About the Author

LANA KORTCHIK grew up in two opposite corners of the Soviet Union – a snow-white Siberian town and the golden-domed Ukrainian capital. At the age of sixteen, she moved to Australia with her mother. Lana and her family live on the Central Coast of New South Wales, where it never snows and is always summer-warm, even in winter. She loves books, martial arts, the ocean and Napoleonic history. Her short stories have appeared in many magazines and anthologies. She was the winner of the Historical Novel Society Autumn 2012 Short Fiction competition and the runner-up of the 2013 Defenestrationism Short Story Contest. Sisters of War is her first novel.

PRAISE FOR SISTERS OF WAR

‘A powerful and hard-hitting novel, it tackles the themes of loyalty and compassion, and emphasizes the hard choices that need to be made in wartime.’

Deborah Swift, author of The Lady’s Slipper

‘Its powerfully descriptive language pulls you into the bleakness of war, the longing for peace, and the exhilaration of profound, unconditional love.’

Marie Silk, author of Davenport House

‘I didn’t want this story to end. It’s one of those books you hold close to your heart and don’t want to let go … left me speechless and wanting more.’

Sharon Laker, author of The Railway Mice of Countesthorpe

‘I cried, smiled, gasped and laughed while reading this book. It will stay with me long after I’ve finished it.’

J.L. Leslie, author of Tame Me

Sisters of War
LANA KORTCHIK

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain as The Story of Us by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Lana Kortchik 2018

Lana Kortchik asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © December 2018 ISBN: 9780008314835

Version: 2019-17-12

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Praise

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part I – In Iron Shackles

Chapter 1 – Black Cloud Descending

Chapter 2 – The Barbaric Hordes

Chapter 3 – The Soldier

Chapter 4 – The Bleak Despair

Chapter 5 – A City Ablaze

Chapter 6 – The River of Death

Chapter 7 – The New Beginnings

Chapter 8 – The Snow and the Illusions

Chapter 9 – The Icy Fortress

Chapter 10 – At the Crossroads

Chapter 11 – The Impossible Choices

Chapter 12 – A Beacon of Happiness

Chapter 13 – Freedom’s Elusive Glare

Part II - The Everlasting Hope

Chapter 14 – Rays of Sunshine

Chapter 15 – The Utmost Chaos

Chapter 16 – Tentative Promises

Chapter 17 – A World Aflutter

Chapter 18 – Against All Odds

Chapter 19 – Waiting for a Miracle

Chapter 20 – The Battle of Kiev

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Dear Reader

Thank You for Reading!

Keep Reading…

About the Publisher

For my mum.

Thank you for always believing in me.

Part I – In Iron Shackles

Chapter 1 – Black Cloud Descending

September 1941

It was a warm September afternoon and the streets of Kiev were crowded. Just like always, a stream of pedestrians engulfed the cobbled Kreshchatyk, effortlessly flowing in and out of the famous Besarabsky Market. But something felt different. No one smiled, no one called out greetings or paused for a leisurely conversation in the shade of chestnut trees that lined the renowned street. On every grim face, in every mute mouth, in the way they moved – a touch faster than usual – were anxiety and unease, as if nothing made sense to the Kievans anymore, not the bombings, nor the fires, nor living in constant fear.

Most stores were padlocked shut and abandoned, and only one remained open on the corner of Taras Shevchenko Boulevard and Vladimirovskaya Street. A queue gradually swelled with people, until they spilled over into the road, blocking the way of the oncoming cars that screeched to a stop, horns blaring and harsh words emanating from their windows. Soon, as is often the case in a line for groceries, a heated argument broke out near the entrance to the store.

‘I’ve been standing here since four this morning, I’m not letting you ahead!’ screamed a red-faced man with dull eyes. He looked angry enough to strike the intruder, a small woman holding an infant.

‘I have a baby. She hasn’t eaten since yesterday,’ the woman pleaded, lifting her little girl for everyone in the queue to see.

‘So what? You are not the only one with a mouth to feed,’ said the angry man.

The woman moved towards the end of the line, while her baby screamed at the top of her lungs.

‘Do we have to listen to this?’ were the parting words from the man.

‘Come over here, my dear,’ said an old woman dressed in a winter coat with a kerchief over her head, despite the mild weather. ‘You can go in front of me if you like.’

‘Why are you letting her ahead? We’ve been waiting for hours,’ complained a matronly lady behind the old woman.

‘And another two minutes won’t make a difference,’ replied the old woman in an I-won’t-hear-any-argument voice. And apart from a few belligerent looks, she didn’t get any.

As the mother thanked the old woman with tears in her eyes, two young girls and a boy approached the store from the direction of the Natural Sciences Museum. They didn’t try to jump the queue but stood quietly at the back, unsmiling and serious, as if they were attending a lecture at a prestigious university.

‘What are we queuing for?’ asked Natasha Smirnova, a tall, dark-haired waif of a girl.

‘Sausage,’ said the old woman.

‘Flour,’ said the woman with the baby.

‘Tomatoes,’ said the matronly lady. But no one seemed to know for a fact, and the line didn’t move, nor did anyone leave the store with bags of sausages, flour or tomatoes.

‘That’s good. Tomatoes will keep,’ said Natasha.

‘They won’t keep,’ replied her companion, a petite redhead with a ponytail and a sulky expression on her face. ‘We’ll have to eat them in a week.’

‘If we pickle them, we can have them all winter.’

‘Winter? This war won’t last till winter,’ said the young mother confidently.

‘You mean, we won’t last till winter,’ murmured the old woman. ‘Not if the Nazis come here.’

‘Haven’t you heard?’ said the old man directly in front of the woman with the baby. ‘Chernigov fell last week.’ The old man puffed his chest out, seemingly proud to be the bearer of such important news.

‘What are you talking about?’ exclaimed the old woman. ‘If Chernigov fell, we would have known about it. We would have heard on the radio.’ Others in line had interrupted their conversations and were now listening in, their faces aghast.

‘Believe me, comrades, Chernigov is in German hands,’ said the man, enjoying the attention. ‘I heard it from my cousin, a captain in the Red Army.’

‘My daughter is in Chernigov,’ cried the old woman, wrenching her arms.

The queue fell quiet. Chernigov was only a hundred kilometres from Kiev. If Chernigov fell, was Kiev next?

‘Let’s go home,’ said Natasha dejectedly. ‘We won’t get anything here. The queue is not even moving. Let’s just go home.’ She regretted stopping at the store and overhearing the conversation. Dread like liquid mercury spread inside her, heavy and paralysing.

