LITMIR.BIZ

       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 20^th 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

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