Sisters of War. Lana Kortchik
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