by Kelli Stuart
I was not always privy to the meetings with the men in power, but on the occasions that Father would allow me to tag along, I stood tall and proud among them. I wish I could relive those days when the message and the mission seemed so well defined and solid. It all seemed perfectly right at the start of this war, when my boots were fresh against the soil and the actions were still ideas.
Turning on my side, I look at the other men in the room with me. I know what we’ve all been taught. I believe the message of my country with all of my heart. We’re the superior race, and as such, it’s our duty to overtake the world and cleanse it, bringing it into the submission for which it was originally designed. I am Germany’s son. We are all her sons.
Sliding off my bunk, I head to the bathroom, where I splash a little cold water on my face. There’s a single, cracked mirror hanging on the wall for us to use when shaving. I look in it and see what everyone else sees—a skinny boy with thin lips and a dotted complexion. My eyes are red and bloodshot from lack of sleep, and I seem to have developed a permanent grimace. Sighing, I push myself up a little straighter and hold my shoulders back tight as my father taught me to do.
What would my father see if he looked at me now? Who speaks to him of me? I think of the men in the other room, and I wonder which of them was sent to be father’s spy.
I walk out of the bathroom and gather my belongings. Dressing quietly, I slip out onto the street just as the morning sun begins to rise above the horizon. I don’t have to report to duty until eight o’clock, so I decide to take a quick walk to the nearby park that rises up high above the city. When I reach the top of the worn trail, I slow down my pace and look out over the valley where the Dnieper River cuts a slow path.
It’s now the month of May, but the early morning air remains cold, and my breath forms large puffs of steam each time I breathe out. The weather could very well be the downfall of our country’s quest. In Munich we have rough winters, but it’s nothing compared to this kind of cold. Our thin, regulation overcoats made the long winter months difficult and burdensome. Even now, I wrap my arms tight around my shoulders and look up at the sky, gray and foreboding. I turn the corner at the top of the trail. That’s when I see him. We lock eyes and freeze.
It’s him—the man from Babi Yar. He is alive. I knew he didn’t die that day, and a surge of anger overcomes me. I reach for my gun, pulling it quickly from the back of my pants. I point it at him, hands shaking.
He looks at my trembling hands, and his head cocks to the side. His face is drawn and sad, full of remorse. We stare at one another for a long, still moment. Finally I speak.
“Stop right there,” I say, my Russian chopped and grammatically poor. “Come with me to headquarters to face punishment for breaking curfew.”
The man shakes his head before answering. “Nyet. I will not do that,” he says. His voice is not defiant or angry. He says this as though he’s merely declining an afternoon walk with a friend.
“You know who I am, don’t you?” I ask, taking a step forward. My knees knock.
“Yes,” he replies. “You’re the boy who couldn’t kill me at Babi Yar.”
I feel the blood rush to my head as a surge of anger overtakes me. Taking another step forward, I clench my teeth. “I can kill you today,” I growl, and the man smiles.
“You won’t,” he says. “You’re scared, you’re cold, and I know these woods much better than you do. I’ll run, and I will get away. Which will be more humiliating: for me to outrun you, or for you to simply let me go?”
I think about his words for a moment, letting them slowly sink in. It takes a few seconds for it to all translate in my mind, and by the time I’m ready to answer, he has turned and begun to make his way slowly down the hill. That’s when I realize he’s right. I lower my gun and watch as my captive walks in freedom from me once again.
It’s then that I realize once and for all: I will always be a disappointment to my father.
MARIA IVANOVNA
June 4, 1942
The pleasant German spring has given way to the heat of summer. Not that the heat could bother me, as I spend all day inside an armament camp, assembling the weapons that the Nazis are using to fight my family.
The armament facility is a one-hour walk from the camp where we sleep. We wake each morning long before the sun rises and accept our ration of dry bread and muddy water before trudging through the dark, German soil to the factory. By the time we return to the barracks, it’s dark again.
