh loaves of bread in his hands. “You, too, Untermensch,” he sneers. “You come with us.”

  The woman standing next to him lets out a wail and falls to the ground, her head sinking into her hands. The boy wipes his hands slowly and kneels down next to her. “Shh … Mama, I’ll be back,” he murmurs. Then he kisses her cheek and pulls off his white apron, laying it over her shoulders. “I love you,” he says. He stands up, eyes shining bright, and walks to us.

  “Good, that was easy,” the Nazi says. “Is there anyone else here?” he asks, looking around. When he sees no one, he turns back to the three teenagers trembling before him. “Come,” he says. “Schnell.”

  “Wait!” I cry, and he stops.

  “What is it?” he sighs, clearly impatient and ready to move on.