Dancing Under the Red Star (17 page)

Though I didn’t understand what had just taken place, I was deeply thankful. I felt strongly that it was supernatural, miraculous. I knew it more in my heart than in my head. I was humbled and grateful in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time, remembering Mama’s words and her constant, fervent prayer, “Don’t worry, Maidie. God will get us through this!”

I whispered, “Thank you,” and began to sob.

I felt my way home, shaking and crying, walked through the door of our apartment, and fell to my knees. Mama ran over to see what was wrong. “What is it, Maidie? What happened to you?” she asked. I couldn’t speak for a while. When we put the wood pieces into the stove and lit them, I cried, and then Mama cried and thanked God the rest of that night for sparing my life.

Rumor had it that an old friend, a Czech woman I hadn’t seen in a couple of years, had recently been executed for that very infraction, for stealing wood for her own survival.

In the daily ritual with our stove, within minutes of finishing our cooking, the room became deathly cold, so we quickly climbed into our beds, clothes and all, and tried to keep as warm as possible. We were fortunate to have a feather bed, purchased from a German family who left the country before the war. It helped, but the word
cold
was an awful understatement for what we felt in this place, especially at night!

After we survived that dreadful winter, we faced a new threat. In June 1942 the Germans began a massive aerial bombardment of the Gorky factory and all the surrounding villages. For thirty days straight, they employed the same tactics and ran exactly the same missions, night after night. Every night, precisely at midnight, they attacked the same targets as the night before. They never deviated from this regimen, but we always feared that their attack strategies might change. We were on constant alert, prepared at all times, our eyes always wide open, because our very lives were forever at risk. We learned to grab a minute’s sleep whenever and wherever we could.

By the initial element of surprise and the steady pressure of superior military weaponry and tactics, the Germans all but obliterated Gorky. Despite the havoc, I wasn’t specifically afraid of dying. Perhaps I was just naive, but something inside told me not to panic. I certainly had reason to fear: destruction and human agony were everywhere. But somehow I knew I’d get through. I didn’t fear my own death; I feared more for the lives of others. Somehow I knew that Mama and I would live to see another day and another time.

As the nightly bombings mounted and took their toll on Gorky and the surrounding areas, we happened upon a perfectly inconspicuous and safe place to hide. About two miles outside the village, along the river, obscured by a thicket of trees and brush, was a small, partially underground, dugout trench. A man from the village had accidentally found the opening, heavily covered by vines and summer overgrowth, while hunting rabbits with his dog. We thought it might have been a former war bunker, but no one knew for sure. It was a hole, in essence—a room about fifteen feet by ten feet, reinforced throughout by heavy wooden support beams and floorboards that had been carved into the side of a river knoll. No one lived nearby, and even a stray German bomb would never find this location.

About fifty of us knew of the place, and we were sworn to secrecy. Mama and I headed there about ten o’clock every night, and we would stay there until the bombings ended. Our building in the village remained intact, but we didn’t know how long that would last. Many houses were destroyed daily and nightly as the village was slowly reduced to rubble. Since we could pretty accurately predict the nightly attacks, it made sense to get out of the way if at all possible. But some villagers stayed in their homes. And some lost their lives as a result.

By now even the most basic foods, like the bread we could formerly rely upon, were becoming less and less plentiful. We all tried harder to improvise and find alternative foods, but often there were no alternatives. Many people, especially the small children, became deathly ill from starvation and the extreme cold. The “very little” they had counted on to get by was replaced by “none.” The war persisted, ruthless and uncaring. Men, women, and children died daily by the thousands. I’ll never forget the shrieking sound of the bombs falling around us, the endless miles of burning debris, carrying the injured and the dead to the clinic where Mama worked, or the sickening smell of burning flesh. It is said that Leningrad suffered the worst; there the bodies of small children were piled up on the streets and pulled through the snow on sleds for burial by other small children, who might soon follow them.

Beyond my comprehension, my mother seemed barely fazed by it all. It sometimes seemed she was living another life in another place, as if she was here, but yet she wasn’t. I thought she was a consummate actress, but I knew she had to be feeling all this horror somewhere deep inside, in a place no one except God knew about. She always stayed firm. I think her own personal hell had occurred in 1938 when the NKVD took away her husband, and perhaps no other hell could ever be quite as bad.

During the raids, when Mama had to report for duty to her clinic, I usually stayed at home to rescue the few belongings we had in case of a direct hit. Sometimes I took cover in a nearby trench, which served as a makeshift bomb shelter, and covered myself with boards or whatever I could find for protection. I preferred to stand in our building’s entranceway, watching the skies in nervous anticipation. We came to know the nightly raids well, but we could never predict their results. One terrifying night came after another, and we never knew how many more of them we would live to see.

The attacks always lasted exactly three hours, and then we faced a massive cleanup. Across the street from us lived a married couple, my former biology teacher and the principal. One night an incendiary bomb struck their apartment house; it could have easily been ours instead. The building was instantly reduced to a heap of rubble. A small alarm clock, a wicker laundry basket, and a book were the only things left intact. Amazingly though, their lives were spared. And judging from the look of their former building, this must have been a miracle, a circumstance of inexplicable mercy. Violence and trauma were so widespread, so unfathomable, that anything good came as a blessed surprise.

