CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Kirk
August 14, 1942
Gzhatsk, Russia
THOUGH THE YOUNG SOLDIER’S blood never touched my skin, its imprint nonetheless stains me. I strip my gloves from my hands, remove my mask, cap, and surgical apron. Carbolic soap stings my hands as I wash up in the anteroom.
I brace my fingers against the basin, head bent, taking slow breaths.
We laid him—Dieter was his name—beneath the harsh lights of the operating theater, abdomen a mess of shrapnel and chewed flesh. Eyes young and wide in his pale face, fingers clutching my sleeve as we prepared him for surgery.
“Am I going to die?”
Do you lie to your patient? Does telling them they have a chance bolster their body? Or is it merely false hope? It’s the question asked by everyone dealing with the sick and wounded.
I chose the former with Dieter. Flashed him the kind of smile I’d give my younger brother—if I had one—and said: “Not on my watch.”
We did our best. But too often our best isn’t enough. We couldn’t save Dieter. The third man to die on the table in as many hours.
I exit the hospital, surprised to realize it’s mid-afternoon. Beneath the bright lights of the operating theater, it’s impossible to tell what time of day it is.
I lean against a crude wooden fence, staring out across the plains, the clean wind whipping against my face. Bark scrapes my palms, raw from harsh soap.
We know painfully little about the men whose lives we hold in our hands. Our job is to patch them up, mend what’s broken so they can be shipped out to fight for Führer and Fatherland again. Fed back into the ever-ravenous war machine.
My eyes sting. What a senseless waste it all is.
Laughter echoes, carried by the wind, as a group of personnel exits the doors of the makeshift hospital. I turn. Alex heads in my direction, lighting a cigarette.
“Fancy meeting you here.” He flashes a grin, wind tousling his hair.
“Off duty too?”
He nods, settling himself beside me on the fence. Smoke clouds from the end of his cigarette. I don’t know where his officer’s cap went. His uniform coat is only half buttoned. If the chief medical officer sees that, he’ll be in for a tongue-lashing.
“Busy morning?”
“The contagious diseases ward isn’t a very exciting place. Spotted fever, that type of thing. Hans says he feels superfluous. I told him to wipe the frown off his face and stop using such big words.”
“Three men died on the table today.” I face Alex, seeing not my friend but Dieter. He probably had a family back home proud of him for serving the Fatherland, a mutter who fussed over how fine he looked in his uniform. But on the operating table, he was just a scared kid, battling for his life. “All of them, so young. The last one couldn’t have been more than a few months over eighteen. He should’ve had his whole life ahead of him. And now, he’s gone.” I swallow. “Those songs about battles and glory and honor … they don’t talk about what a man’s insides look like when they’ve been chewed by bullets, or how limbs grow limp and heavy when there’s no life in them. Or how eyes …”
Alex clamps a firm hand on my shoulder. “Kirk, come on. You know what this is like.” His gaze radiates understanding though. “You’re caring too much, and when we care too much, we can’t do the job we were sent here to do.”
I scrub my hand across my face. “You’d think it’d get easier. But the longer it goes on, the harder it is to accept. They just get younger and younger, the soldiers in those beds. Though I don’t believe in what we’re fighting for, I believe in the lives of each and every one of those men.”
“Look.” Alex snuffs his cigarette with the toe of his boot. “You need a rest. Tonight, you and Hans are going out with me.”
“I don’t know, Shurik—”
“Nothing doing.” A grin teases his lips. “I’m going to show you Russia. My Russia. Besides, I want you to meet my friends.”
“Your friends? Come on, what is this?”
He holds up his hands, eyes alight with boyish anticipation. “Wait and see.”
Hours later, Hans and I follow Alex into the night. The air is crisp and cold, the sky above star studded. Our boots make squishing sounds on the moist earth. Tonight the sounds of thundering guns, the shudder of falling bombs are absent, though it’s been almost constant during the past weeks as Russian artillery shelled Gzhatsk.
As we tramp through the woods, I hope Alex is as certain as he seems about where he’s going. He walks fearlessly forward, as if a map of the country has been branded into him from birth.
