The Blackbird Girls

by Anne Blankman

  She barely had time to wonder where everyone was going when the man pulled her onto a wooden dock that extended out over the water. She tightened her hold on his hand. She wouldn’t fight him any longer. If the others were headed toward the water, they must have a plan to reach safety. She must do everything she could to stay with them.

  Alongside the man, she dashed across the wooden boards. The end of the dock was approaching. She saw no rowboats waiting for them on the water. The man must want them to jump.

  Together they leapt into the darkness.

  She hit the water, and the man’s hand was wrenched from hers. The water was icy cold. At once, her skirts pulled her down, and she had to kick hard to keep her head above the surface.

  People jumped off the dock, so many of them she couldn’t begin to count them all. Beneath the whistling of the bombs, she heard children crying and screaming. But she couldn’t see them clearly, nor the men and women swimming or sinking around her, for the night was dark except for the silver dots falling from the sky.

  Her legs churned to keep herself afloat. Already her breath came in gasps. She couldn’t tread water much longer. Her knapsack was so heavy her back ached, but she mustn’t take it off. It held everything she owned in the world.

  Across the water, the navy ships glided, swathed in darkness. None had turned on their lanterns or searchlights, she supposed so the warplanes couldn’t see them. The Germans must be trying to destroy the Soviet navy, in hopes of defeating her country.

  The man grabbed her shoulder. The sudden weight pushed her under. She sucked in a mouthful of water. Her legs kicked once, twice, then her head broke the surface. She spit out water, sputtering.

  “Come!” the man shouted in her ear.

  She couldn’t have said why she trusted him, but she nodded. He began to swim toward the center of the river.

  To her right, a bomb hit the water. Dimly, she heard people screaming, and then she felt underwater reverberations as the bomb burst. The force pushed her far to the left.

  Gasping, she wiped water from her face so she could see. Where was the man? Before the bomb hit, he had been right in front of her . . .

  There! Closer to the middle of the river now, and swimming steadily. She took a deep breath and followed.

  Each stroke hurt. Her lungs burned. But she kept kicking and gliding, letting the current carry her. Behind her, she sensed other people were swimming.

  The man had reached a vessel of some sort. It was low to the surface, not like the giant navy ships. As she swam after him, she saw him lift himself up, dripping, over its side and drop down inside it.

  She was almost there. Her lungs felt as though they would explode. With a final burst of strength, she kicked hard. The tips of her fingers brushed the low ship’s gunwale.

  Hands hooked under her armpits and pulled her up, out of the water. She was dropped onto the ship’s deck.

  Coughing, she looked around. The deck was long and broad. Water lapped over the gunwales, splashing into the bottom of the boat. Crates had been stacked in some spots on the deck, with people sitting huddled around them.

  It was a barge, she realized. A shipping barge. Back home, she had sometimes seen them floating down the river.

  Would the Germans assume the barge was filled with civilians and try to avoid bombing it? But how could they deliberately miss the barge when it was surrounded by targets?

  On her hands and knees, she crawled to the barge’s side. She should jump. She was safer in the river than up here.

  She hesitated. Dozens of people were swimming toward the barge. They couldn’t possibly all fit. Why did they want to come on here? What did they know that she didn’t?

  She crawled to a corner of the barge and curled herself up tight, hugging her knees to her chest, trying to make herself as small as possible. Cool night air scraped over her, making her soaked clothes feel even colder. She couldn’t stop shivering.

  Someone on all fours came over to her. It was the man. He had lost his cap, and water ran down his face and beard. “Are you all right?” he shouted.

  She nodded. “Why did you help me?”

  “You’re a child, and you’re alone,” he shouted. “No child should be alone in a time of war.”

  A lump rose in her throat. This man, who didn’t know her, had gotten her onto this barge simply because she had been alone. There were good people left in the world, people who cared for no reason other than they were decent.

  Before she could thank him, he had crawled away to check on other passengers. She huddled in the corner, tears gathering in her eyes, praying she would survive the night and watching bombs fall out of the sky like stars.

  25

  LENINGRAD, RUSSIA, SOVIET UNION

  MAY 1986

  Oksana

  THE MORNING AFTER she learned her father had died, Valentina refused to get out of bed. Babulya let her miss school, for it was a Saturday and they only had classes in the morning. But the next morning, Valentina didn’t want to get up, either. Nor the next day, or the day after.

  “This isn’t good for you,” Babulya said, sitting on the edge of the girls’ bed. “You must go on living, Valyushka. Your father would want you to.”

  Oksana said nothing as she changed into her school uniform. Staying home for four days in a row! She could scarcely believe Babulya was letting Valentina get away with that. Her papa would have whipped her for being so naughty. But Babulya hadn’t done a thing except kiss Valentina’s cheek.

  “I can’t go to school.” Valentina’s voice was clogged with tears. “Please don’t make me.”

  Oksana tied her shoes with short, angry jerks. Valentina got away with everything! She lay in bed and cried and cried, as if she were the only person in the world whose father was dead. And Babulya kissed and coddled her, and let her do as she wished, while Oksana had to act perfect all the time so Babulya wouldn’t throw her out. She was sick of it!