The three of them made their way through the crowds towards Taras Shevchenko Park, wide-eyed at the commotion around them. Those who weren’t busy queuing for food occupied themselves by looting and robbing. The Red Army had retreated in July, and the government evacuated in August. In the absence of any form of authority, no shop, library, museum or warehouse was safe. Men, women, even children, moved from store to store, laden with sacks and boxes, searching for something valuable, preferably edible, to steal. Outside the entrance to the park, two men carried a piano and a woman struggled with a potted plant and a typewriter. Eventually, she placed the typewriter on the ground and took off with the plant. ‘It’s a palm tree,’ said Natasha, watching the woman with a bemused expression on her face. ‘I wonder what she’s going to do with it. I’d take the typewriter if I were her.’ When she didn’t receive an acknowledgement from the redhead, she added, ‘Lisa, will you look at that?’

‘Who knows what she’ll do?’ replied Lisa, shrugging. ‘Grow bananas? Barricade the door from the invading Germans?’ She chuckled but her eyes remained serious.

When the woman disappeared around the corner, Natasha turned to Lisa. ‘We should get going. If Papa realises we’ve left, we’ll be in so much trouble.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Lisa. ‘He’s too busy searching his newspapers for news from the front to think about us. He won’t even notice we’re not there.’

Pulling Lisa by the arm, Natasha replied, ‘He’ll notice all right, especially if you don’t get a move on.’ At nineteen, she was only a year older than her sister but she was always the serious one, the more responsible one. Sometimes she admired Lisa’s impulsive character, but not today. Not on the day when the Nazis were perilously close and their father was going to kill them.

Lisa turned her back on her sister, her long red hair swinging out to whip Natasha across the face. ‘Alexei, are you coming?’ Her voice was too loud for the muted street, and several passers-by glared in her direction.

Alexei Antonov, a blond, broad-shouldered boy, had stopped at what seemed like the only market stall in Kiev that was still standing. The stall boasted a great selection of combat knives, and Alexei was in deep conversation with the owner.

‘Alexei!’ Lisa called again. Her voice quivered.

Alexei handed the stall owner some money and pocketed a knife. ‘Wait up!’ he cried, breaking into a run.

‘Dillydallying as always,’ said Lisa, her plump lips pursed together in a pout. ‘Keep this up, and we’ll leave you here.’

‘Nagging already? And we’re not even married yet.’ Pecking Lisa on the cheek, Alexei adjusted his glasses, his face a picture of mock suffering and distress.

‘Get used to it,’ said Lisa, pinching the soft skin above his elbow. He attempted a frown but failed, smiling into Lisa’s freckled face.

They paused in the middle of the road and kissed deeply. A van swerved around them. The two lovers didn’t move. They barely looked up.

‘And this is why I walk five metres behind you. It’s too embarrassing.’ Natasha stared at the ground, her face flaming. Wishing she could run home but not wanting to abandon Lisa and Alexei in the middle of the street, she was practically jogging on the spot. ‘You heard Papa this morning. Under no circumstances were we to leave the house.’

‘We had to leave the house,’ said Lisa. ‘You know we did. It was a question of life and death.’

Natasha raised her eyebrows. ‘A wedding dress fitting is a question of life and death?’

Lisa nodded. ‘Not just any fitting. The final fitting.’

‘The final fitting,’ mimicked Alexei, rolling his eyes. ‘I had to wait for you for an hour! An hour in the dark corridor.’

Lisa pulled away from him. ‘You know you can’t see me in my wedding dress before the wedding. It’s bad luck.’ She whispered the last two words as if the mere mention of bad luck was enough somehow to summon it.

‘It’s bad luck to be outside at a time like this,’ murmured Natasha.

Lisa said, ‘Don’t worry. The streets are perfectly safe. And Papa will understand.’

‘I doubt it. Just yesterday he said you were too young to marry.’

Lisa laughed as if it was the most preposterous thing she had ever heard. ‘And I reminded him that Mama was younger than me when they got married. And Grandma was only sixteen when she married Grandpa. When Mama was pregnant with Stanislav, she was the same age as you.’

Exasperated, Natasha shook her head.

Lisa continued, ‘Did you hear the dressmaker? Apparently, I have the perfect figure. Mind you, I still have time to lose a few pounds before the big day.’

Alexei ran his hands over her tiny frame. ‘Don’t lose a few pounds, Lisa. There won’t be any of you left to marry.’

His words were interrupted by a distant rumble. Half a city away, the horizon lit up in red and yellow.

An explosion followed.

And another.

And another.

For a few breathtaking seconds, the ground vibrated. Somewhere in the distance, machine guns barked and people shouted. And then, as if nothing had happened, all was quiet again. On the outskirts of town, fires smouldered and smoke rose in a gloomy mist.

‘Don’t be scared,’ said Alexei, pulling Lisa tightly to his side. ‘There won’t be much bombing today.’

‘How do you know?’ demanded Natasha.

‘Just something I’ve heard. The Nazis don’t want to destroy our city. They’re saving it.’

‘Saving it for what?’ Lisa wanted to know.

‘For themselves, silly,’ said Natasha.

Lisa gasped and didn’t reply. Natasha could tell her sister was scared because she no longer dawdled. Racing one another, they turned onto Taras Shevchenko Boulevard. It was sunny and warm, as if summer had decided to stay a little bit longer and wait – for what? The Nazis in the Soviet Union? The daily bombing? The sheer joy of nature in late bloom and its unrestrained abundance seemed out of place in the face of the German invasion. The blue skies, the whites and reds of the flowers, contrasted sharply with distant gunfire and burning buildings.

Posters adorned every wall, most of them depicting a comical figure of Hitler, his body twisted into a shape of a swastika. We will kick Hitler back all the way to Germany, the posters declared. On every corner, loudspeakers yelled out Soviet propaganda and occasional news from the front. Natasha wished the news were as optimistic as the posters, but it was rarely the case.

As she tried to keep up with her sister and Alexei, Natasha thought of the first time the bombs had fallen on Kiev, on Sunday 22nd June. She thought of the shock and the fear and the disbelief. Nearly three months on, they had become accustomed to the shelling, to the regular din of machine-gun fire, like a soundtrack to their daily lives. With dismay, she realised it had almost become normal. The realisation scared her more than the Nazi planes drifting overhead. She didn’t want to accept the unacceptable, to get used to the unthinkable. But she knew she wasn’t the only one feeling this way because there were more and more people on the streets during the bombings. Yes, they made an effort to walk closer to the buildings to avoid being hit, but they no longer slowed down, or sought shelter, or interrupted their quest for food. Even now, as explosions sounded, the queue outside the shop didn’t disperse. As if nothing was happening, people continued to wait for their bread and their sausages and their flour, for all the things they needed to survive and stave off the war. What was happening to their city now, what had happened three months ago when Hitler attacked the Soviet Union, seemed like a nightmare that would never end. Natasha felt as if at any moment she would wake up only to find the streets of Kiev peaceful and quiet.

