Читать книгу The Story of Us: The sweeping historical debut of 2018 that you will never forget - Lana Kortchik - Страница 10

September 1941

Early the next morning, Natasha opened the bedroom window. Four storeys below, Kiev looked like it always had, with its lush chestnut trees embracing the nearly empty streets and the autumn sky an unblemished blue. Nothing indicated that something out of the ordinary had happened. She could almost believe that she had imagined the devastating event of the day before if it wasn’t for the occasional German soldier making his way down the street, if it wasn’t for the fear on the faces of the handful of Soviet citizens who dared venture outside.

Their fear was contagious. Natasha closed the window.

Lisa burst into the room, grabbing Natasha in a bear hug and attempting to dance with her around the room. ‘You’re never going to believe it!’

‘Let go of me,’ exclaimed Natasha, extricating herself from Lisa. ‘What’s gotten into you?’

Lisa brought her face as close to Natasha’s ear as she could and said in a theatrical whisper, ‘Alexei and I. Last night we finally did it.’

Natasha couldn’t help but smile. ‘Did what?’

‘Did what?’ Lisa mimicked. ‘Are you serious?’

Their younger brother Nikolai poked his head through the doorway, looked around to make sure their parents were nowhere to be seen and said, ‘They had sex, silly.’

‘Hey!’ Lisa shouted indignantly.

‘You’re fifteen. What do you know?’ exclaimed Natasha.

‘Clearly more than you.’ He poked his tongue out.

Lisa grabbed Nikolai’s collar with both hands. ‘Are you spying on us, you pest?’

Although shorter than his sister, Nikolai was stocky and well built. It didn’t take him long to break free from Lisa’s clutches and escape down the corridor. ‘Come back here right now!’ screamed Lisa.

Father’s stern voice was heard from the kitchen. ‘Quiet, girls. What’s all this nonsense? This is not the time for silly games.’

‘You can’t tell anyone,’ Lisa whispered to Natasha. ‘Not even Mama. She’ll just tell Papa and he’ll kill me.’

Natasha had to pretend Lisa’s revelation was news to her, otherwise she would never be able to look at her sister without blushing again. At the memory of the night before, of Lisa’s tears and Alexei’s heartbreak as he told her he was leaving, Natasha felt an emptiness inside her that even her sister’s smile couldn’t fill. But for Lisa’s sake, she faked enthusiasm and said, ‘Wait a second. I didn’t hear anything last night. Where did you and Alexei…’

‘You were probably out like a light as always. We could have done it in your bed next to you and you wouldn’t even have blinked.’

‘You didn’t, did you?’

‘Of course not. Alexei snuck into my room at night.’

Natasha laughed. ‘You’re crazy, you know that? Anyone could’ve heard you.’

‘Well, it didn’t last very long. He was back in his bed in no time.’ There was a dreamy expression on Lisa’s face. ‘This is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.’

‘I’m so excited for you,’ said Natasha, tickling Lisa. ‘Can I tell Olga?’

‘Argh, no tickling!’ cried Lisa, shoving Natasha’s hands away. ‘What did I just say? No one, not even Olga.’

‘Oh, come on. She’s my best friend. I can’t keep this from her.’

‘Okay. You can tell Olga and no one else. Promise.’ When Natasha half shrugged, half nodded, her sister continued, ‘I’m so in love, Natasha. I just can’t believe it. I think this is it, you know. I feel it.’

‘I should hope so. You are getting married, after all.’

‘Don’t worry. One day you’ll meet someone, too. Then you’ll know what I mean.’

Nikolai reappeared in the doorway. There was a mischievous grin on his face. ‘So how was it? Your first time? Did you enjoy it?’ Lisa roared and hit out at her brother, while he ran in the direction of the kitchen, shouting for help. Laughing, Natasha followed her siblings.

The whole family huddled around the kitchen table, talking, eating, drinking, and pretending their lives hadn’t come to a halt when Hitler’s Army Group South entered Kiev.

Natasha’s grandparents – her mother’s parents – were sitting pensively with their elbows on the table, meatballs and soup untouched in front of them. Only a year and a half ago, they had moved to Lvov, a beautiful old town west of Kiev, on the outskirts of Ukraine, just seventy kilometres from the Polish border. To Natasha, who had never been overseas, Lvov seemed exotic and almost European. On the first day of war, it had been bombed just like Kiev, but it was much closer to the front line and no longer safe. To Natasha’s delight, her grandparents had returned shortly after and were staying with them once more.

