Chapter 19 – Waiting for a Miracle
Chapter 20 – The Battle of Kiev
For my mum.
Thank you for always believing in me.
Chapter 1 – Black Cloud Descending
September 1941
It was a warm September afternoon and the streets of Kiev were crowded. Just like always, a stream of pedestrians engulfed the cobbled Kreshchatyk, effortlessly flowing in and out of the famous Besarabsky Market. But something felt different. No one smiled, no one called out greetings or paused for a leisurely conversation in the shade of chestnut trees that lined the renowned street. On every grim face, in every mute mouth, in the way they moved – a touch faster than usual – were anxiety and unease, as if nothing made sense to the Kievans anymore, not the bombings, nor the fires, nor living in constant fear.
Most stores were padlocked shut and abandoned, and only one remained open on the corner of Taras Shevchenko Boulevard and Vladimirovskaya Street. A queue gradually swelled with people, until they spilled over into the road, blocking the way of the oncoming cars that screeched to a stop, horns blaring and harsh words emanating from their windows. Soon, as is often the case in a line for groceries, a heated argument broke out near the entrance to the store.
‘I’ve been standing here since four this morning, I’m not letting you ahead!’ screamed a red-faced man with dull eyes. He looked angry enough to strike the intruder, a small woman holding an infant.
‘I have a baby. She hasn’t eaten since yesterday,’ the woman pleaded, lifting her little girl for everyone in the queue to see.
‘So what? You are not the only one with a mouth to feed,’ said the angry man.
The woman moved towards the end of the line, while her baby screamed at the top of her lungs.
‘Do we have to listen to this?’ were the parting words from the man.
‘Come over here, my dear,’ said an old woman dressed in a winter coat with a kerchief over her head, despite the mild weather. ‘You can go in front of me if you like.’
‘Why are you letting her ahead? We’ve been waiting for hours,’ complained a matronly lady behind the old woman.
‘And another two minutes won’t make a difference,’ replied the old woman in an I-won’t-hear-any-argument voice. And apart from a few belligerent looks, she didn’t get any.
As the mother thanked the old woman with tears in her eyes, two young girls and a boy approached the store from the direction of the Natural Sciences Museum. They didn’t try to jump the queue but stood quietly at the back, unsmiling and serious, as if they were attending a lecture at a prestigious university.
‘What are we queuing for?’ asked Natasha Smirnova, a tall, dark-haired waif of a girl.
‘Sausage,’ said the old woman.
‘Flour,’ said the woman with the baby.
‘Tomatoes,’ said the matronly lady. But no one seemed to know for a fact, and the line didn’t move, nor did anyone leave the store with bags of sausages, flour or tomatoes.
‘That’s good. Tomatoes will keep,’ said Natasha.
‘They won’t keep,’ replied her companion, a petite redhead with a ponytail and a sulky expression on her face. ‘We’ll have to eat them in a week.’
‘If we pickle them, we can have them all winter.’
‘Winter? This war won’t last till winter,’ said the young mother confidently.
‘You mean, we won’t last till winter,’ murmured the old woman. ‘Not if the Nazis come here.’
‘Haven’t you heard?’ said the old man directly in front of the woman with the baby. ‘Chernigov fell last week.’ The old man puffed his chest out, seemingly proud to be the bearer of such important news.
‘What are you talking about?’ exclaimed the old woman. ‘If Chernigov fell, we would have known about it. We would have heard on the radio.’ Others in line had interrupted their conversations and were now listening in, their faces aghast.
‘Believe me, comrades, Chernigov is in German hands,’ said the man, enjoying the attention. ‘I heard it from my cousin, a captain in the Red Army.’
‘My daughter is in Chernigov,’ cried the old woman, wrenching her arms.
The queue fell quiet. Chernigov was only a hundred kilometres from Kiev. If Chernigov fell, was Kiev next?
‘Let’s go home,’ said Natasha dejectedly. ‘We won’t get anything here. The queue is not even moving. Let’s just go home.’ She regretted stopping at the store and overhearing the conversation. Dread like liquid mercury spread inside her, heavy and paralysing.
The three of them made their way through the crowds towards Taras Shevchenko Park, wide-eyed at the commotion around them. Those who weren’t busy queuing for food occupied themselves by looting and robbing. The Red Army had retreated in July, and the government evacuated in August. In the absence of any form of authority, no shop, library, museum or warehouse was safe. Men, women, even children, moved from store to store, laden with sacks and boxes, searching for something valuable, preferably edible, to steal. Outside the entrance to the park, two men carried a piano and a woman struggled with a potted plant and a typewriter. Eventually, she placed the typewriter on the ground and took off with the plant. ‘It’s a palm tree,’ said Natasha, watching the woman with a bemused expression on her face. ‘I wonder what she’s going to do with it. I’d take the typewriter if I were her.’ When she didn’t receive an acknowledgement from the redhead, she added, ‘Lisa, will you look at that?’
‘Who knows what she’ll do?’ replied Lisa, shrugging. ‘Grow bananas? Barricade the door from the invading Germans?’ She chuckled but her eyes remained serious.
When the woman disappeared around the corner, Natasha turned to Lisa. ‘We should get going. If Papa realises we’ve left, we’ll be in so much trouble.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Lisa. ‘He’s too busy searching his newspapers for news from the front to