by Kelli Stuart
Talia and I walked a few paces behind, always quiet, reserved, and obedient. Those were the expectations—at least the expectations placed upon me. As father’s beloved child, Talia had the freedom to enjoy life a little more than I did. On this particular day as we walked along the sidewalk, a bird relieved itself just above me, the slimy, white mess hitting my shoulder. Though she tried to suppress her amusement, she couldn’t contain it, and the laughter bubbled out of her, filling the air around us with effortless delight. Father spun around at the sound, and Talia quickly covered her mouth with her hand. Seeing the mess on my shoulder, Father rolled his eyes and handed me his handkerchief.
“For goodness’s sake, Frederick, clean yourself up,” he demanded. “You can’t go in to dinner looking like that.”
Minutes later, after Talia helped me wipe my arm clean, we walked into the restaurant and stood in awe. We were surrounded by SS officers, each one tall and powerful. Father knew them all and held such a high position in the community that he was treated like royalty at every gathering.
Of course Herr Hitler was there, too. I felt his eyes studying me the second we walked in. He watched me closely then, and I suspect he watches me now.
Father guided us to a table in the far corner of the room where four men were seated at a long table with their wives. Talia and I were the only children in attendance. Sensing their eyes on me, I stood straighter, clasping my shaking hands behind my back.
I was directed to sit next to a thin, drawn woman whose jet-black hair was pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head. She sat across from her husband, Eugen Steimle, a thin man with round wire-frame glasses and a straight mouth that pressed together to form a somber line across his face. I knew he was young, much younger than my father, but the air with which he moved and spoke gave a sense of dour gloom. I instantly did not like him.
The conversation that evening was as dull as it had ever been at one of Father’s dinners. The men spoke of nothing but Germany and “the mighty quest” that they claimed was their calling. They whispered their reverence for Hitler and formulated all the plans for how Germany would soon become a pure and holy nation. Steimle spoke little, but when he did, everyone stopped to listen.
He was a brilliant man, a teacher at the university, fluent in three languages, and an SS officer. Early in the dinner, father made us all aware that Steimle had been the leading socialistic activist of the Verbingdung Normannia, a student corporation created to promote the socialistic values that would comprise a strong Germany.
I observed that night the obvious admiration that Father had for Steimle. I had no doubt that I’d been positioned next to that man for a reason. Steimle was everything that my father hoped I would become—smart, strong, proud … German.
Everything about that dinner was predictable: the men leading the discussion until Father asked Steimle what his opinion was on how to best encourage and lead the young people of our nation. Steimle pushed his glasses up high on his nose and leaned forward, his hands grasped tight in his lap.
“I believe that the youth of our nation need to be given firm truths about the direction of our society and what must be done to help us save our people from insidious danger and weakness,” he said in his quiet, joyless voice.
And then Talia, my confidante, my friend, my sister, broke the reverie.
“Forgive me, sir, but what danger are you referring to?” Talia’s voice came out strong and confident, and I saw Father’s shoulders stiffen, his hand gripping tightly around his glass of bourbon. Mother turned, wide eyed, and stared at Talia.
Could she not see what she was risking? Why couldn’t she do as Mother and keep her mouth closed?
Steimle looked at her closely, then offered a thin smile. “A good question from one of the very youth to which I was referring,” he said. Talia nodded politely.
“We’re headed to the establishment of a holy and pure race, something you’ve no doubt heard mentioned before by your wise and knowing father,” Steimle began, his hands gesturing exaggeratedly at Father. “As difficult as it may sound, we must be willing to do all that it takes to bring Europe to a place of purity and to establish our great Germany as the head of this unconquerable race. Do you understand?”
Talia sat quietly for a moment, her eyes narrow and defiant. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, Father interrupted. “Of course she understands,” he said, his eyes forced into a smile. “She’s my daughter.” Lifting his glass toward Talia, Father shot her a look that everyone at the table could interpret.
Don’t speak again.