Since the day her city was first bombed in June, Natasha had waited impatiently to wake up.

In Taras Shevchenko Park, the ground was littered with shells that had once carried death but now lay peacefully at their feet. Natasha could feel their sharp edges through the soles of her boots. One of her favourite places in Kiev, the park was unrecognisable. Anywhere not covered by pavement was excavated. In the last three months, it had transformed into what seemed like the habitat of a giant mole, full of holes and burrows. All the trenches that the Kievans had dug, all the barricades they had built, enthusiastically at the end of June, habitually in July and sporadically in August, now stood empty and abandoned. How meaningless it all seemed, how futile.

Uncertainly Lisa muttered, ‘The Germans aren’t coming here. Haven’t you heard the radio?’ Like clockwork every few hours, the radio and the loudspeakers outside screeched, ‘Kiev was, is and will be Soviet.’

How ironic, thought Natasha. As if anyone believed it now.

‘The Red Army will soon push Hitler back,’ added Lisa.

‘What Red Army?’ muttered Natasha.

Suddenly, on the corner of Lva Tolstogo and Vladimirovskaya, Lisa came to an abrupt halt. Natasha, who was only a couple of steps behind, bumped straight into her sister. ‘What—’ she started saying and then stopped. Her mouth assumed the shape of an astonished ‘O’ but no sound escaped. All she could do was stare. From the direction of the river, hundreds of soldiers in grey were marching towards them.

Wide-eyed, the sisters and Alexei backed into the park and hid behind its tall fence, watching in fear.

The wait was finally over. The enemy were no longer at the gates. Surrounded by crowds of confused men, women and children and accompanied by barking dogs, the enemy were right there, inside their city, their grey uniforms a perfect fit, their green helmets sparkling, their motorbikes roaring, their footsteps echoing in the tranquil autumn air.

*

When they thought it was safe, the girls and Alexei ventured cautiously from behind the fence. The streets that were busy only moments earlier were now deserted. The silence was tense, expectant. And only occasionally, as they walked down Tarasovskaya Street, did Natasha hear loud voices coming from Lva Tolstogo Boulevard. Natasha felt a chill run through her body because they were not Russian voices but German. The unfamiliar sounds spoken so assertively on the streets of Kiev seemed to defy the natural order of things.

At the entrance to their building, Alexei tried to say goodbye but Lisa grabbed his hand. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

‘Home,’ he said, making a half-hearted attempt to break free.

‘It’s too far. And too dangerous.’ Alexei lived three short tram stops away. Since the tram was no longer running, it was a twenty-minute walk.

‘I’d rather face the Nazis than your father.’

But Lisa was adamant. ‘Don’t go back to an empty house. Come home with us.’

Together the three of them climbed eight flights of stairs to the sisters’ apartment. Natasha dawdled on the stairs, taking forever to find her key. She realised she didn’t want to be the one to give the terrifying news to her family.

‘Girls, is that you? We’re in the kitchen.’ Mother’s voice sounded unusually shrill. Natasha took her time removing her shoes, hesitating before walking down the long corridor. Would Mother cry when she heard? And what would Father say when he realised that, despite his specific instructions, they were out when the Germans entered Kiev? A captain in the militia, he ruled the household just like he did his subordinates at work. He was strict, brusque, devoid of emotion, and everyone who came into contact with him was in awe of him. Everyone, that was, except her mother, who with a couple of well-chosen words could defuse even the biggest storm.

It was dim in the kitchen. The radio was playing Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake, Natasha’s favourite. The familiar chords never failed to make her smile, but today the music was accompanied by German shouts coming from the window, as platoon after platoon of soldiers in grey marched through the city. Lisa hid behind Natasha, all her earlier bravado forgotten. But Father barely glanced in their direction. His face ashen, he was bent over the table, every now and then barking short sentences into the telephone receiver that he cradled with his shoulder. ‘Heavy losses? Southwestern Front destroyed?’

Natasha shivered.

‘We saw—’ Lisa started saying, her eyes wide.

‘Have something to eat,’ said Mother. She looked as if she had just stepped out of bed. Her hands, her long musician’s fingers were fidgeting, picking up cups, wiping the table that was already clean. ‘Alexei, please, come in. Would you like some soup?’

‘We’re not hungry, Mama,’ said Lisa. ‘We saw German soldiers outside.’

Father rose to his feet and, still holding the telephone, started pacing from one wall to the other. It took him three strides to cover the distance between the two walls. His steps resonated ominously in the quietened kitchen. Finally, he reached for a cigarette, even though he already had one in his mouth, and put the phone down.

‘Bad news?’ asked Mother.

Father didn’t seem to hear. ‘They’re finally here. There are thousands of them in the city.’

Lisa nodded. Mother gasped. Alexei collapsed into a chair and said, ‘Thousands?’

‘I hope Stanislav is okay, wherever he is,’ exclaimed Mother. Natasha’s older brother Stanislav had been drafted into the Red Army in June. The family hadn’t heard from him since.

Natasha whispered, ‘What’s going to happen to us? Papa, what are we going to do?’

Father startled as if her words woke him from an unpleasant dream. He narrowed his eyes on Natasha and said, ‘It won’t be for long. We just need to sit tight and wait for the Red Army to come back.’ As usual, his stern voice allowed for no arguments. And only his hands were shaking.

Natasha didn’t know what to think. She didn’t know what to expect. German occupation, what did it mean? She turned to her mother, who was fidgeting in her chair and not looking at Natasha. She turned to her father, who was smoking grimly and not looking at Natasha. She turned to Lisa and Alexei, who were staring out the window in stunned disbelief. Natasha suspected that her sister, who thought she knew everything but knew nothing, and her mother, too afraid to think straight, and even her father, who ruled their family with an iron fist, didn’t have any answers.

The only thing Natasha Smirnova knew for a fact on 19th September 1941, when Hitler entered Kiev, was that life as she knew it was over.

*

All was quiet in the city at night, and Natasha, who had become accustomed to the distant sound of war, couldn’t sleep. For three months she had dreamt of being able to go to bed and not hear the buzz of the cannonade, and not hear the explosions and the mortars that were getting closer and closer, as if seeking her out. But now, as she lay in bed with her eyes wide open, she didn’t rejoice at the peace in Kiev. She didn’t rejoice because of what this peace signified. The silence meant there was no Red Army, no planes with red stars on their wings and no chance of a Soviet victory. Instead, the enemy troops were finally here. Like an oppressive shadow, Natasha could sense their presence, even here in the safety of her bed. How would they treat the local population? What if right now, while Natasha was asleep, someone marched through the door and – and what? She didn’t know what exactly she was afraid of, but she was afraid all the same. It was an abstract fear of things to come, a fear that pulled on her chest and made her heart ache. From this moment on, Kiev was a city oppressed, occupied and enslaved. And no one she knew and loved was safe.