In July, to the disbelief of the Smirnovs, Lvov had fallen. And now, despite Stalin’s assurances to hold the Ukrainian capital at all costs, Kiev had followed suit.

*

Father was hidden behind a newspaper, but Natasha knew he wasn’t reading. He’d been staring at the same page for what seemed like forever. Finally, he folded the paper, took his glasses off and wiped them, as if doing so would enable him to see more clearly. ‘Who would have thought?’ he said. ‘Such a shock. Such an absolute shock.’

‘It was to be expected.’ Grandfather shrugged, downing his vodka and spooning mashed potatoes onto his and grandmother’s plates. ‘Hitler’s actions were predictable. I only wish Stalin saw that before it was too late.’ Before he retired, grandfather was a history professor at Taras Shevchenko University. He still approached every problem in life with the logic and precision that his profession required. It was thanks to his respected position at the university that the family had their large apartment on Tarasovskaya Street in central Kiev.

‘Deda, why were the Germans able to advance so quickly?’ asked Nikolai, his gaze not leaving his beloved grandfather’s face.

‘We believed in the non-aggression pact with Germany so much that we ignored countless warnings. As a result, we were completely unprepared for the attack.’

‘But the Red Army will come back. Comrade Stalin won’t let the enemy deep into the country,’ said Mother.

Grandfather shrugged. ‘After all the Soviet atrocities in Ukraine, no one wants to fight this war for the Bolsheviks. The rate of desertion is almost unheard of. Men are mutilating themselves to avoid mobilisation.’

Natasha nodded. She saw them on the streets of Kiev every day. Men with fake beards that made them look older. Limping men, men with broken arms. ‘Olga told me their neighbour tried to shoot himself in the foot. He missed and ended up killing himself.’

‘Germans in one of Russia’s most ancient cities! The idea is preposterous. No wonder Stalin’s been telling us until the end that Kiev will remain in Soviet hands,’ said Natasha’s grandmother, an older, miniature version of Natasha’s mother. She sighed and crossed herself, her face white with fear. Grandmother was deeply religious, something that even two and a half decades of Communist regime couldn’t change. During the Great War she had been a nurse, and sincerely believed God had protected her from the horrors she had witnessed on the front line. After the war she had worked in hospitals, first at Central Military in Kiev and then at the Children’s Hospital on Tereshchenkovskaya Street. When Natasha was a little girl, Grandmother often told her about the war and the horror it brought in its wake. The little Natasha had listened to the stories as if they were fairy tales that had no place in reality. Never had she imagined she would experience the horror first-hand.

‘They are here now. Stalin will have to accept it. There’s nothing he can do,’ said Grandfather.

‘Do we have to accept it?’ demanded Mother.

‘There’s nothing we can do,’ repeated Grandfather.

‘Stalin should have protected us better,’ whispered Natasha.

‘All these fires in Kiev,’ said Mother. ‘A friend of mine lives in a village nearby. She told me the Soviets confiscated all her crops, and then one day the tractors came to destroy the fields. Her neighbour threw herself in front of a tractor and was arrested by the NKVD. No one’s heard from her since.’

‘Scorched earth policy,’ said Grandfather. ‘Just like at the time of Napoleon’s invasion, the Soviet government destroyed everything that could be used by the enemy. Train stations, bridges, factories, power stations.’ Softly, as if hoping no one would hear, he added, ‘Food.’

‘But, Deda, we are still here. We need food.’ Natasha’s hands shook as she scooped potatoes with her spoon.

‘Speaking of food,’ said Grandmother, ‘I went to the water pump this morning and saw a notice glued to the wall of our building. The Nazis want us to hand in our food supplies. And our radio.’

Putting her spoon down, Mother said, ‘We can’t give our food away. It’s a death sentence. We need to hide it.’

Father looked up from his plate. ‘Hide what?’

‘The food.’ Mother looked around, as if making sure there were no German officers around to overhear. ‘Not inside the apartment. In the garden maybe.’ Breathing heavily as if fighting back tears, she turned to her husband. ‘Where’s your shovel, Vasili?’

‘It’s in the corridor, Mama,’ said Nikolai. ‘I just saw it behind—’

But Father interrupted. ‘Are you serious? You want to hide the food?’

Mother fidgeted under his glare but nodded.

Father snapped, ‘Hide it from the Nazis? Are you out of your mind?’

