The Blackbird Girls

by Anne Blankman

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  Before bed, she locked herself in the bathroom. Then she took the zippered fabric pouch Babulya had made for her to hold her washing things off its shelf. Inside were her comb, toothpaste, toothbrush, and bar of soap.

  And something else. Something she hadn’t shown anyone, not even Valentina.

  Sitting on the floor, she removed two envelopes from the pouch. They were the letters her mother had written to her. In the first one, her mother had written how glad she was to know where Oksana was staying—Valentina’s mother had telephoned the different hospitals in Minsk until she had learned where Oksana’s mama was being treated, and she had told them Oksana’s new address. I’m relieved you’re safely far away, Mama had written.

  Oksana opened the letter she had gotten last week. Although she had read it so many times that she had it memorized, she read it again.

  I’ve been released from the hospital, it began. As soon as I find a job and a place to live, I’ll send for you. People say that a poisoned wind has swept across Minsk. The May bugs haven’t come out, nor the maggots, which I’m told is a sign of radiation. It’s a mercy that you didn’t go up to the rooftop garden with me that morning! My doctor said my wearing a hat and being up there only a half hour probably saved me. Your father’s parents were evacuated to Minsk, too, and stayed here in the hospital for a day before leaving to move in with Papa’s brother. I don’t want you living with them—we needn’t get into why—so you must stay where you are a bit longer.

  That was all. No mention of how much her mother missed her. No questions about how Oksana was managing in Leningrad, or if Babulya was kind to her, or if she had enough to eat. Nothing.

  Tears rolled down Oksana’s cheeks, so fast and hot she couldn’t stop them. Carefully, she carried the letters across the bathroom.

  Then she ripped them into pieces and flushed them down the toilet, so she would never have to read them again.

  23

  Valentina

  FRIDAY EVENINGS WERE the best part of the week. Babulya permitted them to watch a television program in the communal parlor.

  The treat always began in the communal kitchen, which was full of women cooking and men reading newspapers like Pravda and Izvestia. Valentina and Oksana would unlock Babulya’s cupboard and load their plates with bread, then go to the refrigerator and select some fruit and cheese from containers that bore the label GOLDMAN in Babulya’s tidy handwriting.

  On this final Friday night in May, the parlor was empty. Usually, other residents were there. Then they had to argue about what to watch. There wasn’t much to choose from, of course, as only state-approved programs were shown, and so the arguments never lasted long. Most times, everyone would agree on a travel or nature program.

  “Film Travel Club?” Oksana asked, naming their favorite show.

  “Yes, please!”

  Oksana snapped on the television. They settled themselves on the sofa, their plates balanced on their legs, prepared to let Film Travel Club take them far away. The past two Fridays, they had gone to Australia’s Outback and America’s Grand Canyon.

  This time, the destination was Brazil’s rain forest. Before they even began eating, though, Valentina accidentally knocked over her glass. Water splashed across her skirt.

  She sighed. “I’d better go upstairs and change. Tell me everything that happens while I’m gone!”

  “I will,” Oksana promised, her gaze glued to the screen.

  Valentina raced up the stairwell to the sixth floor. She flung open the door to the apartment.

  The room was dark except for the flames of two candles burning on the table. Her grandmother sat beside them, a silver cup halfway to her lips.

  For an instant, Babulya was frozen in her chair. Then she rushed across the room and grabbed Valentina by the arm, dragging her inside. She shut the door behind them.

  Her hand on Valentina’s arm was shaking. “My God,” she said in a low, urgent voice. “Did anyone see?”

  Valentina shook her head. What was wrong? What could be so terrible about lighting candles in the dark?

  “Thank goodness.” Babulya dropped her arm. Watching her, all Valentina could think of was what her mother had told her years ago: Babulya did dangerous things.

  Perhaps this was what Mama had meant, but Valentina had no idea what her grandmother was doing—or why she looked so frightened.