A warm glow shines through the forest. We draw closer, and I glimpse a cottage nestled in the woods. Smoke curls from its chimney. Alex strides through the clearing, Hans and I following.
“Shurik, we can’t just—”
But Alex is already at the door, lifting his fist to knock.
It hasn’t escaped my notice he isn’t wearing his uniform coat.
“He better know what he’s doing,” I mutter to Hans. Whatever ties Alex may have to Russia, we are still Wehrmacht soldiers. The Russians will see us as such.
The door opens with a groan. A bearded man stands on the threshold. A little girl, garbed in a colorful blouse and skirt, clings to his pant leg.
The man looks beyond Alex’s shoulder to us. Fear flashes in his eyes. Alex says a few words to him in Russian. I can’t make out what they’re saying, except Alex is greeting him by name, and the man is calling him Shurik. The man opens the door, and Alex ducks inside, motioning Hans and me to follow.
The front room of the cottage is dim and smoky. A fire blazes in the hearth. A young woman sits in a chair by the fire, sewing in her lap, dressed in an embroidered blouse and skirt, a kerchief. The little girl scampers across the rough plank floor and climbs up on her lap.
Alex turns to Hans and me. “This is Yuri.” He gestures to the man. “Vanja.” He points to Hans, using the Russian form of his name. “Kirk,” he says, pointing to me. “And Anya and Katya.” He nods and smiles at the two girls. “These are my friends,” he says in German to Hans and me. “I met them last week.”
Burly arms folded, the man looks us over, gaze hovering on our uniforms. I know what he sees. Two men in the garb of the Wehrmacht, an army that has inflicted immeasurable suffering upon his homeland. He looks at Alex, who speaks to him again in Russian. From the expression on Alex’s face and his gestures, I can tell he’s convincing him we’re not here to do harm.
Finally, the man nods and says something in Russian.
Alex turns to us. “He’s welcoming you to his home. Say ‘Spasibo.’ It means thank you.”
“Spasibo.” I smile.
Yuri’s weathered face splits wide with a grin. His teeth are yellowed, several missing.
Speaking in Russian, Alex sets the burlap sack he brought on the trestle table and dumps out the contents. Two chocolate bars, cans of tinned meat, and a packet of cigarettes roll onto the table.
Yuri reaches out and touches one of the tins gingerly. The young woman, Anya, and the little girl, Katya, lean forward. Yuri turns, addressing Anya with a few quick words. She answers and stands, lifting the little girl off her lap. Anya peers at us shyly, colorful skirts swaying.
We settle onto the bench pulled up to the trestle table, while Yuri and Alex talk in rapid-fire Russian, gesturing as they speak. Arms folded on the table, Hans watches with rapt interest. Anya stands near the table, staring wide-eyed at Alex and listening to the conversation. Katya lingers near the fireplace, hands bereft of any plaything. Every so often, she rises up on tiptoe and holds her hands above her head like a dancer. She can only maintain the position a few seconds before she wobbles and lands on two feet again. I smile. She blinks at me with dark eyes.
I walk toward her, the conversation a musical blur in the background. Slowly, so as not to scare her, I kneel. She remains still, hands clasped.
“Kirk.” I point to myself, repea
ting my name.
“Katya.” She lisps her name. One of her front teeth is missing.
What can I offer this child? I don’t share her language. My countrymen are attempting to destroy hers. Because of Hitler’s army, this small girl with glossy hair and pink cheeks has suffered war’s devastation at an age when life should be at its most peaceful.
A boyhood trick comes to mind. I pull my handkerchief from my pocket and deftly twist the square into the shape of a rabbit. I place it in my cupped hand. A flick of my wrist.
The rabbit jumps. The first time, Katya starts back in surprise. I do it again, and she draws closer, eyes wide.
The third time, she giggles. I grin, laughing with her. The laughter of childhood is a casualty of war. Childhood itself is stolen by war’s cruel hands. But tonight in this humble cottage, a little Russian girl laughs high and clear, the sweetest music I’ve heard since entering this country.
Anya sets a bottle and glasses demurely in front of Yuri. Yuri pours clear liquid into the glasses, and Alex calls me over. I hand my handkerchief to Katya.
