The rest of the men took up positions around the square, each cradling a semiautomatic weapon against his chest. No one doubted they needed only the slightest hint of a provocation to open fire.
The lieutenant surveyed the operation from the bed of the truck. He was tall and blond, his classic Aryan features contorted in a grimace of fury and contempt. He turned, sweeping his eyes over the crowd like an actor reaching out to every member of his audience; the sun, now low in a purplish-yellow sky, caught on the lightning bolt insignia pinned to his collar.
“If you fight against der Führer, we will find you,” he shouted. He took the dripping brush from the sergeant and waved it in an arc, spraying drops of red paint over their heads like a ghoulish benediction. “We know who you are. Now go home.”
In the morning, Filip went back. They had both had a restless night filled with disturbing dreams; Galina moaned and, once, cried out in her sleep, clutching his hand so tightly it hurt. Filip rose at first light, slipped quietly out of the house. The executed men were still there, swollen black tongues protruding from their parted lips; the damning word on their backs blazed like fresh blood in the rising sun.
Someone had taken their shoes. Filip stared numbly at the bare feet, the skin a ghastly greenish-gray threaded with ropy blue veins, toenails opaque as ram’s horn.
He moved on, so as not to attract attention. He would not see his mother today. She would sense his rage, probe his ineffable sadness, understand his fear. He did not want to be understood. He walked to the sea, stood a long time at the retaining wall, watched the waves crash and recede until the rhythm calmed his mind a little. He tried to think of other things: the impending university exam, his father’s birthday next week, the book of German verse he had left open on the floor near his and Galina’s bed. Nothing could obscure the question he knew would nag him for the rest of his life, like an embedded splinter too deep under the skin to remove yet impossible to ignore. Am I to blame?
PART III
Maksim
1
THE FIRST THING Galina noticed was the limp. She watched him approach from the end of their street, bareheaded, a long heavy coat draped over his shoulders in spite of the warmth of the late May afternoon, his eyes cast down as if choosing his path with care. Yes, it was definitely her brother, and he was definitely limping, one foot dragging noticeably behind the other as he made his way in her direction.
“Maksim!” she shouted and ran to meet him, a string-tied parcel of dried beans dangling from her waving hand. “Maksim,” she repeated, stopping in front of him, blocking his way forward.
“It’s you,” he said, raising his head. His look combined weariness, relief, and disappointment.
“You’re so pale! We thought…”
“You thought I was dead. Well, perhaps I am.”
“That’s not funny,” she said, even though his expression held no hint of humor. “We had no letter from you since early October. How could we know… Anyway, you’re home. Kiss me.” She giggled, surprised at her own impulsiveness. She leaned in closer and offered her cheek, trying not to flinch at his stale unwashed odor.
“Here, in the street?” He stepped back, as if afraid she might embrace him.
“You haven’t changed. Give me your hand, then. No, not the left,” she protested. “Balda. Never the left, you fool.”
He withdrew the hand, concealed it under his coat, but didn’t offer the right. “Is there food at home? I have not eaten since…”
“I will go and tell Mama. Come as fast as you can.” She ran off, disappearing into the alley that led to the apartment courtyard.
“She has cut her hair,” he said out loud, noting the absence of her maiden’s braid. Bah, that’s a country custom, he completed the thought. Many girls cut their hair now, when they want to. It doesn’t mean they’re married.
Ksenia was waiting just inside the door, her face wet with tears. “My son,” she breathed when he entered the room. “Syn moi, syn,” she intoned, holding his face in both her hands, kissing the unshaven cheeks three times in the traditional Russian greeting. “So thin,” she said. She embraced him, pushing the overcoat from his shoulders onto the floor.
From the kitchen doorway, they both heard Galina gasp, then burst into tears. When Ksenia stepped back, releasing Maksim, she saw the empty folded sleeve pinned to the right shoulder of his shirt. “Bozhe moi.” She crossed herself, then made the sign of the cross in the air between them. “My God. Your arm. How you have suffered.”
Maksim bowed his head, accepting the blessing. When he looked at her, his own eyes were brimming. He whispered, “Mama, I am so hungry.”
They sat with him while he ate bread, buckwheat kasha, briny salted cucumbers and onions. “We have heard nothing from you in more than seven months.” Ksenia finally broke the silence, stacking the empty dishes in front of her. “Tell us what happened to you. Where are your things?”
“Then you don’t know. I wrote to you after I left Kharkov, but you don’t know. I have no things, only my papers, the clothes I’m wearing, and these lapti.” He pushed out his feet, showing them the straw slippers tied around his ankles with strips of rags. “A farmer gave them to me, out of pity for my bare feet.”
“Where are your books?” Galina cut in, remembering his extreme possessiveness. “Your notebooks?”
“Who knows? I have no need of them now.” His voice was dull, with no hint of his former irritation at her questions. “I served as a medic in an army field hospital near Moscow. There was heavy fighting. Many died.” He paused. No one spoke. “Many died,” he repeated.
“Where is your uniform, son, your boots?” Ksenia placed the dirty dishes in a washbasin, put water on for tea.
“I had no uniform, just an armband with a red cross on it. Everything was in short supply. Still is, I’m sure. So much confusion. The hospital was bombed in transit, moving from one location to another. I could not see the logic in it. How could it be in a safe place and still close enough to treat the frontline wounded? Anyway, we were bombed. I was hurt.”
“That’s it? ‘We were bombed. I was hurt.’” Galina set a cup of tea in front of him, her tone rising with indignation. “As if it’s an everyday occurrence.”
Maksim stared at her with dead eyes. “It is an everyday occurrence.”
“Never mind, children,” Ksenia stepped in. “There will be time for talking, now you are home. Whatever happened, you survived.”
“I survived,” he echoed, his voice hollow.
They sat in silence for several minutes, the women’s questions frustrated by his wooden expression. When his chin dropped to his chest in exhaustion, Ksenia stood up. “You need to sleep, son. Use our bed. Your father will not return until tomorrow.”
Maksim rose. “I need to wash a little first. Is there a clean shirt I can use?”
“Filip has two or three, about your size,” Galina offered. “We’re married now. We took your room.”
“I meant to ask you about the ring,” he mumbled, “but it slipped my mind. Thank you, Mama. I can manage.” He took the water bucket from his mother in his left hand, the towel draped over his shoulder, and headed for the inner courtyard. In the doorway, he turned. “My boots,” he said. “I traded them to a band of Partisans in the woods, along with your socks, Galya, for some bread and fish. They had no use for a one-armed fighter with a limp.”