Sisters of War. Lana Kortchik

‘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