“Katya keep.” I say it a couple of times before she gets my meaning. She hugs the toy to her chest, smiling.
That night, we drink Russian vodka and listen to music both haunting and wild, played by Yuri on his balalaika. Alex takes Anya’s hands and together, they dance in the center of the room, her skirts swirling, his feet stomping. Both are laughing, dark curls escaping Anya’s kerchief, Alex’s head thrown back. Katya claps along to the music, and by the end of the evening, she’s climbed up on my lap and snuggled against my chest, falling fast asleep.
We walk back to the hospital, the air bitter, night a black cloak draping the landscape.
Alex turns to me. His hair falls into his eyes, mussed from dancing. “I’d stay here if I could,” he says softly. “If there was any way … I’d stay here.”
“There’s more humanity in one of these so-called subhumans than in the entire chancellery of the Reich.” Hans’s jaw hardens.
I say nothing, walking alongside my friends, letting the night and stars wrap around me, the notes of Russian music lingering in my ears.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Sophie
August 28, 1942
Ulm
FACTORY WORK IS A soulless, loveless occupation. The din echoing off the high-ceilinged room rings in my ears long after the siren signals quitting time. I stand for ten hours a day, stuffing powder cartridges into ammunition shells. My back aches, and the knots in my neck refuse to release, no matter how long I soak in the bath at night.
I want to scream.
We’re slaves who have appointed our own slave driver. Only we call him Führer.
Grease and grit blackens my hands. Shells roll past on the conveyor. Machines clatter. All around me, girls and women stand in long lines, our clothes long since gray-tinged.
I glance at Dina, the Russian prisoner working next to me. She looks up and smiles. She’s rail-thin, face pinched and pale. All the Russian workers are. They’re slaves, same as us, only we get to go home every night, while they live in barracks adjacent to the factory, fenced in by barbed wire.
A bread roll in my skirt pocket bumps against my thigh. I’ll give it to Dina during the noon break. In the face of such hunger, it’s the least I can do.
When the foreman is on the opposite side of the room, I attempt conversation. Dina has been teaching me words in Russian. Our secret rebellion, talking when we’ve been told to be silent.
I tap her on the shoulder, once and quick, before stuffing shells again. “Your earrings are pretty.” The clanking of machines almost drowns my words.
Her forehead scrunches. Her blond hair is tucked beneath a kerchief, and freckles dust her delicate nose.
“Earrings.” I point to my bare earlobe, then to hers, adorned with a set of bangles. Many of the Russian women wear jewelry, albeit cheap and tarnished, a nod to femininity despite their shapeless work dresses.
Her nose wrinkles as she laughs. She touches her earrings. “Ser’gi.”
“Ser’gi. Earrings.”
“Ear-rings.”
“Pretty. Like you.” I point to her earrings and then to her. We giggle together, heads bent, hands still moving. Two girls who can barely understand each other, being simply … girls.
“You!” The foreman’s voice booms from behind. I stiffen and keep working. Dina turns to glance at him, head tilted, wisps of hair curling around her cheeks. He jabs a finger into her face. “Lazy Russian dummkopf. Schnell.”
Dina laughs, not at all fazed. I resist the urge to laugh too. How is she supposed to understand him? She says something to him in Russian and giggles again. He glares at her, red-faced, and storms away.
What spirit these women have. Every night, as they walk toward the barracks, they talk softly together, as if the day’s fatigue is already forgotten. We German girls trudge home in weary silence. I envy their camaraderie, remembering the way it was with Annalise.
I cough, the air hot and choking. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse Dina. Expression blank, she stuffs three shells, then leaves one empty. It slides past on the conveyor. She continues on with her work, as if nothing has happened.
My breath stills. My gaze follows the empty shell.
Sabotage … Prevent the smooth operation of the war machine.
When we wrote those words, did we actually consider their meaning? Sabotaging weapons means someone we care for could find themselves helpless in battle.
What if Fritz ends up with Dina’s bullet? What if he’s unable to fight back because of it?