Nobody tries to run. At least no one has tried to since the first week when Karina tried to tear into the darkness in hopes of escaping.
The Nazis dragged her lifeless body back and hung it just outside the gates for all of us to see each morning as we left and evening when we arrived back. They only took her corpse down when the skin began to rot off the bones.
Polina is still with me, but she grows weaker each day. Because she is Jewish, she’s treated more harshly. She’s not given the morning rations, so I share my bread with her. She tries to insist that I keep it for myself, but I cannot get her words out of my head: “Yours is the only family who thinks of others above themselves.”
At the factory, we work with chemicals that are mixed and poured into metal shells, all of which are shipped to the Nazi front line and used to kill the very men who are fighting to free us. Polina must do the same work that the rest of us do, but she’s given nothing to protect her from the elements. She’s not permitted to wear safety goggles, or gloves, or a mask to keep from breathing in the harsh chemicals. And as we trudge home in the dark, she clings to me, her skin and hair covered in the thick, yellow dust—residue of the chemicals with which we work.
My world has become my nightmare of yellow.
A deep, rattling cough has settled in Polina’s chest, and I see her movements slowing down steadily. She’s sick, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Nothing but offer her half a piece of stale bread and a hand to hold on to in the darkness.
It’s been nearly a year since the war began—since everything changed. I have nothing left of my former life but the memories that haunt my dreams—the echoes of laughter and sorrow that drown in a swirl of black and yellow each night. I worry about Sergei and wonder where he is and what he’s doing. Is he alive? Is he well?
I’ve convinced myself that Anna is safe and refuse to consider the possibility that she might not be. I’ve heard from the other girls that when they examined our hands at the train station, they were looking for strong hands that could perform hard labor. If the hands looked too soft and the girls too dainty, they were sent to another part of Germany to work as housekeepers or nannies.
I pray this is where Anna is, because then I know she must be safe. In a house full of children with only the chores of cooking and cleaning, Anna will be in her element, and it gives me hope for her survival.
I cannot think of Mama and Papa without sorrow burning inside. How frightened they must be with all of us gone and no hope of knowing where we are. It’s the thought of them that gives me the most heartache.
It’s dark tonight, and we’re finally heading back. We work sixteen hours a day, and the labor is exhausting. We stand the whole time, sometimes lifting heavy containers. My fingers are raw and rough from the long days of moving metal and turning and screwing on the caps that will seal the fate of one of my countrymen.
Polina wheezes steadily next to me, her chest giving off a deep rattle. So sick.
“You shouldn’t work tomorrow,” I say, my voice thick with fatigue.
“If I don’t work, they’ll kill me,” she responds.
“I thought that’s what you wanted,” I answer quietly. I immediately regret my words. Polina labors forward a moment in silence.
“Yes,” she says finally. “It’s what I want, but …” She grows quiet, and I wait as a coughing fit racks her body. Stopping to lean forward, I hear her coughing up fluids and spitting bitterly in the grass at our feet. I cannot see her in the dar
k, but I can guess that she spits out blood and my heart goes cold.
Taking a breath and straightening, Polina pulls hard on my arm. “Help me back,” she whispers. I hear the sound of the German boots coming up swiftly behind us.
“Walk quickly!” he snaps, jabbing me in the side. Polina and I stumble to catch up to the moving line.
“I don’t want to die at their hands,” Polina whispers, her voice tight and constricted. “I don’t want them to have the satisfaction of being there in my last moments. I want to die on my own.” I’m baffled by both her resignation and her strength. Tears prick my eyes, hot and bitter as we step across the threshold of the camp, our home in sorrow.
“I just need to lie down,” Polina says. Most of the girls make their way to the bathhouse where they’ll wash off the grime of today’s work, but I turn with Polina, and we slowly walk back to our barracks. I pull her through the door and set her down gently before heading to the lamp and striking a match to light the wick inside. The single burning lamp gives off an orange glow, which dimly flicks at each barren wall with a sorrowful shadow. I pick Polina up under the arms and drag her to the small pallet on the floor that’s left for the sickest girls who are unable to climb into the bunks along the wall.