Natasha winced. Father’s voice was too loud for the crowded kitchen. She looked at her brother just in time to see a piece of chocolate disappear into his mouth. ‘Hey,’ she hissed. ‘Where did you get that? It’s mine.’

‘It’s mine now. Finders, keepers.’

‘Not fair. You ate your share yesterday.’ But Nikolai only smiled and swallowed the remainder of the chocolate.

Mother mumbled, ‘I just thought—’

‘Well, think again. They will shoot you for hiding food.’ The cup Father was holding in his hand quivered and some of his tea spilled on his shirt.

‘Yes, and if we don’t hide it, we’ll starve. What do you prefer?’

‘You’re seriously asking me if I would prefer…’ Father waved his hands dismissively.

Grandmother glared at Father and said, ‘You’re right, daughter. We need to hide the food.’

Father shoved his chair back and stormed out of the kitchen. For the rest of the morning, he remained on the couch, searching through his newspaper for news from the front.

*

After breakfast, Nikolai and Alexei joined the sisters in their room.

‘Germans in Kiev,’ said Alexei. ‘Can you believe it?’

‘I can’t believe it,’ said Natasha, looking up from her book. ‘What’s it going to be like?’

‘Not much fun, I guess,’ said Nikolai.

‘I guess,’ whispered Natasha.

‘Soviet Union should have attacked first. Then we would have had a strategic advantage,’ said Nikolai, as if he knew about such things. ‘Have you heard what they’ve been doing in Poland? Burning, looting, killing, and…’ He glanced at the girls and, to Natasha’s relief, didn’t finish his sentence.

Lisa, who was rummaging through her drawers, looked up and asked, ‘Has anyone seen my blue notepad?’

‘You mean your diary?’ There was a teasing note in Nikolai’s voice that he attempted to hide.

‘Yes. My diary. I’ve been looking everywhere for it.’

‘Haven’t seen it,’ said Natasha.

Lisa proceeded to search the bookshelves, peering behind every book.

Natasha turned to Alexei. ‘Are you staying here with us?’

Alexei nodded. ‘Your mama said I could stay for a bit.’

Lisa said, ‘I’m so happy to have you here. It’s like we’re already married.’

Alexei laughed. ‘Don’t let your papa hear you say that.’

Coming close to Lisa, he attempted to draw her into a hug but Lisa pushed his hands away, muttering, ‘I don’t understand. I had it yesterday. What did I do with it?’

Watching the sly expression on Nikolai’s face, Natasha whispered, ‘Have you seen it?’

Nikolai whispered back, ‘I hid it.’

‘You hid it?’ Natasha suppressed a giggle. ‘Where?’

Nikolai reached under the mattress and extracted a blue notepad, opening it on a random page. ‘I love him, I love him, I love him,’ he read in a high-pitched voice. ‘Yesterday we talked about—’ A book expertly thrown by Lisa hit him, making him jump.

‘Ouch,’ complained Nikolai, rubbing his shoulder. ‘You think violence is the answer to everything?’

‘What’s the matter with you two?’ exclaimed Lisa, ripping the diary from her brother’s hands. She left the room, dragging Alexei behind her and slamming the door.

‘You’ve done it now,’ said Natasha. ‘You’ve really upset her.’

‘You think she’ll tell Mama?’ For a moment Nikolai looked worried.

Seconds later, Mother entered.

‘I guess yes is the answer to your question,’ whispered Natasha.

Mother’s hair was hidden under a kerchief. Dark circles under her eyes were clearly visible despite a thick layer of make-up. Her face was thunder. ‘You two! Stop behaving like children. You heard your father. This is not the time for jokes.’

‘But we are children, Mama,’ muttered Natasha.

‘And it’s always time for jokes,’ added Nikolai.

‘I don’t have the patience for this. You will both apologise to Lisa. Nikolai, you can clean the kitchen and help your grandfather hide the food in the garden.’

‘Mama, Lisa torments us all the time,’ said Nikolai. ‘Just because we never tell doesn’t mean—’

‘Go to the kitchen.’

‘But, Mama, we didn’t mean any—’

‘Now.’ There was no arguing with Mother’s no-nonsense voice.

‘Don’t send him to the kitchen, Mama. He’ll only eat all the food,’ said Natasha.

Nikolai left the room. Mother watched him until he disappeared around the corner. There was no anger in her eyes, only fear.

‘Natasha, go with your grandmother.’

‘Where is Babushka going?’

‘She’s taking our radio to the gendarmerie.’

