Sisters of War. Lana Kortchik

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