Liuba sighed as she watched from the kitchen window of her basement flat, hugging her ragged cardigan to herself as she sipped the last of the weak tea that would have to last her until supper. Supplies were hard to get in Kiev, since the Germans had come, and what she had would have to feed Olek and the children when they came home.
Occupation or no occupation, there was work and school on this late-September day.
Liuba knew who they were, these fellow-Kievan strangers, and why they were walking past her window - the early-comers hurrying, eager to get there first, to secure a seat on the train. She had seen the notice at Kurenivsky Market - not that she was interested in such things, she was not one for gossip, but these days, you had to keep your ear to the ground, feel out the neighbours... who was on what side, what seller might throw in an extra potato, who might report you... Liuba sighed again. Life was hard.
As she stared out the window at the passing families, Liuba almost envied them. They were going somewhere. They had a train to catch. The Germans were relocating them.
She thought, I'll bet where they are going, there are enough potatoes. And fruit, perhaps... lucky Jews.
She shook off the bitter thought, rinsed her now-empty cup in the basin, and took her pail and brush to attack the grime on the front doorstep. It was her turn today, and the sharp-nosed old harridan in the ground-floor flat would be in her element if she didn't do it, a dirty stoop, what a tragedy...
Liuba tied her scarf tighter about her head and bent to scrub, listening as she worked to the people passing. Scraps of conversations reached her ears, complaining about the haste, anxious about the arrangements, hopeful about the relocation... nothing to do with her, of course, but at least it passed the time and distracted her from the hunger in her belly and the stiffness in her knees... 32, two children, and she felt like this. What would 40 be like? She leaned back on her heels and wiped the sweat off her forehead, lest she get a chill in the cool air. There. That should keep the old biddy happy.
She looked up as she heard her name called, the sound sharp over the murmur of the passing crowd on the other side of the street. 'Striina Liuba, Striina Liuba!' Liuba half-smiled as she waved at Olek's nephew Bohdan. About ten years old, he was running - always running, that boy - in the opposite direction to the crowd, first along the cobblestones of the street, then hopping onto the sidewalk and up Liuba's freshly-washed steps.
Playing truant from school again. So like him. Liuba smiled and grabbed his cap, tousling his hair. 'Come in, sit down. I can give you lemon-water.' The boy, breathless, nodded, his face working with what he was bursting to say - some childish news, no doubt - and followed his aunt into the house and down to her flat, where he flopped into a chair in the kitchen and waited for the promised treat, a ball of lemon-flavouring dropped into a plain glass of water. In better times, there would have been a straw to play with, but for now, Bohdan sipped at the drink gratefully before spilling out his news.
'Striina Liuba, the Jews, they are taking the Jews...'
Liuba, her brush and pail put away, dropped into a chair, shaking her head impatiently as she gestured toward the window. 'I know, dorogoi, I can see them. They are going away on the train.'
Bohdan shook his head violently, lank hair falling into eyes. 'No, striina, not on the train. The ravine! I have seen them, I hid behind the bushes. I heard the machine-guns...' He held out his fingers in imitation of the machine-guns.
After she had comforted Bohdan over his discovery, after she had combed his hair, washed his face, sworn him to secrecy, sent him home the back way... Liuba sat for a long time, looking at her hands... red, raw, the hands of an old woman, she thought, an old woman who has heard too much.
Then she went to stand at the window.
She must have stood there for hours, forgetting the hunger, the chill in the unheated room, the tiredness in her legs. She stood there watching, thinking, as she saw them pass...
They're all going to die today. All of them. That babushka with her tiny grandchild, that dignified-looking, what? Lawyer? You've settled your last case, my friend, only you don't know it, you think you're going... The thoughts always broke off at this point. Liuba was a realist. Being a realist didn't mean dwelling on what could not be changed.
Liuba knew there was nothing she could do against the German army, against the Ukrainian collaborators. There was no point in warning them. The notice had said that anyone harbouring the Jews would be shot, as well as anyone entering their vacant flats to steal...
Then Liuba saw the woman, striding purposefully along far back in the crowd, holding a little boy of about five by the hand. In the other, she held a suitcase. A very fine leather suitcase, so unlike the shabby cardboard thing with the broken clasp that held Liuba's few treasures, there under the bed. Such a suitcase came only from fine shops.
Liuba shook off the thought as she went to light the candle under the samovar. She'd try to coax a bit of flavour out of the three-day-old tea leaves, at least the hot water would do her good. She glanced up again, standing on tiptoe to see the woman, who was still a few hundred yards away. The woman looked anxious, that was natural, and the little boy tired. What was in that suitcase? Surely things for the journey, surely things that might be useful, valuable... Her coat was good stuff, she looked elegant, almost...
Liuba poured the almost-tea into a cup and went to stand at the window again, watching... the woman was coming closer now, the suitcase weighing down her arm. She was carefully made up... She put on her makeup for the machine gunners, Liuba thought crazily. What am I thinking? What is in that suitcase? Jewellery, perhaps? Good clothing? The Germans will take it, and the filthy collaborators...
The woman was almost level with the flat now... Liuba set down the empty cup, and, with sudden decision, dashed out her door and up the stairs again, out into the street. Looking neither right nor left, not daring to see if there were an official or a soldier in sight, she ran up to the woman and snatched the suitcase out of her hand.
It was heavier than it looked. That was what stopped Liuba for a second - long enough for her to look into the other woman's eyes, see the expression of shock and pain. Then, before either of them could say anything, Liuba turned and ran as fast as she could, back into the house, her prize clutched to her, ignoring the woman's pleas and the startled cries of the child. The crowd was thick now, and the press of humanity carried the woman on, complaining about the loss of her possessions.
In the flat, Liuba locked the door and carried the suitcase into her bedroom, where she laid it on the bed and stood there for a moment, catching her breath and stroking the leather. It was really very fine leather.
Then she ran into the kitchen to fetch a knife, with which she forced open the lock, rummaging furiously.
A few clothes she could wear. A few clothes for the boy. Fedir could wear them. A brooch, worth a few rubles. A pair of serviceable shoes for herself. Liuba nodded. A packet of letters, tied with a ribbon. A photograph, showing the woman in better days - it was obviously her - with a handsome man in uniform, in a fashionable restaurant. Liuba stared for a moment in envy. She had never owned such a beautiful dress, all organdy flounces. What a life the woman must have had.
Liuba moved the clothes aside - and found the reason for the heaviness of the suitcase: potatoes. Ten pounds of them, at least, hardly a sprouted eye among them, plump, russet potatoes hidden under the winter clothes. Liuba sighed. Not much for a lifetime, but here, now.... She gathered up the potatoes in her apron and carried them in two loads into the kitchen. She also brought the letters and the photograph.
Liuba lit a fire in the stove, kindling the few bits of coal she had with the stack of letters. The flames curled around the photograph of the man and woman in the restaurant.
Liuba did not read the letters. She was not one for gossip. She closed the shutters against the parade outside, and, lighting the lamp, set about washing some potatoes and cutting up the radishes from the market.
They would eat tonight.
* * *
Note: 'Because of our special talent for organisation, the Jews still believed until the very last moment before execution that indeed all that was happening was they were being resettled.' - Commander of the Einsatzkommando, two days later. More than 30,000 people died in the ravine at Babi Yar, September 29-30, 1941. May they rest in peace.
No comments:
Post a Comment