The clock in the corridor chimed midnight. Natasha, who was sleeping on a small folding bed in her grandparents’ room, could hear Lisa tossing and turning in her bed in the room next door. Natasha got up and crossed the small space that separated the two rooms, peering in. Her eyes were used to the dark and she could make out Lisa’s shape as she curled up in bed. Instantly she felt less lonely, and her heart felt lighter. The weight she was carrying wasn’t hers alone. She had her sister to share it with.

‘Lisa, are you awake?’ she whispered, and her voice came out eerie and unfamiliar. She perched on the edge of her sister’s bed.

‘I am now.’ Lisa didn’t sound scared or uncertain. Just annoyed at being disturbed. ‘What is it, Natasha? It’s late.’

‘What do you think is going to happen to us?’

‘I guess the same thing that’s been happening to us since June.’

‘But now they’re here.’

‘There’s nothing we can do about it. We’ll just have to learn to live with it.’

‘How do we do that, Lisa? How do we learn to live with it?’

‘You heard Papa. It won’t be for long,’ said Lisa. ‘Before we know it, our army will come back and boot the Nazis out.’

‘Yes, but what if they don’t? What if it takes months or even years?’ Natasha shuddered. Years under German occupation? She couldn’t imagine living like this for another day. Although she didn’t know what to expect, her whole being rejected the idea.

‘Let’s take it one day at a time. Don’t think about it now. Think about it tomorrow. Try to get some sleep. Goodnight, Natasha.’

‘Goodnight, Scarlett O’Hara.’

It had always been like this. Natasha would be upset about something, and Lisa would tell her not to worry. Although a year younger, she never showed weakness, never opened up. But this wasn’t another teenage drama. It wasn’t a fight with her best friend Olga or a failed geometry test. It was the end of their life as they knew it.

Back in her own bed, Natasha dozed off, a troubled sleep with dreams of being pursued and lost. When she woke up, it was still dark. She wondered what time it was. What was it that had woken her? Footsteps! There they were again, soft and careful. Petrified, Natasha curled into a ball, trying to make herself smaller, less noticeable. She wished she was invisible, so that no one could find her and nothing could hurt her. And then she thought, Is this it? Is this what my life has become? Is this what I have become, afraid of my own shadow?

Through the paper-thin wall, she heard an urgent whisper. ‘Lisa, wake up!’

‘Alexei! What are you doing here?’ Lisa seemed happier to be woken up by Alexei than she was by Natasha. She sounded honey-sweet. Natasha wondered if their voices would wake their grandparents but no, they continued sleeping, their breathing regular.

‘I can’t sleep,’ said Alexei.

‘I can’t sleep, either.’

‘That folding bed is so uncomfortable. And it’s cold in the kitchen. The window is open.’

‘Have you tried closing it?’

‘No, I thought I’d come here instead.’

‘So sleep here with me. I’ll keep you warm.’

‘Are you sure? What if your father finds out? He’ll kill us both.’ Lisa’s bed creaked once, and then again, as Alexei climbed in.

‘Who’s going to tell him?’ asked Lisa.

‘He’ll come into the kitchen in the morning and find my bed empty. What is he going to think?’

‘You’ll just have to wake up before him, won’t you?’

‘What about Natasha?’

‘She’s a sound sleeper. Besides, she’d never tell on me. She’s my sister.’

There was a moment of silence that lasted far too long. Were they kissing? Natasha felt her cheeks flush in embarrassment. Maybe she could go and sleep in the kitchen on Alexei’s folding bed. But that would mean admitting she had been awake all this time, listening in. And what would Father say if he found Natasha in the kitchen? Alexei and Lisa wouldn’t be the only ones he would kill.

A pitiful sound reached her, like a kitten meowing. Lisa was whimpering softly and blowing her nose. It had been years since Natasha had heard her sister cry.

‘Are you okay?’ asked Alexei. ‘Why are you crying? Do you want anything? What’s wrong?’

‘Everything,’ said Lisa. ‘Everything is wrong. What are we going to do?’

Natasha felt a wave of affection for her sister, who tried to comfort her and give her strength, even though she herself felt weak. Lisa was being so brave, and only now, in front of Alexei, did she show how she really felt. Natasha wanted to hug her sister, hold her in her arms and tell her everything was going to be alright. But Alexei was already doing that.

‘Please, don’t cry,’ he was whispering. ‘The most important thing is that we have each other.’

‘That’s all that matters to me, you know. That we are together. Nothing bad can happen to me while I’m with you. You’ll protect me, won’t you? From everything?’

‘Of course I will.’

His voice cracked, and Natasha knew instantly something was wrong. But Lisa didn’t seem to notice. ‘We’ll get married,’ she was saying, ‘and we’ll start a family. We’ll be so happy.’

‘I have to tell you something,’ said Alexei. All of a sudden, he sounded short of breath, as if he were walking fast up a steep mountain.

‘What?’ she prodded.

‘I’ve been thinking and thinking about it.’ He paused.

‘Tell me.’

‘I might have to go away for a little while.’

He waited for Lisa to reply but she was silent. The clock chimed three in the morning.

‘I can’t stay here and do nothing, Lisa. It’s war. I need to do my bit for our country. I keep hearing rumours about the partisans. I’m going to find them, make my way east, join the Red Army. Before you and I can be together, we need to beat the Nazis. You do understand, don’t you?’

‘No, I don’t understand,’ Lisa sobbed. ‘I don’t understand why you’d want to leave me.’

‘I don’t want to leave you. It’s the last thing I want. But how can we be happy while Hitler is in the Soviet Union? First we fight and then we build a life together. A happy, married life with children and grandchildren.’

‘Grandchildren? Really?’

‘I’m just thinking ahead. I love you, Lisa. I want to grow old with you. I want everything with you. But first, we fight. We can’t take this lying down. We can’t turn the other cheek.’ Alexei’s voice grew louder in the dark. ‘Before we can start our lives together, we fight and we beat this,’ he repeated.

‘If you leave, you’ll never come back. I can feel it! I’ll never see you again.’

‘Of course I’ll come back. How could I stay away?’ said Alexei. ‘How could I stay away from you?’ he added.

‘Don’t go!’ Lisa pleaded. ‘I don’t want you to go. I can’t imagine living without you.’