She’s so light, her body nothing but skin stretched taut over bones.
Laying her head in my lap, I run my fingers over her shaved head gently. Polina looks up at me, her eyes hollow and gaunt. I can already see the life fading in the black. The thick scar on her forehead juts out in a gruesome line. Her breathing is now shallow and very thin.
“Thank you,” she breathes, her chest rising slightly, then sinking deeply. I can see the bones protruding from beneath her dark brown dress.
“Shh …” I whisper back. “It’s okay, Polya.”
She shakes her head, signaling to me her desire to speak more. She wants to share, and I must listen.
“Your family … has been … so good,” she whispers, each word a gasp. “You have all … shown me that there’s … still good … in the world.”
The tears spill freely, dripping hard down my cheeks and off my chin. I run my hands up and down her hollow cheeks, silent sobs heaving up and out of my own thin body.
“Please … keep … living,” Polina gasps, and the black of her eyes starts to thicken. “Don’t let … them … win …” The final word escapes as a gasp, and the black spreads completely, leaving her expression vacant, glassy, and still. The quiet of the moment is so profound I cannot breathe. I place my hands over her eyes and push the lids slowly down.
“I promise,” I whisper, and I mean it.
I will live.
LUDA MICHAELEVNA
June 15, 1942
I think of him every day. I long to see him and have schemed a hundred different ways to get out of the flat to go meet him, but Baba Mysa will have none of it. She watches me every moment, refusing to let me out of her sight. To keep me occupied during the daytime hours, she has decided to teach me to knit.
“You must know how to make clothes for your baby,” she mumbles every time she sees me looking wistfully out the window. So hour after hour, we purl yarn into tiny hats and shoes, blankets and shirts. And all the while I think of him.
Alexei and Katya watch us curiously. They know something happened, but true to her word, Baba Mysa has not spoken of what she saw in the ally. No one ever questions Baba Mysa, so for now my secret is safe.
But they want to know. I can feel their questions in the stares, and at night I can hear Katya open and close her mouth in an attempt to ask but never with the courage to actually produce words.
By far, though, it is Oleg who leaves me feeling desperate and alone. He sits in the corner, brooding. Somehow he seems to sense that I have given my heart away, and the jealous anger that swims in his eyes makes me uncomfortable. I avoid him at all costs and try to make sure I’m never alone in a room with him.
Baba Mysa looks up from the tenth pair of booties she has made and stares at me for a long moment. I don’t return her stare, but instead will my fingers to move the yarn in the right pattern. I’m clumsy and poor at this task of making clothing, and it adds to my frustration. I drop my hands to my lap and stare out the window once more.
“You’ll have the baby soon,” Baba Mysa says quietly, and I nod. I’ve felt the pressure begin to build in my abdomen at night, and I sense that the time is nearing when I will finally hold my child in my arms. The thought terrifies me.
“It is very painful,” Baba Mysa says with a small sigh, and I turn to face her.
“What’s it like?” I ask. My eyes fill with tears of fear, and I pull my arm around my swollen stomach.
Baba Mysa returns my gaze steadily. There is tenderness in her eyes. I know that she cares for me deeply. “It is a wonderful, beautiful hurt,” she says gently. “You must remember one thing when you’re deep in the most painful moments.”
I sit perfectly still and wait, my heart beating wildly at the thought of it all. “What?” I ask.
“When the baby is born and in your arms, the pain stops. It’s over. So remember that when you’re in the middle. Remember that you just have to get to the end for the pain to stop.”
I nod slowly and wait for more, but Baba Mysa offers no more advice. “Is … is that all?” I ask. I was hoping for more detail on what to expect.
