by Kelli Stuart
“How can you possibly promise such a prize!” Svetlana cries. I shush her, looking around to make sure we haven’t been overheard. The other girls arrive, and all notice the empty tables. I see their curious stares and wave them all over, whispering the details of our contest.
“You can’t get us any food,” they cry, and I shake my head.
“I can get you food,” I say. “It will be grand and beautiful and glorious, but I’ll only give it to the girl who believes me and fills the most artillery shells today.”
I see the group speaking softly. Several shrug, and nod their heads. I smile a genuine smile this time. “This will be great!” I say with excitement.
A whistle blows from the front gate, and we rush out of the empty room. The Germans watch us closely as we line up. With a great deal of glee, I notice their obvious disappointment. We’re excited to get to work, despite being deprived of food. I can see that this reaction was unexpected, and I delight in the Germans’ agitation. Standing close behind me, Alyona whispers quietly in my ear.
“I hope you’ve got something planned for tonight,” she breathes. I nod. I do have a plan. I just hope it works.
Working without any food at all is every bit as difficult and painful as I thought that it would be. At midday, the gnawing pangs inside my stomach twist and pull. I wipe my brow, adjusting the small paper mask that covers my nose and mouth. I glance at Sveta and furrow my brow in concern. The whites around her eyes have turned a pale gray, and sweat mats her hair. I watch her sway on her feet, every once in a while grabbing the table to steady herself.
“Svetochka?” I ask. She glances at me, her eyes slow to adjust. “You okay?”
Shaking her head, Sveta sways again. I steady her and lean in close. She whispers something, her voice lost in the factory noise.
“What?” I ask.
“I feel strange,” she whispers. “I feel so heavy.”
Sveta’s eyes flutter, then she slumps. I catch her just before she hits the floor. Someone behind me shouts, and two German soldiers march swiftly to us. They kneel beside Sveta, one of them moving her head from side to side.
“She needs food,” I say. The German closest to me looks up, and I shrink back, not from the anger or evil or hatred that I see in his eyes, but because of the concern.
He nods his head and speaks to me in broken Russian. “Yes. I know she needs food,” he says. His comrade looks up, and I watch curiously as they communicate a nonverbal message. The German who spoke to me puts his arms under Sveta’s body and gently scoops her up.
“I’ll take care of her,” he says. His eyes dart around the room. He clicks his heels and tosses me a stern look. “Now get back to work,” he orders sharply. I push up to my feet in defiance as he turns to leave, Sveta’s listless body hanging from his arms. The German glances back over his shoulder and gives me the slightest wink before walking swiftly out of the room.
I turn back to my table, my hands shaking. Pulling out a box of empty artillery shells, I quickly begin going through the motions of filling them, all the while trying to dissect what just happened. Alyona, who has been working at another table, steps up beside me and helps me fill the shells with the chemical powder.
“What happened?” she asks quietly. She doesn’t look at me, and her hands don’t miss a beat. I take her cue and continue to work while explaining what just occurred.
“I really think he’s going to try to help Sveta,” I murmur.
Alyona doesn’t answer but continues to pour and push, twist and turn, pack and tighten. Together we empty the box, and reach under the table for another.
“Are you still planning on serving this imaginary dinner tonight?” she asks.
“Of course!” I exclaim. “Are you keeping track of how many shells you fill?” Despite my confusion and hunger, I can’t help but smile. I hear the grin in Alyona’s voice as she answers.
“I’m on number 463,” she says. I can’t resist the urge to shoot her a sideways glance and raise my eyebrow.
“I’m on 467,” I challenge. Alyona’s hands begin to fly through the motions as she scoops shell after shell onto the table in front of her. Together we work under the fire of competition until at last the final bell rings at the end of the day. We step back and my eyes widen at the mound of artillery shells stacked before and around us.
“How many did you fill?” I ask.
“I’m at 852,” Alyona replies. She rubs her hands together, soothing the tight muscles and aching fingers. “You?”
I sigh and put my arm around her shoulders. “I owe you a dinner,” I say with a weary smile.