The thought of seeing the Nazis up close didn’t appeal to Natasha one bit. ‘Can I help Nikolai in the kitchen instead? Someone has to make sure he doesn’t eat everything.’

Mother glared at Natasha but didn’t say anything.

‘Why can’t Papa go with Babushka?’ demanded Natasha.

‘Suggest it to your father if you feel like it.’

Natasha didn’t feel like it.

*

It was after midday when Natasha and her grandmother set out in the direction of the gendarmerie that had just been established on the corner of Proreznaya and Kreshchatyk. Natasha moved slowly, reluctantly. She didn’t want to leave the house because the streets, just like the people, had become alien and unfamiliar. In a small bag over her shoulder, she carried their radio receiver wrapped in an old newspaper. The day was too beautiful, the sun too bright, and the autumn leaves had just started to turn a dark shade of brown. Grandmother said, ‘What a wonderful fall it could’ve been.’

On Pushkinskaya Street they ran into one of their neighbours. Bird-like, yellow-haired, bordering on skeletal, Zina Kuzenko looked extremely pleased with herself.

‘Are you going to the gendarmerie, Zina Andreevna?’ asked Natasha.

‘Oh, no,’ answered Zina. ‘I’m Ukrainian, remember?’

‘So?’

‘So, I can keep my radio. And my food.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Grandmother. ‘Why are you allowed to keep them?’

‘Germans treat us as a privileged nationality. After all, they are here to liberate us from the Bolsheviks.’ She rubbed her hands, looked around, lowered her voice and added, ‘As far as I’m concerned, they’re welcome here. We’ve had enough of the Soviet oppression.’

‘How can you say that, Comrade Kuzenko?’ Grandmother looked horrified.

‘I am telling you, this might be a blessing in disguise. Germans are a civilised nation. They will bring the order and prosperity that the Bolsheviks never have. They will restore electricity and running water. There will be more food and we’ll be able to buy European clothes. We won’t have to queue for hours to get a loaf of bread.’

Grandmother said, ‘Hitler will destroy us like he’s been destroying the Poles, like he’s been destroying the Czechs.’

‘Honestly, Larisa Antonovna.’ Zina always addressed Natasha’s grandparents by their first and patronymic names, even though they had been friends for many years. Natasha suspected she was a little intimidated by them, especially since Grandfather had taught all of her children. ‘Hitler could never be as bad as Stalin.’

Natasha had heard hushed rumours that Zina’s brother had been shot by the NKVD, Stalin’s secret police, and that her parents-in-law had died from hunger during the famine of 1932. There were whispers about Ukrainian farmers surviving on bark and roots, while their fields produced abundant harvests that were promptly seized by Stalin’s henchmen, harvests that the farmers were forbidden to touch at the risk of a firing squad. But just like Hitler’s army on the streets of Kiev, Stalin’s atrocities were hard for Natasha to fathom. It was like something out of her grandfather’s history books, gruesome events that belonged in the Reign of Terror of the French Revolution, and not in their quiet and familiar Ukrainian reality. It was definitely never mentioned on the Soviet radio.

‘The Bolsheviks starved us and shot us, and now they want us to die for them in their war,’ said Zina. ‘I personally see nothing worth risking my life for.’

‘What a tragedy,’ said Grandmother. ‘What a tragedy for a citizen to wish for the defeat in war of her own country.’

‘Blame the Bolsheviks. We would rather live under Hitler than under Stalin. How much longer can we live in constant fear?’ said Zina. ‘You are a member of the Communist Party. How can you justify Stalin’s actions?’

‘The end justifies the means, Comrade. The state clothes us, feeds us, protects us from the enemy. All it asks for in return is loyalty and commitment. Is it too much of a sacrifice for you to make?’

‘No, Larisa Antonovna. The state demands our lives and in return drags us down to slavery. It’s serfdom, that’s what it is.’

‘You shouldn’t talk like that, Zina. God forbid anybody hears you,’ said Grandmother, shuddering.

‘Things have changed. The Bolsheviks are gone. We have nothing to fear now.’

Natasha wished she could cover her ears and not hear their conversation. How could Zina, whom Natasha had known since she was a child, welcome the enemy to Ukraine as if they were the long-awaited liberators? How could she rejoice, when the rest of the country was mourning? Natasha hoped Zina was the only one who felt this way, but then she saw a woman across the road welcoming German officers with flowers and a loaf of bread. Natasha wanted to run to the woman and tell her she should be ashamed of herself, but she didn’t. What difference would it make?