‘It’s only for a little while.’

‘I can’t imagine living without you even for a little while.’

‘And I couldn’t live with myself if I stayed here and did nothing. Even you wouldn’t respect me if I did.’

‘I just want you here with me. I want you safe. I love you.’

‘And I want to be with you. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. But we can’t be selfish, Lisa. Boys as young as fourteen are running away to enlist. To fight, to make a difference. How will it look if I do nothing? Please, try to understand.’

‘You would walk away from me, say goodbye and leave me in Kiev?’

‘What choice do I have?’

Lisa sobbed and said nothing.

‘Will you wait for me?’ asked Alexei.

‘What choice do I have?’ she replied, and Natasha heard heartbreak in her voice.

‘You could forget about me and marry someone else.’

‘Not if you marry me first.’

‘I’d marry you tomorrow if I could.’

They were silent for a while. Then Lisa said, ‘Do you remember the day we first met?’

‘When you refused to dance with me and pretended you already had a sweetheart? How could I forget?’

‘When you told me I was the most beautiful girl you’d ever seen. And I did dance with you eventually.’

‘Not before you made me beg for it.’

‘See, that’s why I could never marry anyone else. Who would put up with me?’

For a few minutes all Natasha could hear was Lisa’s sobbing and Alexei’s ‘sh-sh-sh’, like he was comforting a child. Then the sheets rustled, and suddenly Lisa was no longer crying. Alexei whispered, ‘Lisa, what are you doing?’

‘What does it look like I’m doing?’

‘Are you sure about this?’

‘Positive.’

‘I thought you wanted to wait till our wedding night?’

‘That was before.’

‘Before what?’

‘Germans in Kiev.’

A minute passed, then another. ‘Are you sure?’ repeated Alexei.

‘We don’t know what will happen to us tomorrow. We don’t know if we have a tomorrow. I’m sure.’

Natasha squeezed her eyes shut and put a pillow over her head. Where was sleep when she needed it? If only she could summon it at will, then she wouldn’t have to think about the grey uniforms flooding the streets of her childhood and she wouldn’t have to hear her sister’s bed creaking-creaking-creaking.

Chapter 2 – The Barbaric Hordes

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 22nd 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.’

Chapter 3 – The Soldier

September 1941

In the morning, Grandmother’s forehead felt even warmer than the day before.

‘Are you okay, Babushka? How are you feeling?’ Natasha whispered when Grandmother opened her eyes.

‘I’m fine, child. I’ll be good as new tomorrow. Don’t you fret,’ said Grandmother, but her voice was so weak, Natasha could barely hear her.

Trying not to cry, Natasha rushed downstairs to fetch a bucket of water from the pump, in her haste spilling at least half by the time she made it back upstairs. She boiled the kettle, soaked some barley in hot water and cooked a porridge, without milk and without butter but with some salt she retrieved from their hiding place in the garden. Grandmother’s eyes were dull and her lips moved listlessly as she ate. She only nodded when Natasha said, ‘I’ll go to Olga’s and get the doctor, Babushka. He’s staying with them, remember?’ Kissing her grandmother, Natasha threw on her mother’s favourite jacket and left.

Olga wasn’t at home and neither were her mother or grandfather. But the doctor was. Natasha begged him to check on her grandmother, and he promised to be there in an hour.

On the way home Natasha couldn’t help but notice that the streets were much busier than the day before. Not only ubiquitous grey uniforms but Soviet citizens, too. A number of houses on Kreshchatyk sported yellow and blue flags. Natasha presumed they had been placed there by the Ukrainian nationalists. In all of her Soviet life she had never seen a Ukrainian flag being flown, and now not just one but a dozen sprang up on the tall buildings of central Kiev as if they belonged there. Next door to the former Children’s World, the largest toy store in Kiev, which now housed the gendarmerie, a large crowd gathered around what looked like a newspaper glued to the wall. People pointed, shouted and gesticulated. Intrigued, Natasha approached. It was the first edition of Ukrainian Word. Hoping for some news from the front, she skimmed through the first page and turned away in disgust. The nationalists were using the German invasion as an opportunity to advance their cause now that the Bolsheviks were gone. They were lauding the German aggressors as heroes of the new Ukraine, blond knights who had arrived just in time to save their Motherland.

Wait till I tell Grandfather about this, thought Natasha. And then her gaze fell on a piece of paper next to the newspaper. In Russian and German, it read:

‘People of Kiev! A terrible crime has been committed. Anyone with information about the murder of an Oberleutnant in Taras Shevhenko Park on 20th September is required to come forward immediately. If you have seen or heard anything that leads to capture of the traitors responsible, you will receive a bag of flour and a bag of sugar. If the traitors are not apprehended, all of the Kievan population will be severely punished.’

Natasha remained rooted to the spot, her face aghast. But then she noticed a man with a grey moustache stare at her for a second too long. What if he could see in her eyes that she was the one responsible? She forced her face into an indifferent smile, tried to stop her hands from trembling, and then turned around and walked away as fast as she could.

When she reached Taras Shevchenko Boulevard, her hands shaking again and her forehead creased in worry, she thought she spotted a familiar face in the crowd. She paused in the middle of the street. Paused not consciously, not out of deliberate choice, but because her knees turned to jelly, making it impossible to walk. She could almost swear that the tall man she’d caught a glimpse of was the soldier from the park. She squinted, blinked, blocked the sun with the palm of her hand, and rose to her tiptoes to see better. A group of German officers walked by, shielding the man from view, and Natasha jumped up and down, trying to see behind them. She would have pushed them out of the way if she could. Praying that he was still there, she hurried around the German officers.

Clearly, he’d had the same idea because as soon as she rounded the officers, Natasha bumped straight into him and almost fell. He caught her by the arm. Flustered, she looked up into his smiling face.

Her heart racing, she wanted to apologise for knocking into him like that but for a moment couldn’t speak. She had forgotten how tall he was and how handsome. He was dressed in civilian clothes today. Of course, thought Natasha, it’s Sunday. If only she had known she would run into him! She would have worn her smartest dress and left her hair down, so that it framed her face attractively. She wished she had worn her mother’s high-heeled shoes instead of her drab, comfortable ones. She wished she had some lipstick on her pale, trembling lips. Anything to make her feel less shy around him.

‘I thought it was you,’ he said, and his eyes twinkled. They were the colour of chocolate, just like she remembered from their brief encounter the night before. They looked even darker now in the sun than they had in the light of his torch in her shady apartment. His hair was raven black and there was a tiny scar above his left eyebrow.