I swallow, throat dry. I keep working by rote, a human machine for the Fatherland.
The words I recently penned in my diary fill my mind:
Mustn’t we all, no matter what age we live in, be permanently prepared for God to call us to account from one moment to the next? How am I to know if I shall still be alive tomorrow? We could all be wiped out overnight by a bomb, and my guilt would be no less than if I perished in company with the earth and the stars …
“My guilt would be no less,” I whisper. “None of ours would be.”
My hands shake as I stuff the second-to-last shell in a group of four. I leave the fourth empty.
It slides down the conveyor, out of sight. I sense Dina watching me. I meet her gaze. Her eyes are wide, questioning. As if to ask, How can you, a German, do this thing?
I look away and bend to my work.
Even if we spoke the same language, I’m not sure I could find the words.
After cleansing the grime of the factory from my skin, and gulping down a hasty supper, I leave the table, grab my flute, and pedal down Münsterplatz on Inge’s bicycle. A summer breeze wisps across my cheeks, pulling my hair back from my face. The tires bump across the cobblestones.
I ride as fast as I can, arriving at the grim brick building within minutes. I lean my bicycle against a tree and approach the prison, flute in hand. Craning my neck, I count the second-floor windows.
One. Two. Three. Four.
The fourth window. Vater’s.
I don’t know if he’ll be waiting. Nor if he’ll even see me. Against the reddish-hued building with its rows of black-barred windows, I’m small. A girl in a worn summer dress and lace-up shoes, staring up at her vater’s prison window.
I place the flute against my lips. Slowly, I tease soft notes from the instrument, gaze never leaving the window. Oh, for him to see me and take courage from this. The forced confinement must be a torment. How he loved evening walks by the Danube, busy days at the office.
The tune stiches itself together in my mind. It isn’t until I reach the second verse I realize what I’m playing. “Thoughts Are Free.”
In an instant, I’m back in Eickemeyer’s studio, working alongside Hans, Alex, and Kirk, exchanging shared smiles, the brave notes of the song emerging proud from our lungs.
Thoughts are free,
Who can guess them? …
I
miss my friends, the purpose of our work in Munich. Then we stood united against this oppression. Now we’re scattered like dandelion dust in the wind, forced to root ourselves to new, unyielding ground.
The music drifts onto the air as I play, the sun sinking lower and lower in the sky, a canvas of red and gold against the dirty brown of the prison.
Movement from the fourth window catches my eye. Lowering the flute, I stand on tiptoe, lifting one hand in a wave. Is it my imagination? Nein. A shadowy figure stands at the window, form all but hidden by the close-set bars. Yet it’s Vater. I know it.
I wave again, my heart straining to reach beyond the confines between us.
I’m here, I want to call. Everything will be all right. Don’t worry, Vater. Your Sophie won’t let you down.
Instead, I lift my flute, the notes of my song rising higher than before.
Though I fear not high enough.
Annalise
September 22, 1942
Berlin
A letter from Kirk waits on the hall table when I arrive home from the factory where I work as a secretary. When Mutter first asked who “this Kirk” was, I told her “a friend from university” and left it at that. She hasn’t asked since, perhaps because she too understands what it is to feel alone.
Settling onto my bed, I slit the envelope with my thumbnail and unfold the pages. The army post is sporadic at best, but Kirk and I still manage to correspond. Each letter, every line draws us closer together.
Dear Annalise,
I’m sitting on an overturned crate outside the hospital, paper in hand, thinking of you. If you knew how often this scene occurred, you’d laugh, perhaps. Or perhaps you’d understand. I don’t deny I hope it’s the latter.
Each day we discover something new of Russia. In spite of the shooting that goes on steadily in the distance, we venture out when not on duty to visit the town and walk the countryside. One morning, Hans and I procured a pair of horses and went riding through the high steppe grass. Exhilarating! Russia is a beautiful country, sweeping and boundless and startling. The sky is like a ribbon of silver blue unfurling across a limitless expanse. See how I’m trying to be poetic? I know the painter in you will appreciate my efforts. Those of us with cameras have snapped photographs. But black and white doesn’t begin to do justice to the array of shades on display.
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