“Come inside,” she added. “Have some pie before you go.”
2
Kharkov, 4 February 1941
Dearest Mama,
I trust this letter finds you well. I know that life in Yalta is hard, but you are strong. And you have Galya to help you. She is good at practical matters. You know I am not.
About her singing—do not worry about the exposure giving her romantic ideas of a theatrical career. She has been wailing one song or another practically since birth, and I suppose she has a pleasing enough voice, but she lacks the discipline required of professionals, and is probably too old to begin formal training. Well, perhaps not. I really know little about the artistic world, especially of singers. I do know that with the real threat of escalation of the war, many have put aside pursuing personal ambitions until after the conflict ends. So let her sing if it pleases her and people want to listen. Soon enough she will marry and her life will take its course.
The theaters and concert halls are filled to capacity for every performance here. The other day, Uncle Vanya was interrupted by an air raid. Everyone just filed into the bomb shelter, then came back for the final act. You could say we love Chekhov more than life itself. Recently, the Moscow circus was in town, and the performers say it is the same there, even though the German threat is advancing and many shops are out of food by eleven in the morning. I cannot say I truly understand this madness for theater, film, and ballet, except that we as a people have always loved the arts and appear to need this release, pretending for an hour or two that life is normal and all is well. Psychology is not my specialty.
My studies are going well. I have begun to see some patients at the hospital, under a senior doctor’s supervision. Once the initial shock of dealing with the flesh-and-blood application of theoretical knowledge is past, things begin to fall into place. This is the work I was meant to do.
Kharkov, 16 May 1941
Dearest Mama,
You do not complain, but I can hear the strain behind your cheerful words. I know that life is difficult for you, especially now that Father has lost his job and is away so much, traveling with his wares. I know he always comes back with money and goods, and that your situation is not as desperate as it is with many here, farther north. Surely, part of the reason is climate; you do not have to survive the harsh, killing winters or the mud-swamped spring and autumn that make life miserable for people here.
Is Father aware of the daily threats and privations you suffer? Does he appreciate your boundless ingenuity, your trading trips to the Tatar villages and the endless waiting for rations which may run out before you reach the head of the queue? The increasing presence of the enemy among us must make a difficult situation almost unbearable for you.
Without you, I would not have a room to come home to. Neither Father nor Galya, with all their best intentions, could have done that for me. It was your arm that swung the hammer, your determination that drove in the nails. I will never forget this.
I will be home before your reply reaches me. Looking forward to your warm embrace.
Kharkov, 18 September 1941
Dear Galya,
Thank you for the birthday greeting.
Professor Zorkin has recommended I go to Moscow, to complete my studies with an eminent doctor at the university there. He has arranged the transfer and the travel pass, but suggests I bring as much warm clothing and extra food as I can carry. There are rumors of increased enemy activity north of us, but life cannot wait for rumors, and there are too many conflicting reports. Tell Mama I will come home to collect anything she can find. A good pair of boots would be most welcome, if she can manage it.
It will be a brief visit, one night only. Train travel is difficult and there is no time to waste. At least the weather is still good; the first hard frost has not yet come, followed by the inevitable thaw—the rasputitsa that drowns everything in mud and makes moving about a misery for man and beast, not to mention machinery. It makes one wish for the true start of our infamously brutal Russian winter.
I will see you soon.
PS: Help our mother every way you can.
3
“I SO ADMIRE your singing, Fräulein Galina,” the officer said in heavily accented Russian, taking her hand and bowing formally from the waist. He hesitated as if looking for words, then lapsed into his native German. “Das ist sehr herrlich. Lovely.”
She had not observed him working his way to the front of the knot of well-wishers surrounding the cast of the evening’s play. Only when he had elbowed past the last row of theatergoers did she recognize the young man who had stood conspicuously on his chair near the back of the hall while she sang. Everyone had seen him, she thought, flattered but also embarrassed at his bold attentiveness to her performance.
He was a short, slender man, with dark-brown hair cut close to a round, boyish head that reached just past Galina’s chin. She could not help noticing how young he was—surely not more than twenty-two or so—and how smoothly the fitted German uniform, with its junior officers’ insignia, set off his toned and compact form.
“What is the song called, the last one?” he asked politely.
“‘Belaya Akatzyia,’” she replied shyly. “‘White Acacia.’ A love song, very sad.”
“All the best love songs are sad, nicht wahr?” He smiled and released her hand. “I am Franz. I hope I may hear you sing again.”
“Yes,” she said, not sure which part of his statement she had agreed with. Not sure, too, how to interpret the warmth in his voice, and whether to look for meaning in the hot flush flooding her face and neck.
Many Germans came to the little theater’s performances now; word had spread since summer, and the hall was frequently packed to capacity. “We may be at war,” Fyodor had remarked at one of the recent rehearsals. “But these occupation troops need something to do in their spare time. And most of them actually pay for their tickets.”
“The Germans are a refined, cultured people,” Luyba had said in her best leading-lady stage whisper. “Our company may be small and impoverished, but I am sure they recognize the quality of our professional training.”
“Da. And what a convenient way to look for Gypsies and Jews,” Mishka, whose training was in a decidedly different profession, had growled. “Or haven’t you seen them checking papers during intermission?”
Remembering this conversation, Galina became aware of the people around her. Fyodor and Luyba stood talking to an elderly couple, glancing discreetly in her direction. Mishka, always on his guard, laughing with a few of his buddies, his accordion on the floor at his feet, keeping a wary eye on her. And Filip near the door, at the edge of the crowd, waiting to walk her home.
They made their way through the familiar streets in silence. Filip walked with his shoulders hunched, head down, as if studying the pattern of the lightly falling winter rain on the sidewalk in front of him. Galina kept pace with him easily with quick, short steps, one hand pulling her thin sweater closed against the chill evening breeze.