His dark-eyed, dark-haired confidence made her even more nervous. Blinking, she looked down into her hands. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

‘I was just…’ He hesitated. ‘Actually, I was coming to see you. I wanted to see how your grandmother was.’ He watched Natasha intently. She adjusted her hair, cursing her plain ponytail, and raised her face to him. ‘So how is she?’ he asked.

‘She’s weak. Burning up. We are hoping she’ll get better but…’ She sighed.

They were standing in the middle of the street, facing each other, while all around them pedestrians, cars and motorcycles whizzed past, and a bizarre cacophony of Russian and German mingled with honking horns and barking dogs. Natasha barely noticed any of it.

‘Can I walk you home?’ he asked, smiling into her timid face. Natasha felt her heart and lungs melt, and a warmth trickled down her body all the way to the soles of her feet.

They walked down Taras Shevchenko Boulevard and along Tarasovskaya in silence. Every now and then, their arms touched. And every now and then, Natasha would raise her head and look up at him, hoping he wouldn’t notice. The silence between them felt tense but it didn’t feel awkward. Natasha knew she had to say something. Preferably something witty and humorous but at that point anything would do. Trouble was, Natasha couldn’t think of anything, witty or otherwise.

Finally, she muttered, ‘I’m glad I bumped into you. I wanted to thank you…’ She paused. ‘For saving us.’

‘No thanks necessary,’ he replied. ‘I’m Mark, by the way. What’s your name?’

‘Natasha,’ she said quietly.

‘Natasha,’ he repeated.

She liked the way he pronounced her name, drawing out every syllable and making them sound soft, melodious. Again, she wondered about his accent.

He stretched his hand out and she shook it, her own hand barely half the size of his. She didn’t want him to let go and for a few seconds, he didn’t.

‘Mark. Are you…’ She paused. ‘Are you German?’ Holding her breath, she waited for his answer.

‘God, no. Hungarian. From Vacratot.’ Seeing the confused expression on her face, he added, ‘It’s a small village near Budapest.’

‘I don’t know anything about Hungary. Is it far?’

‘Not that far.’ He was looking straight at her, and Natasha felt her cheeks burn. She stared at the ground. Mark continued, ‘We share a border with Ukraine, as well as Romania, Croatia, Slovakia and Serbia.’

‘Sounds far,’ said Natasha. Other than her trip to Lvov last year, she had never been outside of Kiev. ‘Where did you learn to speak Russian so well?’

‘My parents are from Moscow. They left Russia during the Great War. Two of my brothers were born there.’

‘Two brothers? How many do you have?’

‘Six.’

‘Any sisters?’

Mark shook his head. ‘I’m the middle child, and I think by the time she’d had me, Mum was desperate for a little girl. She kept trying and trying. And now she’s stuck with seven boys. She calls us her football team.’

‘I have two brothers and a sister. We’re close, but Lisa can be very annoying. We’re fighting constantly.’

‘I know what you mean,’ he said. ‘I used to fight with my brothers all the time. I really miss it now. Strange, isn’t it?’ Suddenly his smile was gone, only to come back a few seconds later wider than before.

‘Not that strange. You must miss home so much. Are your brothers soldiers like you?’

‘Four of them, yes. It was quite a tragedy for my mother, watching us leave one after another.’

‘Hungary, huh,’ said Natasha. ‘Aren’t you German allies?’ She remembered reading about it in the papers. Hungary had joined Hitler’s side in June, shortly after his attack on the Soviet Union. The country had a pro-German government but was reluctant to take part in the war. When the Hungarian town of Kassa was bombed, they blamed the Soviets for the bombing, finally allying with the Germans. Natasha’s grandfather was adamant that it was Hitler himself who had orchestrated the bombing to push Hungary into the war.

‘Reluctant allies,’ replied Mark, raising his head and appearing even taller. Something flashed through his eyes and for a second he looked sad. Transfixed, Natasha watched him.

‘And yet, here you are, in Ukraine, on Germany’s side. Fighting for Hitler.’

‘None of us had much choice. That’s another reason why this war is such a tragedy for my parents. They’re still very Russian at heart, despite the decades they have spent in Hungary.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Natasha. ‘My older brother Stanislav is fighting somewhere. Mama cries almost every day.’

Mark said, ‘Hungary had no enthusiasm for the war. Yes, our political leaders made the decision to join the German side but no one felt any sympathy for this decision. Most of us were horrified by it. We thought it was a big mistake. No one I knew volunteered for this war.’

‘What happened when the war started?’

‘I was a member of the anti-fascist society at university, and we protested on the streets, encouraging soldiers to desert. In the end, it became too dangerous and we had to stop. And then my brothers and I were drafted. At first, my parents hid us in a barn on our farm. But we were discovered, my father was arrested, and before I knew it, I was on a jam-packed train headed for Lvov. And here I am, a sergeant in the Hungarian regiment, fighting against my beliefs.’

How terrible, thought Natasha, touching his hand softly – wanting to touch his unsmiling face.

‘The country wasn’t prepared for war. We have no equipment, no machinery. Our mobile units are made up of bicycles. Our tanks are so fragile, they get stopped by pumpkin vines before they even make it to battle. But that’s not the issue. The issue is that we are unwilling participants in a capitalist war none of us can identify with. That we are dying for a principle we don’t believe in.’

Natasha was so engrossed in what he was saying, she didn’t notice when they arrived at her door. They paused in the middle of the yard. Thankfully, it was deserted – she didn’t want the conversation to end.

‘We’re stationed at the library on Institutskaya Street,’ said Mark. ‘Do you know where that is?’

Natasha nodded. ‘It’s a good library. With a great collection of the Russian classics.’

‘Which I’ve already discovered. When I’m not on duty, I read. I just started Lermontov’s Hero of Our Time.’

‘I love Lermontov. Even his prose reads like poetry. I’ve been rereading Tolstoy’s War and Peace.’ She glanced at a passing Nazi patrol. ‘Kind of ironic, really,’ she whispered. ‘My grandfather doesn’t approve of that book. He’s too pro-Napoleon to enjoy Tolstoy’s writing.’

‘Pro-Napoleon?’

‘Oh yes.’ She smiled, imagining her grandfather in the fervour of one of his Napoleonic lectures. ‘He calls Napoleon a giant among pygmies. He says that…’ She tried to mimic her grandfather’s voice but failed, giggling. ‘If I remember correctly, his exact words were…’ She paused. ‘Ah yes, bigoted and corrupt Europe drowning in vices of the ancient regime was not ready for Napoleon’s progressive vision and far-sighted reforms. According to my grandfather, Napoleon was a genius who was at least a hundred years ahead of his times.’ Seeing the bemused expression on Mark’s face, she explained, ‘My grandfather is a history professor. One of the most respected in all of Ukraine.’ The familiar pride turned her voice a pitch higher. ‘I want to teach at university one day, too.’