Natasha closed her eyes and tried to remember what her life had been like before 22^nd June. She longed for the time when all she had to worry about was an argument with her sister and her university entrance exams. How trivial it all seemed now. Although it was only a few short months ago, it felt like a distant dream.

Shaking her head, Grandmother walked off. With an awkward wave to their neighbour, Natasha followed.

All the Soviet posters – in particular those depicting Hitler as a comical swastika-shaped figure – had evaporated as if by magic, replaced with placards that proclaimed, ‘Hitler is a hero and a saviour!’ Above the red university building, there was a white flag with a black swastika. When Natasha saw it swaying in the wind, she stopped dead in her tracks, her heart pounding. The flag screamed to Natasha that Kiev no longer belonged to her.

No glass was left in the university windows. It was nothing more than a ghost building, and Kiev was nothing more than a ghost town. Hardly any Kievans ventured out, but those who did looked uncertain and afraid. Nor, it seemed, did the invaders know what to do when faced with the local population. The Soviets and the Germans simply watched each other cautiously without saying a word.

And the Red Army was retreating further and further east, retreating irrevocably and irretrievably, away from Kiev and its inhabitants, away from the Smirnovs.

Occasionally, Natasha would notice German soldiers with cameras. They photographed the civilians, the burnt-out streets, the bombed-out buildings. She had never seen cameras such as the Nazis possessed. In fact, everything they had, their machinery, their equipment, their weaponry, was unlike anything she had ever encountered in her Soviet life.

‘Look at that truck, Babushka,’ whispered Natasha. ‘Could you imagine anything more sleek and shiny?’

‘That might be so but they won’t get to Moscow in their sleek and shiny truck. We’ll push them back where they came from before you even know it. Remember, we have what the Nazis don’t.’

‘What’s that?’

‘We have the heart. And soon they’ll learn that. They’ll learn the hard way.’

‘Not soon enough,’ whispered Natasha.

At the gendarmerie, the queue spilled all the way down Kreshchatyk. People were clenching their food and their radio receivers. One man brought a machine gun, one woman a live goat on a rope. Grandmother and Natasha joined the hushed group of people at the back of the queue.

A few hours later, a grim Natasha passed her radio to a grim German officer who barely glanced in her direction. Without the radio, there would be no more news from the front, no more connection to the outside world that still remained free from Hitler’s clutches, no more hope. Natasha felt more isolated than ever as they made their way home, down the streets that were teeming with grey uniforms.

‘I can’t bear the sight of them,’ said Grandmother, glaring at the German soldiers. ‘Let’s walk through the park.’

‘I’m not sure it’s such a good idea, Babushka,’ said Natasha. It was getting dark and the park looked deserted.

‘It’s quicker that way. The sooner we get home, the better.’

‘But…’ Natasha stopped. She had never seen that look on her grandmother’s face before. It was as if all her strength had suddenly left her.

They walked through the park.

Chestnut trees that were so festive and jolly in summer now stretched their skinny branches in their direction, silently swaying in the wind. Electricity hadn’t been restored yet, and the sky was ominously black with heavy cloud. Natasha felt the hairs at the back of her neck rise in fear. She sped up, pulling her grandmother by the hand.

They’d almost reached the other side of the park when a German officer approached them. He was wide and stout, and his face was round like that of an owl. He seemed unsteady on his feet. When he spoke, his breath reeked of alcohol.

‘Hold it right there,’ he barked in his guttural voice.

Natasha’s knees shook under her, and she avoided looking at the Nazi officer. There was not a living soul in the park, no one but Natasha and her grandmother, who were glancing at each other in fear, and the German, who was smirking in the dark.

‘Where are you headed?’ he demanded. Natasha’s German was good enough to comprehend the gist of what he was saying.

She struggled for breath. No matter how hard she tried, she failed to fill her lungs with air. Finally, she pointed in the direction of the gendarmerie and muttered, ‘Radio.’

He said something fast, motioning at his watch.

Grandmother took Natasha’s hand. ‘What? What’s he saying?’

‘I’m not sure. Something about a curfew.’ All the while, Natasha’s eyes darted around the park for a way out, for someone to help them. Please, God, she thought. Don’t let us face him alone. But the park remained empty.

A lecherous smile spread over the officer’s face, and his eyes focused on Natasha’s lips, slowly travelling downwards, as if drinking her in. She could sense his gaze, and it made her queasy. She recoiled, covering her chest. The soldier slurred his words, leering suggestively. His arm went around Natasha’s waist and he pulled her closer, stroking her hip. Natasha felt his putrid breath on her cheek. She was unable to struggle, unable to speak, unable to scream.