Talia slumped down into her seat and closed her mouth. That was the end of the conversation and the last that Steimle spoke that evening. But as I watched my sister’s expression harden and her jaw lock tight, I knew it wouldn’t be the last time that Talia shared her thoughts. That was the night that I knew I would one day have to turn my back on my sister.
It was just two years later when she left forever.
Opening my eyes, I pull myself from the memory of that evening and look around the quiet park high above the Dnieper River. I never heard Talia laugh like that again. The thought hits me, and I suck in a deep breath as I try to swallow the emotion. The sound of the Soviet girl’s laughter has awakened in me a longing that I thought I’d suppressed. It’s a longing that I cannot voice—even the thought of it sets me trembling in fear at what Father would think of such weakness. This one thought reverberates through my soul until I blink back tears in frustration and shame.
I miss my sister.
MARIA IVANOVNA
November 10, 1942
It has been months since Ewald brought me to this farm and left me with his sister, months since he kissed me in the attic, and in that time I’ve found that he saved me from one hardship and dropped me right into another.
The mistress of the house is neither kind nor gentle as Ewald described her. She’s harsh and cruel, and I believe she’s entirely bent on breaking me. My only saving grace has been the particular brand of stubbornness that makes up all of my being.
Every morning at precisely eight o’clock, Helena expects me to be in the drawing room of the house where we work on my German speaking skills. I don’t know why she’s so desperate to see me learn the language, except that I think she wants to prove to her brother what a fine teacher she is upon his return.
The problem is that Helena also expects me to have accomplished all of my morning chores before we begin our German lesson. I must be up early enough to make the breakfast rolls, milk the cow, feed the horses, clean the bathrooms, sweep the kitchen, and change and dress the baby.
I rise each morning at four o’clock, before the sun has even begun the process of rising. By the time eight o’clock rolls around, I’m utterly spent. Helena desires nothing less than perfection, so I will myself to concentrate, to soak in her instruction and speak in a tongue that is entirely foreign to me.
When I miss a question, or forget even the smallest of grammatical rules, I get a slap with the ruler across my wrist. If I sigh or reveal any kind of belligerence, I get a slap with the ruler on the back of the neck.
Yesterday I fell asleep. I didn’t mean to, but she droned on with such monotony that my eyes grew heavy. I woke up to the violent, stinging slap of a ruler across my cheek. Reaching up, I run my hand gently over the bruise that runs from the corner of my mouth to my ear. I sigh as I look out at the black sky.
Standing up, I pull on all of the clothes I own. I tie my second pair of socks together to form a scarf, which I wrap tight around my ears. The air has turned cold, and though my room is hardly warm, I dread walking outside to the stables and barns. I creep down the staircase, all the way to the kitchen, where the buckets stand waiting for today’s milk. I’ll milk the cow this morning, and this afternoon I’ll milk the goats that graze in the nearby field. This is a loathsome task, as they’re mean and wicked creatures.
I tuck my hands into my sleeves and pick up the bucket, then open the d
oor and suck in a deep breath as a wave of frigid air hits me. I trudge through the field to the barn, where the cow stands steady in the far back corner. Yesterday Helena ordered me to add more hay to the cow’s stall. “We don’t want her to get too cold now, do we?” she asked. I nodded, but inside I screamed.
The cow’s pen is warmer and more comfortable than my attic bedroom.
I pull a stool up to the side of the cow and set the bucket down, then begin the steady, rhythmic tug, drawing the warm milk from her. She glances at me from the corner of her eye, at first seemingly insulted, but she soon relaxes, grateful as I release the pressure in her middle.
While my hands work in rhythm, I recite today’s verbs and vocabulary words. I practice sentence structure and try to remember the dialogue Helena asked me to memorize. I get lost about eight lines in, and I mentally prepare myself for a few slaps across the hand today.
Lost in my own responsibilities, I don’t hear the door to the barn slide open. I don’t know he’s there until I feel him step up behind me. I whirl around with a gasp, and the cow stomps her feet at the interruption.