We trudge back to the barracks as the evening sun sinks lower behind the German mountaintops. I wrap my arms over my chest and press down hard on the hollow spot beneath my ribs. If I push hard enough, the pains wane and the hunger feels less persistent.
We’re moving slowly tonight. It has been a long, weary day. I think of Sveta and of the kindness in the eyes of the German who carried her out. The idea that someone might care gives me hope. Right now, the need for hope is the only thing stronger than the need for food.
We enter the barbed gates and move as quickly as our famished bodies will allow to the washbasin and then on to the mess hall. The tables are set up and Helga, the woman responsible for serving our food, stands behind the serving table, a pot in front of her and ladle in her hand. She’s a short, plump woman with long, dark hair that she keeps pulled back in a tight bun. Her face is drawn and weary, but her eyes are kind. Though she looks aged, I suspect Helga to be quite young. She is one of very few German women who work in our camp, and I find her presence somewhat comforting.
Alyona leans forward to whisper softly. “I hope my promised dinner involves more than what Helga offers.” I turn to look at her out of the corner of my eye. She smiles and winks. She knows I don’t have real food to offer. Of course I could not offer real food. But I offered hope, and I will at least make her dinner a special event.
“Just wait until we get back to the barracks,” I reply.
The line moves slowly forward. When I reach the table, I grab a small tin cup and hold it out for Helga. She keeps her eyes down as she drops in a ladle full of food. I hesitate for a moment, hoping for more.
With a sigh, I pull my arm back and look down at the mushy substance in my cup. I believe it’s rice, but I can’t tell. I bite my lip as I step to the side. Just before I leave, Helga raises her eyes to mine. They’re filled with the waters of remorse.
She lowers her eyes again and spoons a clump into Alyona’s cup. Together Alyona and I make our way to a table and sit down to look at the food before us. I’m so hungry that I cannot wait long before using my fingers to scoop it out. As I raise the food to my lips, I feel something move down my hand and over my wrist. Yelping, I jerk my hand back, the food in it slipping onto the table. Horrified, I look closely at the runny, white rice.
“There are bugs in this food,” I say to Alyona. Her eyes widen.
“Maggots,” she says. I look up at the other girls, most of whom shovel the food into their mouths without paying attention to what they’re eating.
“What do we do?” I ask.
Alyona shrugs. She scoops up a bit of the rice and quickly puts it in her mouth and swallows. “We eat,” she says with a grimace.
I look over at Helga. She meets my gaze, and I feel a moment of deep frustration. She knew she was feeding us infested food. I look away and quickly eat the rest of the food in my bowl.
Thirty minutes later, we’re all gathered inside the barracks, and I stand in the center of the room. My stomach churns, heavy and sick.
“You all worked so hard today,” I say. I look around the room at the hollow eyes, the sunken cheeks.
“Alyona filled 852 artillery shells, more than anyone else.” I offer a grand gesture in Alyona’s direction. The girls all clap, a few even offering up small smiles. Alyona stands and waves her hand dramatically.
“Thank you,” she s
ays with a curtsy. “Oh thank you so much. You are all too kind.”
A few of the girls giggle. Even I feel the natural motion of an unforced smile taking over. It feels good. Alyona turns to me, and I notice a thin line of sweat over her upper lip. Her skin has a greenish pallor, and in the candlelight I notice the desperate flecks of illness dancing in her eyes.
Swallowing hard, she forces a smile. “So what do I win?” she asks. A sharp pang grips at my insides, and I fold over. A few of the girls gasp as I force myself to stand back up.
“I’m fine.” I wave them off. Alyona sinks to her knees, looking up at me with a glistening brow.
I grab a pile of hay and set it in front of her. My stomach rolls and cramps as I arrange the straw. I begin to speak, forcing the words to come out calm. “Here is your grand dinner,” I say. “Borscht with extra sour cream, of course.”
Alyona nods. “Of course,” she whispers.
“And warm, dark bread hot out of the oven. With butter. And a steaming glass of chai.”