Grandmother yanked the officer’s arm away from Natasha. ‘Get your filthy paws away from her, you Nazi pig. Go back to wherever it is you came from and leave us alone, you hear? You disgust me, all of you.’ Natasha was grateful that the German couldn’t understand Grandmother’s words. Unfortunately, the expression on her face, her gestures, her tone of voice left little doubt as to her meaning.

The officer pushed Natasha aside and turned towards Grandmother, who wailed, ‘There’s a curse on all of you. You’ll pay for everything you’ve done. You hear me? Everything!’

Grandmother stepped in front of Natasha, shielding her from his eyes. The soldier swore under his breath, roughly pushing her aside. Grandmother stumbled and fell. ‘Babushka!’ cried Natasha. But before she had a chance to help, Grandmother was up, shaking her fist at the officer.

‘Babushka, no!’ cried Natasha, but it was too late. Enraged, Grandmother raised her hand and slapped the officer hard across the face. He was too intoxicated to stop her, and for a second he just stared, blinking uncertainly. Screaming obscenities, Grandmother spat in his face. The soldier swore and reached for his gun.

‘No!’ shouted Natasha but her voice was weak, and it was lost in the gunshot. As if in slow motion she watched her grandmother fall. She screamed louder. Then she was no longer screaming, she was howling. Everything went dark and she barely knew where she was. She kicked and shrieked, and through the haze of her tears she saw the Nazi raise his gun and point it at her. She shut her eyes, wishing she knew a prayer. When the second shot sounded, Natasha was still for a moment, anticipating a sharp pain. But she felt nothing.

Slowly she opened her eyes.

The German officer was lying motionless in a pile of leaves, his unblinking eyes staring, the drunken smirk frozen on his face. Without looking around, Natasha hurried to her grandmother’s side. ‘Babushka! Wake up,’ she whispered, nudging her. ‘Please, wake up.’ Silently she cried.

‘Are you okay?’ she heard in Russian. A second later, she felt a gentle hand touch her shoulder. She raised her head.

A dark-haired soldier was looking down at her.

In the light of the torch he was holding, Natasha noticed he was wearing a uniform, but it wasn’t the grey German uniform that she had come to loathe so much, nor was it light green like the ones she had seen on Red Army soldiers. His trousers and tunic were khaki brown, his helmet a murky green.

Natasha opened her mouth to speak, but she couldn’t get the words out. It was as if something was obstructing her throat, making it hard to breathe. Mutely she pointed at her grandmother.

The soldier kneeled and searched for Grandmother’s pulse. Then he touched her forehead. ‘I’m no doctor but she’s still alive. She’s breathing, faintly. I can help you carry her home. Do you live far?’

Natasha hesitated. Although he had just saved their lives and although she desperately needed to get her grandmother home, how could she accept help from a soldier wearing a uniform she didn’t recognise? But then she thought she could hear German voices and the sound of boots steadily approaching. She looked around but couldn’t see anyone yet. It was just her, Grandmother and the stranger in the park. But what if the sound of gunshots had attracted the attention of the German patrol? ‘Not too far,’ she said, glancing at him.

He lifted Grandmother gently, supporting her head as if she was a baby. ‘Show me the way.’

‘Thank you,’ Natasha thought she said. She could feel her lips move but couldn’t tell if any sound came out.

She touched his sleeve and he smiled. ‘You’re welcome.’

As they walked side by side in silence, the soldier in long measured strides, Natasha in short hurried ones, she stroked Grandmother’s hand, begging her to hold on. Her face, her hands, her jacket were covered in Grandmother’s blood. Tears were blinding her, and twice she tripped and almost fell. The soldier towered over Natasha. To see his face, she would have to lift her head. Lowering her eyes, she watched her grandmother instead, straining to hear if she was still breathing.

There was about half a kilometre separating the park’s gate from her building. Six hundred long strides for him, a thousand shorter ones for her. And on every stride, on every breath, she prayed to God to keep her grandmother alive. ‘Please, God,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Please, God.’ A thousand strides, a thousand please-Gods.

It was the longest walk of Natasha’s life.

But when they finally reached her building, Natasha found herself reciting a different prayer. Please God, she thought, let the yard be deserted. She didn’t want to be seen walking side by side with an enemy soldier. The thought left her feeling uncomfortable and guilty – he was only trying to help. To her relief, there was no one in the yard. The soldier carried Grandmother up the stairs, and Natasha followed, her heart beating fast. The landing was dark.