  “Sit down, Valya,” Babulya said. As Valentina waited, Babulya rinsed the silver cup in the sink, then returned to the table. She began polishing the cup with a cloth, keeping her eyes trained on her hands as she spoke. She didn’t look frightened anymore, only calm. “You mustn’t tell anyone what you saw me doing in here tonight,” she said. “That’s very important, Valentina. If anyone found out, I could get into terrible trouble.”

  “For drinking wine and lighting candles?” Valentina asked. That was ridiculous!

  “For worshipping my faith,” Babulya said. She set the cup in a box on the table.

  Her faith? She must mean Judaism. But . . . that was forbidden. They weren’t supposed to pray or attend religious services or celebrate holidays.

  Valentina didn’t want to hear more. She jumped up. “I should go downstairs. Oksana will be wondering where I am—”

  “Sit down,” Babulya said again. In the candlelight, she looked tired.

  They both sat at the table. Babulya took Valentina’s hands in hers.

  It was the first time Babulya had touched her, other than to braid her hair, in the four whole weeks they had lived together. Babulya’s skin felt warm and soft. Like Mama’s.

  Tears rose to Valentina’s eyes. She mustn’t cry. Not in front of Babulya, not in front of anyone. She had to be tough and make her parents proud.

  “Before you and Oksana came to me,” Babulya said, “on Friday nights I went to Grand Choral. Do you know what that is?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a synagogue downtown,” Babulya said. “The largest in the Soviet Union. You probably know that many synagogues and churches and mosques were closed or destroyed after the Communist revolution. Grand Choral still stands. It’s fallen into terrible disrepair. Sometimes members of the secret police come to services. Anyone they see there, they might put under surveillance.”

  Surveillance! Valentina’s heart beat fast. Babulya could get arrested! Babulya could disappear, like the people Mama and Papa had warned her about, those who refused to follow the rules or criticized the government. And Valentina could get in trouble, too, for staying with someone who had might have been targeted by the secret police.

  “Why do you go?” she asked. “You ought to stay home!”

  “That is precisely what I’ve been doing ever since you and Oksana arrived.” Babulya’s hands tightened on hers. “I promised your mother I wouldn’t put you in danger, not while you’re living with me. Every Friday night, instead of going to Grand Choral, I stay here. I let you girls watch television downstairs while I celebrate Shabbat alone.”

  Valentina hadn’t heard the word before. “What’s Shabbat?”

  Babulya sighed. “So much has been lost in only a few generations,” she murmured to herself. To Valentina, she said, “Shabbat is the holiest day of the week. It begins at sundown and is meant to be a day of rest and renewal.”

  She nodded at the twin flames. “We light candles to usher in the light and warmth of Shabbat. We drink wine and eat bread. We pray and sing and celebrate God.” A shadow crossed her face. “At least, we used to.”

  Sighing, she released Valentina’s hands and got to her feet. She cupped her hands around the candles and blew softly. The flames died, leaving the room dark except for slivers of red sunlight around the edges of the curtains.

  Babulya turned on a lamp. In the sudden brightness, Valentina’s eyes were dazzled. Blinking, she watched Babulya place t
he candles and silver candlesticks beside the cup in the box.

  “You mustn’t tell anyone about what you saw me doing tonight,” Babulya said again. “Not even Oksana. She’s a kind girl, and I’m sure she’s trustworthy, but I don’t want to burden her with such a big secret.

  “I wouldn’t have chosen to burden you with such a big secret, either.” Babulya closed the box’s lid, then carried it to the wardrobe, where she stowed it on the bottom shelf, behind their shoes. “Now that you know, however, we both must be very careful. You mustn’t mention it on the telephone with your mother, or in a letter. You never know who might be listening to your calls or reading your mail.”

