Once Is Not Enough (31 page)

Karla stood crouched in the darkness for half an hour. She counted ten of them who had attacked Sister Thérèse alone. Suddenly she heard footsteps behind her. It was Eva, the thirteen-year-old who helped her with the smaller children. Karla tried to motion her away, but it was too late. The child saw the nude bodies on the floor and screamed. The soldiers looked toward the dark hall. “Run, Eva,” Karla commanded. “Run and get into bed.” But the child stood frozen as the soldier approached.

He grabbed Karla and Eva by the arms and shoved them into the room. One soldier looked up at Karla and saw the thick glasses. He shrugged with distaste, but snatched off the white starched bib and pulled her habit apart. He looked at her flat chest, and at the glasses, and pushed her away and reached out for the screaming Eva. Karla rushed over to protect the child, but she was thrown across the room where she fell against the naked and shivering Mother Superior mumbling bits of prayers. Karla adjusted her habit, stood in front
of the older nun, and clenched her teeth as the tormented Eva’s screams filled the room. Sister Thérèse was still mercifully unconscious.

The bedlam began to abate after another half hour. The soldiers were satisfied. They adjusted their belts and pants and stared at the limp naked bodies on the floor like diners who have eaten their fill at a banquet but are still loath to leave food on a table. One who was obviously in command pointed at Sister Thérèse, Eva, and three other nuns and shouted a command. Blankets were thrown around them, and the soldiers threw them over their shoulders like potato sacks and carried them outside. Karla broke away from the icy grip of the Mother Superior. “Where are you taking them?”

One soldier who spoke Polish said, “To our camp. Do not worry, ugly one. We only want the beauties. We leave you and the others to stay and take care of the children.”

She stood at the door helplessly as the jeeps rolled away into the cold night. As the last sounds of the raucous laughter faded away, the Mother Superior began to move like a sleepwalker. She groped around the floor for parts of her habit as other nuns picked up broken rosary beads that were strewn across the room. Prayer books that had been torn from the nuns’ hands lay abandoned on the floor. Karla saw Sister Thérèse’s prayer book and rosary near the spot where she had lain. She knelt down and touched the blood. She put her fingers to it and touched her lips. She pressed the prayer book to her cheek. Then she set about helping the other ravaged nuns. She ran baths for them, put ice on swollen lips, prayed with them and for them. By dawn some semblance of order was restored. Shrouded in a new habit, the Mother Superior seemed to take on at least a shadow of her old strength.

A week later the same soldiers returned. They were more raucous than before. And this time Karla did not escape. They pulled off her glasses and her clothes. She was thrown on the floor and her head struck against a chair. She prayed for unconsciousness but was jolted into awareness with the knifelike pain as her legs were forced apart and the soldier ripped into her. Rhythmically, roughly, they rode her, one after another—
five, six, seven, eight . . . her blood mixed with their orgasms . . . their wet mouths biting at her lips, her breasts.

And then she saw the heaviest man coming toward her. He looked like a giant. He fell on top of her . . . his breath was foul and he slopped some kisses on her lips . . . she prayed for death . . . then she heard the door open and more voices. Oh, God . . . more soldiers. But suddenly the man was dragged off her. There were angry voices . . . the soldiers were scrambling to their feet. And then, almost gently, an officer was helping her up. It was the same young Russian captain she had seen on the street. Blond and brown-eyed . . . and it seemed as if there was sadness in his eyes as he handed her part of her torn habit to cover herself. Then he snapped orders at the men . . . another officer herded them off. He spoke to Karla in Polish. “I am sorry for what these men have done. They will be punished. We are soldiers, not animals. I shall return tomorrow and see what reparation can be done.”

When they were gone, Karla and the other sisters gradually got to their feet. They moved slowly . . . silently . . . and hopelessly. Some of the sisters went to a small chapel they had erected in one of the rooms and prayed. Karla went to her bed and lay very still. She thought about taking her life . . . but then she would spend the rest of eternity in Purgatory. She thought about Sister Thérèse. And for the first time in her fear and loneliness, she found herself thinking of her mother, and as she listened in the darkness of the night, she heard muffled sobs coming from many of the other small cubicles . . . only they were calling for Jesus . . . and suddenly she realized she had no one.

The following morning, the blond young captain arrived and apologized again and promised complete protection for the convent. His name was Gregory Sokoyen. His father was General Alexis Sokoyen . . . and he had just married a beautiful girl whose father was an important government official. He was lonesome for his young wife and took to visiting Karla several nights a week. He would sit in the reception parlor while she sewed and tell her stories of his boyhood, of the children he and his young wife hoped to have.

She listened politely. He was attractive and he was also the first young man she had ever known. He made no improper advances and always brought the nuns provisions along with candy for the children.

It was toward the end of November when Karla noticed her waist was growing thick. She had never been too regular with her periods, but suddenly she realized she was overdue. She was terrified, but she methodically went about her work. When the children went outdoors to play and she noticed some soldiers look with interest toward the ten- and eleven-year-old girls, she immediately cut off their hair and bound their chests and had them dress like boys. And every night, in the secrecy of her bedroom, she did the most strenuous ballet exercises, hoping to dislodge the baby that was forming inside. After a time she realized it was hopeless. Her waist was thick and her stomach was taut.