‘Reach into my pocket and get a torch,’ said the soldier. Natasha blushed but did as he said. The torch gave a flickering circle of light, bright enough to illuminate the drab walls of the communal corridor.

Before she knocked on the door, Natasha said, ‘My family should be home by now. They’ll help me with Grandmother.’

She imagined her father’s reaction if she turned up with an enemy soldier by her side. It didn’t bear thinking about. But she didn’t know how to tell him she didn’t want him to come in with her. She didn’t have to say anything. The soldier seemed to understand. Gently he placed Grandmother in her arms and said, ‘Be careful walking outside after dark. The curfew is at eight. And the streets aren’t safe.’ He spoke Russian fluently, and yet, Natasha could swear that he wasn’t Russian. His voice carried a hint of something foreign.

‘Thank you,’ whispered Natasha. She noticed that his eyes twinkled in the dim light of his torch. They were kind and deep, the colour of chocolate. His hair was dark and his smile was wide on his face. It was a smile that inspired trust. She couldn’t help it, she smiled back – and felt her cheeks burning. She thought he was the most handsome young man she had ever seen. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘You are welcome. Shall I send a doctor to look at your grandmother?’

Natasha shook her head. ‘Our family doctor lives nearby.’

The soldier saluted Natasha.

She watched him go, her eyes wide, her mouth open, as if she was about to say something. When he disappeared down the stairs, she realised she hadn’t even asked his name.

*

Petr Nikolaev, the Smirnovs’ family doctor, lived in a six-storey building across the road. After she told the family what had happened, Natasha and Mother set out in search of the doctor, leaving Grandmother in Grandfather’s loving care. The two of them crossed the road, walked through the front door of the doctor’s building and up the stairs, finally stopping outside Petr’s apartment.

The smell of roast chicken permeated the communal corridor. Natasha could hear the high-pitched chords of a guitar and a rowdy song. ‘Ein, zwei, drei,’ came slurred words from behind the solid oak door. Natasha hesitated, but Mother shrugged and knocked on the door, a determined expression on her face. A German soldier, bare-chested and inebriated, opened the door. He stretched his hand out as if for a handshake, but before he had a chance to touch them, the two women turned on their heels and flew down the stairs, taking two steps at a time.

Natasha and her mother walked all the way to Podol, searching for another doctor they knew, but they were as unsuccessful there as they were on Tarasovskaya. Exhausted, they hurried back. Natasha prayed that her grandmother hadn’t taken a turn for the worse.

Lisa was by Grandmother’s side, crying softly into her hands, while a bedraggled looking Olga Kolenova was stroking her back and telling her everything would be alright.

Natasha sat next to her sister, her face wet from tears, her eyes sore. The Germans had only been here one day, and already someone she loved dearly was hurt. Was it a sign of things to come? A chilling thought ran through her mind, paralysing her. It was the same thought she hadn’t been able to shake ever since the incident in the park. What if something happened to her grandmother? What if she didn’t get better? What would it do to Grandfather, to all of them? Natasha couldn’t imagine a life without her beloved Babushka, who had always been there, taking her to kindergarten and to school, cooking for her and teaching her how to cook, reading to her and teaching her how to read. One day, when a four-year-old Natasha had begged her to read more – one more paragraph, one more page, one more chapter – Grandmother had said, ‘Why don’t I just show you how to do it yourself?’ And then she had shared her favourite books with Natasha, and they’d become Natasha’s favourite books. Everything she was, Natasha realised, was thanks to the people she loved. How did she go on with her life and not feel her grandmother’s soft hand on her forehead, and not see her reassuring smile? Natasha’s heart was heavy with fear. And something else, too. A blinding, scorching anger. How dare that despicable Nazi try to take her grandmother away from her, in a split second, with a careless movement of his hand, as if her life meant nothing, when to Natasha it meant everything?

‘How is Babushka?’ asked Natasha, placing her hand on Grandmother’s forehead. It felt warm and clammy.

‘Your Babushka is not too good. She’s burning up. Don’t worry, a doctor is on his way,’ said Olga.

Olga was Natasha’s best friend in the whole world. They had met at kindergarten when they were three and had been inseparable ever since. They had read the same books, passionately discussing the love life of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina and the incredible adventures of Dumas’ musketeers. They had learned to play piano together and joined the chess club together. And because Natasha and her sister were so close in age, Olga was Lisa’s friend, too, even though Lisa couldn’t play the piano, had no interest in chess and was incessantly bored by Tolstoy.