I sink to my knees in front of Alyona, the stabbing pains in my stomach pulling all strength from my legs. I look around and notice that most of the girls are folded over, hands clutched to stomachs.
I look back at Alyona with wide eyes. “What’s happening?” I ask.
“I think we’re finding out what happens when you eat maggots,” she whispers and with a wretch, she folds over and vomits.
Within minutes we’re all violently ill, rushing in a mass outside where we fall to our knees and release onto the dusty earth. We cry as we wretch and heave over and over. I crouch on my hands and knees, the pain in my stomach twisting like a knife and burning like fire in my chest and throat. I have thrown up all I ate earlier, but I continue to heave and gag, the acidic bile of my stomach expelling from my wracked body.
Alyona collapses next to me, shaking. “Masha,” she cries, big tears spilling down her cheeks. “It hurts. It hurts. Oh God, it hurts, Masha.”
I grab her hand and lie down beside her, listening as the other girls continue to vomit and cry out in pain. Footsteps on the ground rouse me, and I lift my head to see the Nazi guards rushing toward us.
“Get up!” they yell. They grab us under the arms and pull us roughly to our feet. It’s pitch black outside except for the light of the moon. We all stand, still clutching our stomachs and crying in desperate pain.
“Quiet!” the tall German yells. He raises his gun in the air, pulling the trigger and sending a shot to pierce the sky. I look up expecting to see the blood of the moon.
“Back to your barracks!” he shouts. The others herd us forward, but the pains are so sharp we cannot stand straight. Many fall back to their knees. Including Alyona.
“Get up!” One of the soldiers grabs Alyona, who has fallen at his feet, pulling her up straight. She lets out a scream of pain and in projectile fashion vomits on his coat. I catch a glimpse of it in the moonlight and realize she has thrown up blood.
The German runs his hand over his soiled suit and lets out a growl of rage. He raises the butt of his gun high over his head and before I can think, I step between him and Alyona. I feel the pain of the blow for only a moment. Then the relief of unconsciousness swallows me.
LUDA MICHAELEVNA
June 23, 1942
I pick up my squirming child before the grunts turn to wails, and I nestle back on the couch with him, looking down at his perfect, round face in the moonlight that streams through the window.
His eyes are closed, and his face contorts as he tries to get comfortable. I wrap the small blanket around him and put my pinkie in his mouth in an effort to stave off his hunger for a little while longer. He grabs hold and sucks furiously, and despite my fatigue I can’t help but smile.
“Shh …” I whisper, and the rhythm of his moving mouth begins to lull him slowly to sleep. I study his features, as I’ve done every day in the last week since his birth. His cheeks are full and soft and surround a perfect red mouth. His eyebrows are tiny and white, framing his small features. His fuzzy hair is also a white blond, and I can’t help but take notice of his strong German features.
Neither can Katya.
“He looks like a German baby,” I heard her hiss yesterday morning outside my door. She thought I was asleep.
Baba Mysa sighed in reply to her granddaughter’s observation. “He is a German baby, Katya,” she said.
In the eight days since Sasha’s birth, my connection with Katya has severed once again, this time worse than before. As if the shock and horror of my carrying a German child wasn’t terrible enough, it seems my confession of love for a German man was just short of blasphemous. Seeing Sasha each and every day only reminds her of the reality I have chosen for myself.
Looking down at him, I take in everything, and I concede that it’s true. He is a German baby. But he’s also mine, and it’s not so hard for me to forget the awful nature of his conception and imagine, for just a moment, that he belongs to Hans.
I pull my son closer to my body as I look up at the moonlit, starry sky outside the window, and I think of him. I smile knowing that he’ll be back again soon. I have seen him every day this week, and it hasn’t been a secret. Hans is working hard to find out what happened to Oleg. I feel my heart sink when I think of my friend.
Alexei paces the floors of the flat much of the day as he waits for Hans to return with some news. He is lost in the thoughts and fears of a father whose world has just been shattered. Baba Mysa has urged him to go out into the streets. “Go walk, Alexei,” she begs each morning. “The fresh air will clear your head, and you’ll think better.” But Alexei stubbornly refuses.