“Oh!” I cry in surprise, and he smiles apologetically. I don’t stand up, but merely look up at him awkwardly.
“Hello,” he says with a slight bow.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. “It’s the middle of the night!”
Ewald chuckles. “I had a few weeks leave, and Helena is my only family. I wanted to see her so I made my way up here. It’s a surprise—she doesn’t know I’m coming.”
I finally push myself to my feet and nod, tucking my crazy hair behind my ear. I feel my palms shake, and I’m suddenly uncomfortable and nervous. Ewald steps forward into the glowing light of the kerosene lamp and studies me closely. I shift my eyes away from him and try to turn my head so he doesn’t see my cheek, but he grabs my chin and turns my face toward him.
“What happened here?” he asks. I don’t look at his face, but I hear the surprise and concern in his voice. I think for a brief moment before answering.
“I slipped coming down the stairs from the attic,” I say softly. “I fell into the corner of the door.”
Ewald takes in a breath then pulls my face up so that I’m forced to look at him. I forgot how handsome he is, and I force myself to breathe slowly. His eyes glow in the lamplight, his face warm and golden. His blond hair shines on top of his head. I blush as my eyes meet his, and he drops his hand.
“How is Helga?” I ask, and this time Ewald blushes.
“I suppose she’s fine. She left shortly after you to go back home to her family. I haven’t heard from her since.”
“I’m sorry,” I say politely, but I find myself curious at his treatment of me. Ewald sees me studying him and pulls himself up straight.
“I take it Helena has been working hard with you on your German,” he says, and I nod. He gestures his hand and speaks, this time in his native tongue. “So talk to me. Show me what you know.”
I stand mute for a brief moment, then I blurt out today’s dialogue. Once again, at around line eight I stumble over the words and stop abruptly as Ewald laughs out loud.
“Why are you laughing?” I ask. Ewald shakes his head.
“Ask me that question again in German,” he says, his eyes twinkling, and I sigh impatiently.
“Why are you laughing?” I ask again, this time in German, and Ewald doubles over, clutching his sides.
I spin around on my heel and grab the bucket of milk. “I’m trying,” I bark, and I stomp past him. Ewald grabs my arm and stops me.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his eyes still crinkled with laughter. “But you looked so terrified as you recited a monologue about chickens and goats, and when you asked me why I was laughing, you mixed up your tenses and it came out all wrong and—” He stops at my hurt look and takes a breath.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh. I just thought you’d be better at this by now.”
I shrug my shoulders. “I’m not good at languages,” I say. “I started learning French when I was seven, and I still can’t speak a full sentence.”
“That’s because you’re not learning correctly. You can’t learn a language by memorizing poems about farm animals or reciting verb tenses. You need to speak it. You need to have conversation and listen to the rise and fall of the words.” Ewald switches from Russian to German, his voice low and melodic.
“You need to hear the sounds as a native speaks and pay close attention to how they all fit together to form sentences. And then you just need to try.” He looks at me and raises his eyebrows.
“What do I say?” I ask him in German, and he smiles.
“Tell me what you’re going to do today. And tell me why you’re up milking the cow at four o’clock in the morning.”
With full understanding of the need to protect myself from Helena, I think quickly. “I like the quiet in the barn,” I say, and I wince as I hear the grammatical inconsistencies. Ewald shakes his head.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Keep going.”
“I get up early so I can be better prepared for the day, and so I can bake the kittens in time for breakfast.”
Ewald bursts into laughter again, and I growl and stomp my foot.
“What!” I demand.
“I didn’t realize you enjoyed eating small cats so much,” he says with a smirk, and I blush yet again.
“It’s hard!” I exclaim, by default falling back into the language that is native to my tongue. “I understand almost everything that’s said to me, but I can’t speak back.”
Ewald nods. “I’ll speak to Helena about that,” he says, and I feel a knot settle in my stomach. I am most certain there will be repercussions when Helena is left alone with me again.
