The Story of Us: The sweeping historical debut of 2018 that you will never forget. Lana Kortchik
took Mark’s hand. But then a Soviet couple strolled by, and the woman narrowed her disdainful eyes at Natasha. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ she exclaimed. And Natasha let go of Mark’s hand. To hide how much the confrontation had upset her, she bent down and picked up a leaf of a particularly bright tint of gold.
‘Don’t worry about her,’ said Mark.
‘I’m not worried.’
‘She’s only saying that because she’s scared and upset. And who can blame her?’ When Natasha didn’t reply, he added, ‘Taras Shevchenko is my mother’s favourite poet. “And with my heart I rush forth to a dark tiny orchard – to Ukraine.”’ He recited the famous poem in Ukrainian with his eyes closed, as if in his thoughts he was far from Ukraine, from the occupied Kiev and from Natasha, in a small Hungarian village called Vacratot.
‘I know this one. We learnt it at school.’ Natasha was quiet for a moment, trying to remember. ‘“I think a thought, I ponder it, and it’s as though my heart is resting.”’ When she looked up, she saw he was staring at her with such intensity, she blushed and let go of the leaf she was still holding. In silence she watched as it hovered for a fraction of a second in the breeze, before slowly drifting downwards. ‘Your mother speaks Ukrainian?’ she asked at last.
‘She understands it. When she was a child, she spent every summer in Ukraine with her grandparents.’
‘What is she like, your mother?’
‘She’s very kind. I’ve never heard her raise her voice. We are very close.’
‘I’m close to my mama, too. My papa, not so much. Lisa is his favourite.’
‘My dad and I always fight. He’s authoritative, strict, doesn’t talk much. Except when we’re arguing. Then he seems to have a lot to say.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Natasha, thinking of her own strict, authoritative father. ‘What do you argue about?’
He frowned. ‘Pretty much everything. The farm. My choice of friends. What I should study at university.’
‘What did you study?’
‘Physics.’
Natasha looked at him with admiration. ‘Physics! You must be a genius. It made absolutely no sense to me at school.’
He laughed. ‘Hardly a genius. Just curious about how things work.’
‘What did your father want you to study?’
‘Agriculture. He wants me to take over the family business. And I can’t imagine anything worse. Hence the arguments.’
‘You know what my grandfather says?’
‘What does your grandfather say?’
He looked like he was making a conscious effort to remain serious. His lips trembled as if he was on the verge of laughter. Was he teasing her? She blushed and for a moment forgot what she was about to say. ‘Oh, yes. My grandfather says arguments are good. It’s when people stop talking that something’s wrong. Not that he’s ever argued with a living soul.’
‘He’s very wise, your grandfather.’
‘Are your grandparents still alive?’
‘No, they died before I was born. They lived in a village not far from here. Would you believe it, we passed it in a truck on the way from Lvov. I always wanted to see where my family came from. Just not like this.’ A cloud passed through his face.
Turning away from him and towards the lush greenery of the park, she said, ‘You should see this place in April. Beautiful red tulips everywhere. We used to come here all the time. My brothers and sister, my friend Olga.’
They ambled full circle around the park and sat on a bench, only a small space between them. He was so close, if she reached out, she could touch him. She didn’t. Her hands remained firmly in her lap. She couldn’t watch his face, so she watched the Germans strolling leisurely past and the Soviets walking in hurried strides.
‘I brought you something,’ said Mark. He opened his rucksack. There were four cans of meat, two cans of pickled tomatoes, a loaf of bread, a dozen apples and a kilo of potatoes. Whole potatoes and not just peels. That’ll make a pleasant change, thought Natasha.
‘Oh, that’s wonderful. Thank you so much.’ She clasped her hands together at the thought of the feast they were going to have later.
‘You’re welcome. They don’t feed us as well as the Germans, but we still get some food.’ Looking straight at her, he smiled. And looking down at the ground, she smiled back.
‘So let me get this straight,’ she said. ‘In Hungary, you have a king and a regent. I find it hard to believe. It’s like something out of a Dumas novel.’
‘I guess it is. I’ve never given it much thought.’
‘It sounds too much like a fairy tale to be true. All we have is Comrade Stalin.’
‘And don’t forget the Bolsheviks.’
‘Well, no. Not anymore,’ she whispered. In the distance, an aircraft roared past. She could just make out the swastika on its fuselage. ‘What do you do now you’re in Ukraine?’
‘Guard strategic objects. Bridges, railway stations. Occasionally do some translating. Speaking Russian helps. But mostly, I’m on city patrol. I walk around, making sure nothing untoward is going on.’
‘Such as what?’
‘Well, last night, for example, I came across an old man who was detained for not handing in his food supplies. Two privates were interrogating him. He hardly had any food left, but they looked like they were ready to shoot him.’
Natasha shook her head. ‘If Germans take our food, how do they expect us to live? So what did you do?’
‘I sent them away and walked him home. He said I looked just like his grandson. Kept shaking my hand. Gave me an onion and a hammer. I gave him some bread and returned the onion. Figured he needed it more than I did.’
Natasha was unable to take her eyes off him. She no longer cared who saw them. She took his hand. ‘So that’s what you do. You help people.’
‘I try my best but there’s only so much I can do. Ever since we entered Ukraine… What can I say… The things we’ve seen here. Not just me but everyone else at the regiment is disgruntled. Men are wondering what we’re doing here. Certainly not protecting Hungary from the Bolsheviks like our government keeps telling us.’
They sat on the bench in silence. He didn’t say anything, and she couldn’t think of anything to say. Finally, she murmured, ‘You ever think of home?’
‘All the time. Hungary is stunning in autumn.’
‘As stunning as here?’ She gazed at the carpet of red leaves.
‘Different.’
‘I love Kiev. I love how green it is. They say you can walk across the whole city without leaving the shade of its trees. It’s beautiful, don’t you think?’
‘It is, very.’
What was that expression on his face? Natasha suspected that he wasn’t thinking about Kiev at all. They moved closer to each other, and she told him about her summers in the village with Olga and their one trip to Lvov. He told her about his parents’ farm and what it had been like growing up in Hungary. Natasha watched his face, watched his lips move. She was transfixed, mesmerised by him. Having been born in Ukraine, she couldn’t imagine a life different from her Soviet reality. She had never met anyone who had visited another country, let alone lived in one.
When