  Valentina shivered. She knew her grandmother was right. Then why was she doing something that she knew could get her arrested? “Why don’t you stop celebrating Shabbat?” she asked. “If it’s so dangerous, why can’t you be like me and Mama and Papa and forget about Judaism?”

  Babulya opened the curtains, letting the light from the reddened sky fill the room. At last she looked at Valentina. “As long as I’m not free to worship how I choose, my heart and mind are in chains. And I have lost too many people to hatred already. I can’t lose my own soul.”

  What was she talking about—losing people to hatred? Before Valentina could ask, her grandmother said gently, “That’s enough. Your mother wouldn’t want you to know more.”

  But Valentina had to ask: “Is this why we never saw each other until now?”

  “Yes.” Babulya’s voice was quiet. “Your mother was afraid if we remained in contact and I was arrested, it would place all of you in danger. She hoped if we stayed apart, the police would leave the three of you alone. She wanted to keep you safe.”

  Valentina didn’t understand. “Why didn’t you stop attending that synagogue? Then we could have known each other.”

  Babulya looked down. “I offered to stop going. But your mother feared the damage might have already been done. That I might already have a file with the secret police. She said we had to end our relationship. She was right to do so. She had your well-being to consider.”

  Valentina didn’t know what to think. Had Mama been wrong to cut Babulya out of their lives? Or had she done the only thing she could to keep them as safe as possible?

  “What about the man in the shop?” she asked. “The one who handles the potatoes.”

  Her grandmother looked bewildered. “What do you mean, the man with the potatoes?”

  So he, at least, had nothing to do with Babulya. “Never mind,” Valentina said. “I made a mistake.”

  “Go on downstairs,” Babulya said. “Oksana must be wondering what you’re doing.”

  Valentina took off her damp skirt and hung it on a laundry line to dry. She slipped into a fresh skirt, nodded goodbye to her grandmother, and trudged down the stairs, her thoughts whirling. Why had Babulya chosen to worship in the first place, when she knew how hazardous it was? What had she meant when she’d said she’d lost too many people to hatred?

  Oksana was running up the stairs toward her. “Valentina!” She waved a slip of paper. “The program is over, so I went to check our postbox. We forgot to look when we got home. This is for you,” she added.

  Valentina took the paper and saw it wasn’t a paper at all, but an envelope, lined with a black border.

  She knew what those ink lines meant.

  Someone had died.

  “No,” she heard herself say. Suddenly her hands were shaking so hard she could barely rip open the envelope and take out the letter. She recognized the handwriting: it was from her mother.

  My dearest Valya, she read,

  I have terrible news. You must be brave.

  Papa died yesterday.

  A cry ripped from Valentina’s throat.

  “What’s happened?” Oksana asked breathlessly. “Is it your father?”

  But Valentina could only nod her head and keep reading.

  I’m so sorry, my love. His poor body gave out on him before he was able to have the bone marrow transplant operation. I spoke to his doctor on the telephone, and I promise you that in the end, your father’s death was a mercy. His pain is finally over.

  He was buried in a Moscow cemetery with the nuclear workers and firemen who have already died. I wish I could be with you now, and I wish I had the money to telephone you instead of write a letter. The only thing that cheers me is knowing that you are my courageous, clever Valyushka and somehow we will be together again.

  Your father was a hero. I want you to remember that always. After the explosion, he pulled pieces of the rubble off his colleagues, helping them to escape. He stayed when it would have been easier to run. He has been awarded Ukraine’s Order of Courage in the Third Degree and the Soviet Union’s Order of the Badge of Honor. When we are reunited, I will give them to you. In the meantime, stay strong, my Valya, and know that no matter what happens to us, I remain,

  Your loving Mama

  Valentina heard herself screaming, “No!” over and over, and then she felt herself sinking down onto the cold concrete steps. Papa was dead. Dead.

  Oksana dropped down beside her. “I’m so sorry about your papa.” Oksana hugged her, and Valentina hung on as tightly as she could and let the tears come.