Ewald and I walk quickly out of the barn. He turns toward the house, but I don’t follow. “I’ll see you at breakfast,” I say, turning toward the stable. “I need to feed the horses.”
Ewald jogs up to me and falls in step. “I might as well help you out,” he says. “I’m not going to be able to sleep right now anyway, and I don’t want to wake anyone inside. Do you mind the company?”
I shrug my shoulders and try to brush off the nagging feeling that Ewald is pursuing me. I set the milk bucket outside the stable door, then Ewald and I go in together and feed the horses, shovel the hay, and clean out the stalls.
“This was my job growing up,” Ewald tells me as we work. He speaks only in German now, and I make it a point to listen closely to the words as he speaks them. “I hated doing it back then, but now …” He stops and looks around. “Now I would give anything to have this responsibility over the other tasks I’m given on a daily basis.”
My mind drifts to Alyona and Polina and all the other girls from the barracks at the camp, and I stop. Ewald is a part of that life. He’s a part of that darkness. He senses my discomfort and sighs. Stepping back, he looks around the stables.
“It looks nice in here,” he says. “You do good work.”
“Danke,” I murmur.
Early signs of morning are beginning to paint the sky, and I rush out of the stables toward the kitchen. “I must go and prepare the morning meal,” I say. Ewald nods.
“I’ll see you later today,” he says as I turn and quickly make my way into the kitchen where I trip, sliding across the floor, milk sloshing over the side of the bucket. Confusion, anger, and fatigue roll over me in a giant wave, and I take deep breaths, willing myself to calm down. Pushing myself up, I move to the big black stove and fill it with wood, then strike a match and set the fuel blazing.
I feel the fire begin to burn and crackle, and I take in a deep breath.
When will this war end?
At precisely eight o’clock, I walk into the drawing room with my head high. I’ve brushed the flour from my face and smoothed my hair as best I can. Helena likes a tidy appearance. I stop just inside the door as Ewald turns and faces me. He stands by the fireplace, his back straight and shoulders squared. He’s not in u
niform, and it’s the first time I’ve seen him in everyday clothing. He looks younger, more boyish. I cannot prevent the blush from lighting my cheeks.
Helena sits rigid on the couch, her face pinched and eyes darting from Ewald to me. I give a quick curtsy toward her. “Guten Morgen,” I murmur, and she nods her head. I rush to the hard, wooden chair that stands in the middle of the room and sit down, crossing my ankles and placing my hands gently in my lap.
Helena stands up and clears her throat. “I understand you and Ewald had a little chat this morning,” she says, her words crisp and sharp. I nod. Helena glances at her brother, who gives her a soft smile. She sighs and turns back to me.
“Ewald believes we should focus less on the technicalities of the language and simply begin speaking and conversing, so today that is what we will do.”
I nod again. “Juwhal,” I answer. Okay.
Helena nods and sits back down on the couch. “Good,” she says. “Now, tell me, Maria, how are you doing this morning?”
I search my brain for the correct response, willing the words to form on my tongue. “I am well, today. Thank you.” My reply is safe, formal, and boring. Helena seems less than pleased, but I can feel Ewald’s pleasure from where he stands, and it warms me. He steps toward Helena and leans forward, kissing her gently on the cheek.
“Thank you for helping her,” he whispers. He stands back up. “Well then,” he says, looking back and forth between both of us. “I’m going to go find that nephew of mine and spend a bit of time getting to know him. Then I think I’ll go for a walk if it’s not too cold. You two enjoy your lesson.” Ewald winks at me and my cheeks grow hot again. In just a few long strides, he’s out the door, and I’m left alone with Helena.
I look at her and the color immediately drains from my face. Her face is icy, her eyes narrow and angry. She stands up, walks briskly toward me, and leans down, her face inches from mine.
“I don’t know what you’re up to with my brother, but it stops today—right now,” she hisses. My brain races to translate what she’s said, and form a proper response.