‘What are you going to teach?’

‘Well, I was supposed to start my literature degree at the Taras Shevchenko University this month. If the Germans hadn’t…’ Suddenly she was too sad to continue. She changed the subject. ‘So what’s your favourite book?’

He took her hand and smiled. Her heart beat faster and she no longer wanted to cry. ‘I can’t decide between The Count of Monte Cristo and The Three Musketeers.’

‘Dumas, really? I read the whole collection of his works when I helped out at the university library before the war.’

Mark watched her, and she watched the ground under her feet. He asked, ‘Would it have been your first year at university? How old are you, Natasha?’

Her face red, she whispered, ‘Nineteen.’ Raising her eyes to him, she tried to guess how old he was. He looked young, like Alexei, but unlike Alexei’s, his eyes seemed older, more serious, almost grown up. ‘What about you?’

‘Twenty-two.’ He smiled. ‘I have something for you.’ He rummaged in his rucksack and handed her an object made of glass and metal.

She examined it. ‘Is— is it…’ she stammered. ‘You brought me a kerosene lamp?’ She blinked.

‘Now you’ll have enough light to read and look after your grandmother in the evenings.’

‘Thank you so much,’ she whispered, touched. There was a sudden tension between them, a tension she didn’t know how to break. The door to their building opened and a neighbour marched outside, glaring in their direction. Natasha was grateful that Mark wasn’t wearing his Hungarian uniform. She said, ‘Well, I’d better go. It’s getting late.’

But she was reluctant to leave. She stepped from foot to foot and finally said, ‘Mark, I saw a notice near the gendarmerie. They are looking for those responsible for the murder in the park.’

‘Of course they are. That’s to be expected.’

She looked around, making sure no one was there to overhear. ‘What if they find out it was us? I’m so afraid.’

‘Don’t be. No one saw us. There was no one around.’

‘Are you sure?’ She tried to think of what happened that evening but couldn’t remember anything beyond her terror and Grandmother’s motionless body on the ground.

‘Positive.’

‘But what do they mean, the whole population of Kiev will pay for the murder?’

‘Threat and intimidation are their favourite techniques. That’s how they operate. Don’t worry. You are safe, as long as you don’t tell anyone you were in the park that day.’

‘I won’t tell anyone,’ she murmured. But she didn’t feel safe.

He smiled nervously, clenching his rucksack. ‘If it’s okay, I’d like to see you again.’

Her face brightened. ‘I’d like that.’

‘How about if we meet at the same spot on Kreshchatyk tomorrow? Around eleven?’

Natasha nodded, grinning despite her best efforts not to. She waved and walked towards her building. When she reached the front door, she turned around and found him still in the same spot, looking at her. ‘Mark,’ she called out. ‘Thanks again for helping us last night.’ Then she disappeared inside, running up one flight of stairs and pausing at the grimy communal window, so she could watch him cross the yard and disappear around the corner.

*

When Natasha returned home, she found the whole family gathered in the living room and Mother cooking in the kitchen. ‘Where have you been?’ asked Mother, and Natasha avoided her eyes when she told her about her visit to Olga and her conversation with the doctor.

‘I’m glad you’re back. Lunch is almost ready,’ said Mother, opening a can of fish and stirring something on the stove.

‘This looks like potato peel,’ said Natasha. ‘Fried potato peel.’ She picked one up, examined it, placed it in her mouth. It was crunchy and a little bitter. It would have been better with some butter but they didn’t have any.

‘I got half a kilo of potato peel at work,’ said Mother. Every day she had to report to school, even though there were no classes and no pupils. Mother and five other teachers spent their mornings reading, talking and playing cards at the empty school cafeteria. ‘I was lucky to get any. There wasn’t enough for everyone.’

‘They taste nice, Mama,’ Natasha said uncertainly.

‘We hardly have any food left. Almost no food left at all.’

It was true. They didn’t have much to begin with, and now with seven mouths to feed, their supplies were dwindling. There were only a few cans of fish, a jar of pickled tomatoes, some flour, barley and carrots. ‘Don’t worry, Mama. We have enough for another week. We’ll figure something out.’

‘Maybe the Germans will start feeding us soon,’ said Mother.

‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ Grandfather muttered from behind his book.

‘You never know, they might,’ said Mother. ‘After all, they don’t want us to starve. They want us to work.’

Father marched into the kitchen, followed by Lisa. In his hands he was holding an old book, which he placed on the kitchen table with a loud bang. He narrowed his eyes on Natasha and demanded, ‘What is this?’

Natasha picked up the book. It was Tolstoy’s War and Peace, but not a copy she recognised. ‘I’ve never seen it before in my life. Where did it come from?’

‘That’s what I want to know,’ bellowed Father.

‘It’s War and Peace, Papa, can’t you see that?’ piped in Lisa, hiding behind Natasha.

‘Not just any War and Peace. The first edition. Do you know how much it costs? And I found it under the table in the living room, collecting dust. Now you need to tell me where it came from and don’t pretend that you don’t know.’

Lisa lowered her gaze. ‘It’s from the library, Papa. Before the Germans got here, everyone was taking books, so I thought Natasha would be pleased because it’s her favourite—’

‘You stole this? From our library?’ he asked, sounding incredulous. When Lisa didn’t answer, Father raised his voice a touch louder. ‘No daughter of mine is going to act like a thief, war or no war.’

‘You got it for me?’ Natasha was touched and thrilled to be in possession of the first edition. ‘Thank you.’ Reverently she examined the book. She wanted to hug her sister, but Father was glaring at her with anger, and she quickly returned the book to the table.

Mother said, ‘Don’t be upset, Vasili. It’s socialist property. The Nazis could never appreciate it. We can keep it safe until the war is over. Besides, it’s only a book. Last week I saw one of the neighbours return home with three sacks of sugar and a sack of potatoes.’

‘That’s disgraceful.’

‘I thought so too but now I wish we took some food when we had the chance. It’s better that our people have it than the enemy.’ She straightened her back and looked at Father, as if daring him to argue. He didn’t.

The potato peel didn’t go down well with the family. Lisa refused to eat them. Father complained through every mouthful. Only Nikolai finished his share and eagerly asked for more.

Lisa said, ‘Natasha, are you okay? You haven’t said a word all evening.’

‘I’m fine,’ Natasha muttered, balancing a potato peel on the tip of her fork.

‘What are you thinking about?’