“That’s all you need to know,” Baba Mysa answers. “If you know too much, you’ll get scared.” Her fingers work quickly around the knitting needles, moving them back and forth and up and down in perfect rhythm. I sigh and set aside my project.
“I’m going to go lie down for a bit,” I murmur.
I move slowly to the bedroom, the muscles in my back straining against the weight of my middle. Leaning back against the narrow couch, I finally fall into the hard cushions. Sleeping has proved nearly impossible on the thin couch these last few weeks, but the idea of lying on the floor and trying to get back up is almost laughable. I spend many nights pacing the floor and thinking of him.
Looking out the window, I lose myself in the moments that we had together—the feel of his arms around me, the bass of his laugh, and the tender touch of his hand against my cheek. I’m so lost in my mind that I don’t even hear Oleg slip quietly into the room. I jump when he clears his throat.
“Oleg!” I exclaim. I try to stand up, but he motions me to stop.
“Stay, Luda,” he says, his voice sharp. I sit still and again place my hands instinctively on my stomach.
“I have something to say to you,” Oleg says evenly. I nod my head once.
“I have loved you from the moment you fell through our front door so many months ago,” he begins. His voice is laced with pain, and I feel a dreadful sense of shame at the hurt I’ve caused him.
“I’ve longed to protect you from the pain that has followed you and wanted nothing more than to give you the love I felt you deserved.” He pauses and looks out the window for a moment, his eyes shining and bright.
“Oleg, I—” He holds up his hand and cuts me off.
“Wait, Luda,” he says. “I’m not finished.” Oleg walks to the couch and sits beside me. He reaches forward and grabs my hand and pulls it into his.
“I know that you’ve fallen in love with someone else,” he says, and my heart skips a beat. “I don’t know who it is or how you could have possibly met him, but I saw the look on your face when you came back from your afternoon walks, and I knew you were meeting someone. Am I right?” Oleg looks deep into my eyes and searches for the answer that he knows is already there. I nod slowly.
“Yes, you’re right,” I whisper.
Oleg sighs and drops my hand. “Why have you stopped meeting him?” he mumbles.
“Baba Mysa told me not to see him again. She thinks it’s too dangerous,” I answer. My voice is laced with sadness.
Oleg looks up at me in surprise. “Who could be so dangerous that Baba Mysa feels it necessary to cut off all contact?” he asks.
“Will there ever be any room in your heart for me, Luda?” Oleg asks, and I turn to look at him. His long, handsome face is full of sorrow. He doesn’t have the same manly look as Hans, but his boyish looks give away his vulnerability and goodness.
“Oleg, I do love you,” I say. “But I don’t love you the way that you love me, and I’m not sure I ever will.”
Oleg sighs and nods. The anger has dissolved, and in its place I have left him broken and embarrassed.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“I’m sorry, too, Luda,” Oleg says sadly. “I won’t bring this up anymore.” Oleg stands and glances back down at me. Our eyes meet, and I’m nearly melted by the look of tenderness that he gives me. He reaches down and runs his hand across my cheek.
“You’re worthy of love from a good man, Luda,” he murmurs. “I hope that he is good.” Grabbing his hand, I press it to my lips gently.
“You’re worthy of the love of a woman who is willing to give it back,” I say, and he gives the faintest hint of a smile. Dropping his hand, Oleg walks slowly out of the room and closes the door. I close my eyes and lean back on the couch again.
I wake up hours later, and the light from the window has faded to a dusky gray. I open my eyes slowly and blink several times, trying to discern how much time has passed since I lay down. The pain hits me with a sudden force, and I lean forward with a gasp, gripping my stomach. It’s tight and hard, and I pant as the pain rolls over me and the pressure in my middle pins me to the couch. I realize that I’m sitting in a small puddle of water and move to stand up when another wave of pain hits.
“Baba!” I call out through clenched teeth. Baba Mysa rushes into the room, her eyes wide. Alexei and Katya follow closely after her.