Hans has worked tirelessly to find out if anyone knows what happened to the teenage boy who disappeared in the night. Every day, he comes to the flat early in the morning, before the streets bustle with activity and the suspicious gazes of neighbors question the frequent visits of a Nazi to our flat. Yesterday was the first time he had any real news to share, though the information was sparse. All we know is that Oleg was taken prisoner for being on the streets past curfew, and that he was sent to a POW camp outside the city. Hans left today to see if he could gather more information. I look out the window and lose myself in all that has transpired in just a few short days.
A few hours later, after the night sky fades into the dusky gray of morning, I stand up and dress quietly, my infant son finally sleeping soundly on my bed, his tiny backside raised in the air as he nestles in a tight ball. Patting him gently, and securing the blanket around him, I step out of the room and head to the kitchen. I’ve just poured my chai when I hear the knock at the door.
“Kto tam?” I ask quietly, my mouth pressed to the seal of the door.
“It is I. Hans.”
I pull the door open, and he quickly slips in. I shut the door and secure the lock, then turn to face him. He looks at me with desperate eyes.
“I must talk to everyone immediately,” he says with urgency. I nod and rush past him. He grabs my hand and quickly pulls me back, brushing the hair off my forehead and kissing me gently between the eyes.
“Hello,” he says. I offer a shy smile, then rush to inform the others of his arrival. Katya sits in the corner, a book in her hands, but she doesn’t read. She simply looks out the window in a haze of sadness.
“Hans is here,” I tell the family. We move to the kitchen where Hans stands stiffly next to the window. We gather close, but no one sits. Some news is better received standing.
“Oleg is alive,” Hans says. Baba Mysa lets out a cry.
“Bozhe Moi!” she yelps, raising her hands to the ceiling. My God.
The blood drains from Alexei’s face, and he stares at Hans with a stony expression. “You saw him?” Alexei asks.
“I spoke to him,” Hans says. Katya’s hands cover her mouth, her eyes brimming with tears, and I look at the man I love with deeper admiration than ever before.
“Where is he?” Alexei asks. Hans sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“He’s being held prisoner and used for slave labor just outside the city,” Hans says. “Getting him out won’t be easy.”
Alexei grabs a chair and lowers himself down. “What kind of labor?”
Hans grabs the back of the chair in front of him and leans on it, then stands up again. He’s nervous and fidgety. His eyes dart back and forth to each one of us. I take a step toward him and grab his hand.
“What is it?” I ask. Hans looks hard at me, and I nod, squeezing his hand in reassurance. He nods back, then shifts his gaze to Alexei again.
“Oleg and the other prisoners are being forced to construct a secret hideout for Adolf Hitler. It’s a place where wartime operations will be discussed and where Hitler will vacation and hide.”
“What?” Baba Mysa gasps. She sinks down into a chair next to her son. Katya shrinks back against the wall.
“Hitler is constructing a hideout in Vinnitsya?” Alexei asks, his eyes wide with shock, anger, and fear.
Hans nods. “This is top-secret information among the ranks,” he says. He and I sit across from Alexei and Baba Mysa. “They call the hiding place Vervolfy.” Werewolf.
“When will it be completed?” Alexei asks.
“Very soon, I imagine,” Hans replies. “The prisoners are now digging underground tunnels that will allow Hitler the freedom to wander from one building to another without exposing himself outdoors. I’m told he’s planning his first stay in the month of July.”
“That’s just a couple of weeks away!” I exclaim, and Hans nods soberly.
“There isn’t much time,” he says.
“How is Oleg?” Baba Mysa asks. Her voice is tired and her eyes drawn.
Hans looks at her closely. “He’s tired,” he answers. “And I believe he’s sick. All of the prisoners are sick.”
Everyone sits quietly for a moment as we digest this news. Finally, I speak. “What are we going to do?” I ask.
Hans looks at me, and then turns to the rest of the group. “I’m going to get him out.” He glances at Alexei. “But I’ll need your help, Alexei Yurevich. If we don’t move quickly, Oleg will be killed.”