‘The Germans,’ she lied, when all she could see was Mark’s face, all she could hear was his voice as he told her about his life. She couldn’t believe she was seeing him again tomorrow! Only twenty hours and thirty-five minutes to go. ‘Stanislav. You think he’s out there somewhere, giving the Nazis a hard time?’

Mother sniffled. ‘At work people were talking… about the Battle of Kiev.’

‘What about it, Mama?’ asked Nikolai.

‘They said it was devastating for our army. Today we went to the hospital and looked through the lists of wounded soldiers but I didn’t find…’ She fell quiet. On the table in front of her was an old photo of Stanislav and Natasha, taken when they were still at school.

Nikolai mumbled, his mouth full. ‘Letters can’t get through now that the Germans are here. That’s why we haven’t heard from Stanislav. I’m sure he’s fine, Mama.’

‘I bet when the Red Army kicks the Germans out, we’ll receive a hundred letters from Stanislav, all at once. You know how much he loves to write,’ said Lisa.

Mother coughed and changed the subject. ‘Timofei Kuzenko is drinking obscenely. Yesterday he threatened Zina with an axe.’

‘Not with an axe?’ exclaimed Lisa, her eyes wide.

‘Can you imagine? She was so scared; she knocked on our door and asked me to hide five bottles of vodka in our apartment. And the axe.’

Father, who didn’t approve of drinking, said, ‘I heard vodka’s a valuable commodity on the black market. We could get some fresh bread for it. Maybe even some meat.’

‘We can’t take Zina’s vodka, Vasili,’ said Mother, wiping her face. Her eyes were swimming in tears.

Natasha looked at the photograph on the table, at her eight-year-old self, at her older brother. She squeezed her eyes shut, squeezed her fists, squeezed everything to stop herself from crying. Where was their brother, their grandson, their son? She had to know. How could she go on, not knowing? ‘Let’s go, Mama,’ she whispered. ‘Let’s go to Zina. She still has her radio. She might have some news from the front.’ Mother nodded, staring at the young Natasha in the picture, at the older Natasha in front of her.

Together they crossed the narrow hall and knocked on Zina’s door. From the corridor they heard her husband Timofei. He was snoring raucously. When they walked in, they saw him sprawled on the couch, motionless and stiff.

‘Zina Andreevna,’ pleaded Natasha. ‘Do you still have your radio? Any news from the front? My Mama is desperate.’ I am desperate, she wanted to add.

‘What radio?’ screeched Zina, raising her head.

‘Don’t you have your radio anymore?’

‘Hungarian soldiers barged in earlier and took it. They took everything. Our food, our clothes, our cutlery, all of our money.’

‘Hungarian soldiers?’ exclaimed Natasha, stumbling.

‘They told us to move out of our apartment by tomorrow.’ Zina cried. ‘What are we going to do? Where are we going to go?’ All her earlier bravado, her hope for a better life, it was all gone.

‘Filthy pigs,’ muttered Timofei, trying to sit up in bed and failing.

Natasha hugged Zina affectionately. ‘Come and stay with us. Is it okay, Mama?’

‘Thank you, dear,’ whispered Zina. ‘You have a kind heart.’

That night, Natasha lay on her folding bed, holding her grandmother’s hand and listening to her laboured breathing. She wanted to cry but couldn’t. Only twelve more hours until she saw Mark’s breathtaking face. Would she be able to sleep? Her heart was threatening to break out of her rib cage. This unfamiliar feeling that had her in a vice ever since she’d set her eyes on him filled her with joy and excitement, but her joy was mixed with fear. He was a Hungarian soldier sent to Ukraine to support Hitler’s troops. And she was a Soviet girl, who was completely and irrevocably under his spell. What was she going to do?

She tried not to think of Zina’s words about the Hungarian soldiers. Mark wasn’t like that. He was different.

To take her mind off Mark — as if it was possible — she thought of her brother.

*

June 1941

Mobilisation orders arrived at the end of June, the day after the Germans bombed Kiev for the first time. Men aged nineteen to twenty-two were already in the Red Army, and now that the war had started, men aged twenty-three to thirty-six were being drafted. The family walked Stanislav to the crowded train station. Everywhere, it seemed, there were young men in uniform; alone and surrounded by families, some of them were laughing and chatting, while others smoked solemnly, sipped cheap kvass, and chewed their hastily made sandwiches.

‘Seems like yesterday you walked me to school every day down this road,’ Natasha said to Stanislav. She had always thought she was the luckiest girl in the world to have an older brother. Her best friend Olga wasn’t so lucky. She was an only child.

‘I know,’ said Stanislav, smiling. ‘You always had a mob of young boys following you around. Remember when one of them left a love letter in our mailbox, and I read it aloud at dinner? You didn’t speak to me for a month. You were eight.’

‘A love letter and a chocolate that you ate. I’m still upset about that. You can be so annoying.’ She looked into her brother’s face, fighting her tears. She wasn’t going to cry in front of him. She was going to wait till later.

‘Annoying and protective.’

‘No, just annoying.’

Natasha took Stanislav’s hand in hers. She didn’t want the walk to the station to end just yet, but it wasn’t far, and soon they were there.

In the sea of weeping women and sombre men, Natasha hugged her brother and said, ‘Promise to write. And please, please, please, come back soon. I still need you to protect me.’

Lisa hugged her brother and said, ‘I’m glad Alexei is only eighteen. He’s not enlisting yet.’

Nikolai couldn’t say anything because he was struggling to hold back tears, so he hugged his brother in silence.

Mother wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘It’s so unexpected. I wish we had some warning, more time to prepare.’

‘It’s okay, Mama,’ said Stanislav, putting his rucksack down on the pavement and embracing his mother. ‘It’s easier this way.’

‘On the train, eat the boiled eggs and bread I packed for you. Wear your jumper if it gets cold.’

‘A fine soldier I would make, wearing a jumper at the end of June.’ Seeing his mother’s stricken face, Stanislav added, ‘I love you, Mama. Please, don’t cry.’

‘When are we going to see you again? What are we going to do?’ Mother sobbed.

‘Soon, Mama, I promise. I’ll be back soon. This war won’t last long. A couple of months at most.’

‘Look after yourself, son,’ said Father. ‘We’ll see you when it’s all over.’

In silence they watched Stanislav as he climbed into the carriage and turned around, a sad smile on his face. ‘Girls, look after your mother,’ he said, saluting them once more, and then the train was moving and the Smirnovs were running along the platform to catch one final glimpse of their firstborn son and older brother. Soon he was gone but still they stood, watching the train that carried Stanislav to the front, until the train, too, had disappeared. Then they went home, where they had dinner without their son and without their brother. As they chewed their meatballs and vegetable salad, the girls and their mother and even Nikolai cried quietly into their plates.

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