‘You found a doctor? Oh, thank God.’ Natasha looked her friend up and down. Olga was wearing what looked like an old sack, her head was covered with a tattered kerchief, and there were smudges of something dark all over her face. Soot, decided Natasha. Soot or dirt. ‘Olga, why are you dressed like that?’

‘I’m just trying to make myself less noticeable,’ said Olga. ‘The Germans won’t leave me alone. Can’t walk down the street without getting harassed.’

‘Good thinking,’ said Lisa, wiping her face and sniffling. ‘No one in their right mind would approach you looking like this. You scared me when I first saw you.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ said Olga. ‘Every time there’s a knock on the door, Mama makes me hide in the wardrobe. This morning I was in the wardrobe for an hour.’

‘That’s your own fault for being gorgeous,’ said Natasha, hugging her friend. Olga was strikingly beautiful with her heart-shaped face, dark hair that ran all the way down her back and large brown eyes. ‘I’m glad you came.’

For a few moments the girls were silent. Finally, Olga said, ‘I’m sorry about your babushka. She’ll feel better soon, you’ll see.’

‘I hope so,’ said Natasha quietly.

Lisa interrupted, pulling her sister by the sleeve. ‘Natasha, I haven’t told her yet! I was waiting for you.’

‘Told her what?’

‘About me and Alexei!’

Natasha pushed her sister’s hands away and said, ‘Lisa, honestly. I have other things on my mind right now.’ Lisa’s eyes filled with tears, and Natasha felt bad. ‘Tell her now,’ she said softly.

‘Tell me what?’ Olga demanded.

But before Lisa had a chance to say anything, the girls heard voices in the corridor. The loud sounds were unmistakably German.

‘Oh no,’ whispered Lisa. ‘What do they want now?’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Olga. ‘It’s probably the doctor.’

‘Olga! Is he German?’ asked Natasha, horrified.

‘Yes, but he’s not so bad. He moved in with us yesterday, took my cousin’s room. He’s quiet and polite. Keeps giving me biscuits.’

A short, chubby German doctor soon appeared in the doorway, trailed by Mother, who hopped around him, trying to push him out of the way. ‘You can’t just march in here. Leave us alone. You aren’t welcome here.’ The doctor swatted her hands away and muttered something in German.

Olga looked flustered at the commotion in the room. She waved her hands at Mother. ‘Don’t worry, Zoya Alexeevna. This is Hans. He’s the doctor for the German regiment who is living with us.’

‘Let the man look at Larisa,’ demanded Grandfather, gently pulling Mother away.

Mother left the room but came back two minutes later, carrying a thick candle. ‘Borrowed it from Zina,’ she explained.

All eyes on him, the doctor examined his patient in the flickering light of the candle. He said something in German, and Olga translated. ‘Your grandmother is very lucky. The bullet got lodged in her shoulder. She’s lost a lot of blood and has a fever. She needs plenty of fluids and rest.’

The doctor removed the bullet, administered something for the pain and bandaged Grandmother’s shoulder, covering her with a blanket. Grandmother looked whiter than the pillow she was resting on.

‘I’ll come back to check on her tomorrow,’ said the doctor.

Mother embraced him and shook his hand, tears streaming down her face. ‘Thank you, thank you so much,’ she repeated.

Later that evening, after everyone had gone to bed, Natasha curled up on a small folding bed in her grandparents’ room, watching the candle that was living out its last seconds on Grandmother’s bedside table. ‘Dedushka,’ she whispered to her grandfather. ‘Why did the German doctor help our babushka? He doesn’t seem like the rest of them.’

‘There are Nazis and there are Germans. Big difference,’ replied Grandfather, his voice nothing but a hushed murmur in the shady room. ‘Just like us, most of them don’t want any part of this war.’

‘Dedushka, what is going to happen to Kiev?’

‘Nothing. Kiev has survived its fair share of invasions in the past. It’s not going anywhere.’

‘Kiev, maybe. But what about us?’

Grandfather didn’t reply.

‘Oh Dedushka,’ she whispered, squinting in the dark and noticing how frail he suddenly looked. She squeezed in on the couch next to him, putting her arms around him. ‘We’ll be fine. You’re right as always. Kiev is not going anywhere, and neither are we. Not without a fight.’