Nine

NIKOLAI’S DANCE

While the sand slipped through the opening

And their hands reached for the golden ring

With their hearts they turned to each other’s hearts for refuge,

In the troubled years that came before the deluge….

Now let the music keep our spirits high

And let the buildings keep our children dry

Let creation reveal its secrets by and by

By and by—

When the light that’s lost within us reaches the sky.

—Jackson Browne,
Before the Deluge

I
t had been five long years since I’d last seen my former camp swimming instructor, Nikolai. Even then I had seen him only during the summers, because he lived in Kiev. In the dreadful days of the war, I often recalled the times we spent together before Papa was taken, when we’d swim in the Oka and be with our friends at the clubhouse. They were by far the happiest days of my life. Nik would often point out a plane overhead, pull me close, and say, “I’ll be up there one day, Margaret. Just watch. I’ll be flying just like that!” I remembered him with longing and delight. Maybe it really was love, because throughout all the difficult years that ensued, Nikolai never left my mind. I always hoped that maybe, just maybe, he loved me too. But I never knew for sure.

When he graduated from high school, Nikolai entered a select military flight academy in the Urals to begin intensive training. His dream was to become a fighter pilot. We had corresponded a few times, but after he left for the Urals, we wrote each other regularly, and it was through those letters that we both realized how much we cared for each other, though we had never even exchanged a kiss. Nikolai’s letters gave me hope for a better future. Except for wanting Papa to come home, I longed for Nikolai’s letters more than anything.

I dreamed about him constantly, especially during the bad times. I imagined being with him, holding him. I pictured a life in the future, with Nikolai and children and peace. In the middle of all the muck of our life in Gorky, those thoughts helped to get me through. Along with the dreams of seeing my papa come through the door, these happy visions sustained me through some terrible days. I sensed that God was with me, and I knew that Mama always prayed. But dreaming of Nikolai helped me separate myself from the chaos and horror. He gave me something personal, something beautiful to hope for.

In those waking dreams, he was the love of my life, my husband, and the father of my children. We’d walk along the river together, laughing and holding hands, in the thick green grass of summer, hearing the birds sing while our two children frolicked behind. I didn’t know if Nik had dreams like that; I only hoped he did. I’m sure I needed the mental and emotional preoccupation of those dreams, but I felt they were much more than daydreams. My heart felt there was truly something special between us.

When the war began, Nik and I lost contact. I didn’t know where he was or what he was doing. His military obligations took first priority and prevented him from contacting me. During that time, because of the war, Stalin’s madness, and the political machinery everywhere, everyone’s life was in utter disarray.

In my heart I believed that Nikolai truly loved me, but basic survival needs overwhelmed my sensitivities, though they never lessened my feelings for him. In the few precious solitary times I had, I made the most of the imaginings, longings, and fantasies of my mind. Those dreams always featured an athletic, blue-eyed Russian boy who loved me.

My friends and I grew accustomed to the incessant bombings, lack of sleep, and lack of food. These were a part of our everyday lives. Eventually we even went to the movies and the city dances again. These facilities were still operating, despite the constant dangers. While we could never completely forget the painful reality of the war, we were determined to have some fun. One evening, through a friend of mine at work, four of us girls obtained tickets to a very special ball in town, about six miles away. We borrowed and traded the prettiest clothes we could find and did each other’s hair. For one night, we wanted to look like the young women we were.

It was a bitterly cold evening, and we had to walk so far to the streetcar stop that our feet were nearly frostbitten when we arrived at the club. This was not a sophisticated nightclub but an old, damaged public building in the center of town. We shoved our way through the crowds of people in the lobby who had no tickets and finally, through much commotion, squeezed our way inside. My friend Rudolph met us there, took us upstairs, and hung up our heavy coats. He then walked us to another room with an old upright piano. He sat down and played us the latest hit from America but with German lyrics:
Bei Mir Bist Du Schön
(You Are Beautiful to Me). We loved it! Of course, I loved anything that came from America, because that was
home!

Downstairs in the ballroom, a small band was playing courageously, and my girlfriends and I began to dance with one another. The war made available men scarce, so Rudolph dutifully danced with each of us in turn. The music got inside us as we twirled in our pretty dresses. Even with little Rudolph, I felt young, alive, beautiful. We were having such a grand time that we almost forgot about the war, Russia, and the subzero night outside. Suddenly Rudolph stopped on the dance floor, facing me. He raised his eyebrows and blurted out, “So…how long have you known Nikolai, and where did you meet?”

His question caught me completely off guard. I was bewildered. Why was he talking about my dream hero in this improbable place? Rudolph calmly explained, “Oh yeah, Maidie, Nik and I grew up and went to school together. Didn’t I tell you?” I stood still, my mouth wide open, wondering why he was telling me this now.