  Footsteps rushed down the stairs. “What’s happened?” It was Babulya’s voice.

  Valentina couldn’t say anything. Her whole body shook with sobs.

  “Valya’s father died,” Oksana said.

  There was a pause. Then Babulya said softly, “Oh, my poor, sweet child.”

  She sat down with Valentina and Oksana. Her arms came around them. Valentina rested her head in the curve of her grandmother’s neck and stretched out her hand until she found Oksana’s. Together the three of them sat on the stairs, touching without speaking. They stayed like that for a long time.

  24

  SOMEWHERE IN UKRAINE, SOVIET UNION

  SEPTEMBER 1941

  Rifka

  RIFKA CROUCHED ON the outskirts of the woods and wondered if she dared to move. Overhead, warplanes flashed silver in the nighttime sky. German airplanes, she was sure of it. She had learned to recognize the deep drone of their engines.

  In the week since she had left Nathan behind at the farm, she had learned many things. How to steal food from a farmer’s fields on her own. How to walk all night until she thought her feet would fall off, without anyone there to encourage or help her. How to hide herself under bushes or a pile of leaves so she could sleep without fear of discovery.

  But tonight . . . tonight was different.

  Before, she’d always heard German airplanes in the distance. Now they were so close, the whine of their engines filling the air so completely that she could near nothing else. What were they doing up there? This was the countryside, not a big city, and it couldn’t possibly be a target.

  A high-pitched whistling sounded. Then another. And another, and then so many that she couldn’t count them all. She looked up in time to see the sky was flooded with silver dots. The dots were moving—they were hurtling down—

  The ground exploded in front of her, sending up a shower of dirt and grass. She felt herself scream and fall backward, but she couldn’t hear herself.

  The fields beyond the woods came apart. More silver dots were racing down from the sky and shooting into the earth, throwing dirt and crops and grass into the air.

  Bombs, Rifka thought. She had to move!

  Somehow her arms managed to work, and she pushed herself off the ground. Her legs shook so badly, they almost folded underneath her. She grabbed a tree branch to steady herself.

  The thin, pale whistling sounded again. More bombs.

  She plunged into the woods. She moved so fast, the trees were a black blur. Deeper, she had to go deeper, someplace where the trees clustered thickly together and would take the brunt of the bombs.<
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  All around her, the world was exploding. The earth heaved as if it were the surface of the sea, and somewhere, in a corner of her mind, she knew the force of the bombs was rippling through the ground and she was about to die.

  She tripped over a tree root and went flying. She landed so hard she couldn’t catch her breath. Quickly, she scrambled to her feet. A part of her brain registered a sharp, stinging sensation in her hands, but she took no notice of it and rushed forward. Deeper—she had to go deeper.

  Through the web of interlocking tree branches, she glimpsed a glimmer of water.

  Water! Was it the Dnieper River? She might be safe there. Surely the Germans wouldn’t shoot at water, for they had nothing to gain, did they?

  She dashed between the trees. A little farther and she would reach the edge of the woods, and then the water’s edge.

  She burst out of the woods. The ground was soft and marshy, and her boots sank a little. She tugged herself free from the muck and kept moving. Ahead, the water stretched out, as flat as a mirror. Dark shapes crossed its surface. She recognized their hulking outlines—the river was crowded with naval vessels.

  These ships were the Germans’ target. She had run directly to the most dangerous spot.

  She stumbled backward, colliding hard with something. She cried out in fear.

  A hand gripped hers, pulling her forward. No! She mustn’t go toward the ships!

  She tried to yank herself free, but the hand wouldn’t let go. Still running, she looked at the person who was forcing her toward the water. It was a middle-aged man in the patched clothing of a peasant.

  “Let go of me!” she screamed.

  He paid no attention to her, only continuing to drag her closer to the water’s edge. And then she realized shadows raced all around them: men and women and children, running toward the water with bundles in their arms.