  She turned around. Valentina was sitting up in bed, and Babulya had her arms around her. Of course. Because Valentina was safe and loved, and Oksana was not.

  Where had that thought come from? Papa had loved her, hadn’t he? She didn’t understand what she was thinking or why tears were burning her eyes.

  “You’re spoiled!” Oksana burst out. “All you do is lie around in bed crying while the rest of us have to carry on!”

  “What are you talking about?” Valentina looked surprised.

  Head down, Oksana rushed to the door. She grabbed her satchel, which hung on a hook next to the mirror. Babulya had covered the mirror in black cloth, saying they needn’t concern themselves with their appearances while they were in mourning. But Babulya hadn’t done that for Oksana’s father. No one had let her lie in bed and cry. Instead, her mother had gone into her bedroom and left Oksana alone in the parlor. All night.

  Hot tears filled her eyes. She flung the door open and hurried along the corridor. Behind her, Babulya shouted, “Wait!” but she ignored her. She clattered down the stairs and across the front hall, ignoring the kitchen. She wouldn’t have breakfast today. She’d rather go hungry than stay in this building for another minute.

  Outside, the street was filled with grown-ups going to work and children walking to school. Quickly, Oksana fell in step behind a group of little boys and girls. Her heart beat fast. She was bad. And stupid and slow and weak.

  Heat rushed into her face. She felt as though she were going to be sick.

  The little kids in front of her turned into the schoolyard. For a moment, she looked at the two school buildings, the primary and the middle schools, joined by a shared playground. Children from her class were already playing in the yard, racing about in a game of tag or rolling marbles or standing about talking. She saw two of her friends, Yulia and Lyudmila. Her stomach roiled. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t go in there and pretend she was fine.


  She hurried away, following the streets wherever they took her. Finally, she stopped in front of a park. It was little more than a scrubby patch of grass and a few birch trees, but she could hide here for the day.

  She settled herself under a tree. She had to figure out what to do next. Surely Babulya would throw her out, now that she’d been rude. She’d have to go to Minsk. Mama would be so happy to see her. With Papa gone, everything would be different. She and Mama would bake cakes together and cuddle on the sofa, telling each other about their day, and in the morning, her mother would braid her hair for school and say how proud she was of Oksana’s excellent marks.

  Oksana wiped at her eyes with the backs of her hands. She mustn’t cry like this. She had to be perfect.

  Intending to read through today’s lesson, she slid her history textbook out of the satchel. But her hand lingered on her notebook. Did she dare to draw?

  Mama would never see it, she told herself. That made her decision, and she tore a sheet out of the notebook. Then she began to sketch the trees in front of her. She had to get their shapes just right, and the roughness of the bark, and the way the leaves caught the light . . .

  She frowned at her pencil. If only she had a set of paints! Or colored pencils. This would have to do. A true artist would use whatever was at hand.

  For a long time, she was lost in her drawing. When she finally stopped, she realized she was stiff and hungry. She wished she had some pocket money, but she’d left this morning before Babulya had had a chance to give her twenty-three kopeks for her school lunch.

  A man passed the park. He wore a shabby black suit and hat. It was the man from Babulya’s shop, the one who handled the potatoes!

  Oksana jumped to her feet. Valentina had said the man might be a criminal, but later she had said he could run a black-market business. What if Valentina was right and he was a black-market worker? Could he get Oksana a train ticket to Minsk?

  She threw her things into her satchel, then rushed after the man. He had reached the corner and was looking around, as if searching for someone. Oksana’s steps slowed. Maybe she should follow him and see what he was up to before she approached him.

  A woman went up to the man. They talked for a moment, then the man slipped his hand into his coat pocket and gave her something.

  Oksana squinted. It was a small box containing canisters of film for a camera. But the words printed on it weren’t in Russian. She wasn’t sure what language it was. The film was a foreign product. Valentina had been right—the man did sell things on the black market!

  The woman tucked the box into her purse. Then she said something to the man and strode away. He walked off in the opposite direction.

  Oksana had to do something. The man might be able to help her get a train ticket.

  She rushed after him. When she caught up to him, she stepped in front of him, barring his way. He looked at her with hard eyes.

  “What do you want?” he snapped.

  “A train ticket to Minsk.”

  “Where do you think we are, a train station?” He laughed. “Little girl, go to school and stop wasting my time.”

  She raised her chin. “You work on the black market. I know you can help me.”

  Suddenly, he grabbed her arm. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What do you want?”

  “A tr-train ticket to Minsk,” she stuttered. His grip was like iron. She’d never be able to shake him off and run away. What had she done?

  He stared down at her, then let go of her arm. “Even the secret police don’t resort to using children,” he muttered. Louder, he said, “I can’t help you.”

  “Yes, you can.” An idea came to her. “I could work for you and earn the money for a train ticket.”

  He laughed again. “Little girl, get out of here.”

  “No, I could do it,” she insisted. “I’ve seen you at Lebedev’s Market, and I followed you today from the park. But I bet you never saw me. Nobody notices children. I could deliver goods to your customers, and no one would pay attention to me.”

  Looking annoyed, he turned and began walking away. Her heart sank. He wouldn’t help her. She would remain stuck here in Leningrad, without her mother.

  “Please, don’t go!” She raced after him, darting in front of him and forcing him to stop. He stared down at her with stony eyes. “My father died in the nuclear accident in Pripyat,” she said in a rush, afraid he would walk away again. “My mother got radiation poisoning and had to go to a hospital in Minsk, and I didn’t have anywhere else to go except here. I want to be with my mother.”

  Suddenly, she wanted her mother so badly she could barely breathe. Tears filled her eyes.

  The man sighed. “You remind me of my niece.” His voice was gentle. “She would never take no for an answer, either. She died several years ago.”

  Oksana swiped at her tears. “What happened to her?”

  “Cancer. It’s a hard death, and one no child deserves.” He crouched down so they were eye to eye. “My work is dangerous,” he said quietly. “It might seem easy, but it isn’t. The lady you just saw with me is an office worker during the day and a photographer at night. She’s a freelancer. You know what that is?”

  Oksana nodded. Everybody knew about freelancers. Their work was frowned upon by the government, but lots of people did it anyway. Many citizens’ paychecks only covered their basic needs, and to say “Let him live on his salary” was like putting a curse on someone. Therefore, many people freelanced to earn extra money. Even Babulya freelanced by sewing during the evening. Sometimes freelancing was the only way to afford everything you needed.

  “My customer needed color film,” the man continued. “Our Russian color film is terrible, so I got her some from East Germany. It sounds simple, but it isn’t. I never know whom I can trust or if the police are after me. Do you truly want to do something dangerous?”

  “I need to get to my mother,” she said to the man. “I’ll do whatever you need in exchange for a train ticket. I’ll do a good job.”

  The man gave her a measuring glance. “You don’t frighten easily. My niece didn’t, either. What’s your name?”

  “Oksana Ilyinichna Savchenko.”

  “You may call me Comrade Orlov.” He shook her hand, looking serious. “Meet me here tonight. Seven o’clock. I’ll have a delivery for you to make.”

  “Yes, Comrade.” Her heart thumped hard in her chest. She had done it. She was one step closer to seeing her mother!

  He lit a cigarette. “Don’t be late,” he said, and walked away.

  * * *

  - - -

  She spent the rest of the day in the park. She didn’t go to the market after school, or to the apartment after the market, but by the time the streets were filled with grown-ups walking home she was so hungry she couldn’t stand it anymore. She walked back to the apartment, wondering if Babulya would give her supper before throwing her out. She’d have to find a place to stay while earning a train ticket. But where?

  Slowly, she climbed the stairs to the apartment. Outside the door, she took a deep breath. She could hear Babulya’s and Valentina’s voices within, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying. They didn’t sound angry.

  She went inside. Babulya and Valentina were sitting at the table, their heads bent together. Babulya’s sewing machine was still tucked away on a shelf, and Valentina’s textbooks weren’t strewn about, as they usually were at this time of day.

  They saw her and froze. Then Babulya rushed across the room.

  Oksana cringed, waiting for the smack that was surely coming.

  Babulya hugged her. For an instant, Oksana held herself as stiff as a board. This couldn’t be happening. She was dreaming.

  But Babulya felt real, and warm and soft. It was happening. Oksana let herself melt against Babulya.

  “My dear Khusha,
” Babulya said. “We’ve been so worried about you! I was about to call the police. Are you all right? Where have you been?”

  “In the park. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.” Oksana couldn’t understand Babulya’s reaction. “Why were you worried? I thought you’d be glad to be rid of me.”

  “Oh, my poor child,” Babulya said, releasing Oksana. Holding her hand, she guided her onto the sofa. “How cruelly your parents must have treated you to make you feel so alone.”

  Oksana didn’t understand what Babulya meant. She glanced at Valentina, who nodded solemnly. Oksana felt herself flush. “I’m fine,” she muttered.

  “You are better than fine,” Babulya said, putting her arm across Oksana’s shoulders. “You are wonderful and kind and creative and clever. You seem to think you’re bad, and I have no doubt it was your father who made you think so. But you are good, Khusha.”

  Oksana didn’t know what to think. She was bad. And weak and stupid. Papa had told her so, when he hit her. Afterward, he had always been sorry and said she was his angel. But she had known he was lying. The truth came out when he was angry, didn’t it? When his tongue was unguarded and he said what he really thought?

  But . . . he had been wrong about Jews. Babulya and Valentina were nothing like he had said. They were kind and smart and funny.

  He had been wrong about them. Which meant he could have been wrong about other things.

  Like her.

  She let out a sob. Babulya cupped Oksana’s face in her hands, forcing her to look up. She smiled at Oksana. “You are lovable,” she said.

  “Then you won’t throw me out?” Oksana asked.

  “Throw you out?” Babulya looked astonished. “My stars, what made you think such a thing? I adore having you and Valentina live with me. You girls have brought me so much happiness that sometimes I don’t think I can fit all of it in my heart.”

  Oksana didn’t know what to say. Inside, she felt soft and golden. Babulya cared for her. Babulya thought she was good.