One morning the young captain arrived unexpectedly with some provisions. He had warm blankets and several pounds of cereal. She helped him unload them and was suddenly seized with an attack of nausea. She rushed to the sink and he held her head as she threw up. “You are sick. You must go to bed,” he said.

She managed a smile as she sat down. “I am all right—it has passed.”

“What causes your illness?” he asked.

“The Russian soldiers,” she said tonelessly.

His eyes shot to her stomach which was hidden by the voluminous folds of her habit. “A baby?” He paused. “Do you want it?”

“Want it . . . how can I want it . . . knowing it came from one of those beasts?”

“But it is also yours. It is your body that is forming it . . . your blood . . . it might be a little girl who would look just like you.”

She wrung her hands. “And then what could I do for her? How could I raise her? And besides, how do I know it would not be a boy who would look like Rudolph or Leopold or Nicholas or Igor or Sversky or—”

“You know all their names?”

“When you are lying on the floor and they are calling out to one another . . . you remember. You remember the bad breath, the hairs on their noses, the decayed teeth . . . and their names. Oh God—if there is a God—how can I rid myself of this thing growing in me?”

He colored slightly. “I know of a way that might work. I . . . I saw it happen one night last week. Some soldiers were searching some homes . . . looking for some escaped prisoners from work camps. Suddenly I heard a scream . . . I rushed upstairs . . . one of the soldiers had raped a woman—” He sighed. “You must understand, some of these men are peasants . . . they are lonely . . . they have never been away from the farm . . . they have never had much to drink . . . suddenly they have Polish vodka . . . there are pretty women. And—” He shrugged. “They rape. This man . . . he raped a girl in your condition. Only it was a baby she wanted . . . from her husband. She had pleaded with him . . . told him she was three months’ pregnant . . . that she might lose it.” He shuddered. “I heard her begging . . . but when I got to the room it was too late . . . and she lost the baby . . . or what was the beginning of the baby. I shot him.” Then he stood up. “Think about it . . . I shall come by tonight at eleven. You can give me your decision then.”

When he arrived, the convent was dark, but she was waiting at the door. She led him quietly to her small bedroom. With a sense of urgency and no shame, she took off her robe. He undressed quickly. In the dim light she saw his young body, he said, “Sister Karla, are you sure? It could be a little boy with gray eyes like yours.”

“Let us get it done,” she said.

He lay beside her on the bed and stroked her body. She was rigid. When his lips went to her breast she pushed him away. “Please . . . do your business and be done with it.”

“No . . . first I make love to you.” And against her will he gently caressed her . . . kissed her lips . . . her neck . . . her breasts . . . And soon she found herself relaxing. And when he lay on top of her and took her smoothly, rhythmically and fiercely, she suddenly felt an odd sensation. She held him close, and when the unbelievable explosion shot through her,
she cried out in agonized delight because she knew she had lost the baby. When he fell off her, she jumped out of bed and hid in the corner, covering her eyes. “Don’t tell me what it was . . . just clean it up and take it away before I see it,” she begged.

“There is nothing . . . come look.”

“No . . . because if it looks human I will feel that I have done murder.”

“Come, Sister . . . obviously God intends for you to have it as there is nothing there. The baby is still inside of you.”

“But I felt . . . my whole insides had turned upside down.”

He smiled. “You had an orgasm, my sweet Karla.”

Later, as they lay beside one another, he said, “You must think of your future now . . . you and the child.”

“There must be others like me. What are they doing?”

“The mothers are sent to Russian labor camps. Doctors deliver their babies and they are sent to an orphanage. The children will be raised by the state. Siberia needs young settlers . . . eventually the orphans will be sent there when they come of age.”

“And what about the children here in the convent?”

He sighed. “As long as I am here they will be safe. But any day my orders can change. And how long will our peace with Germany last? Already there are rumblings—”

“Then I must try and reach the A.K.”

He put his hand over her lips. “I do not want to know anything. But I will get you some money. What you plan to do . . . I must not know.”

“I must get the children out of the country first.”

“Please, Karla, do not tell me.”

Each day he arrived with money. She never asked where he got it, and he never asked what she did with it. If he noticed there were fewer children at the convent each time, he never mentioned it. Until one night when he arrived and she was alone. She had candles on the table and had cooked the meal herself. She had discarded the habit and was wearing a dress. He stared in disbelief as she handed him a glass of wine.

“Are you allowed not to wear the habit?” he asked.

“I am not a nun,” she said. “Sit down, Gregory. There are so many things I want to tell you.”

Throughout dinner, she told him the events that had led to her coming to the convent. It seemed such a short uneventful life in the telling . . . so little had actually happened to her . . . and now, she sat alone in the convent with the handsome young Russian soldier and there was a baby growing inside.

“What about the baby?” he asked.

“The A.K. will take care of it. I will manage to get to Sweden, I hope . . . have it there . . . and put it with a family.”

“And then?” he asked.

“And then, I will get to London. Sister Thérèse had an uncle there. Uncle Otto. I have his address.”

“And the baby?”

She shrugged. “It will be placed with a family. Somehow I shall send money back to support the child.”

“But why go to all that trouble for a bastard you don’t want? If you have it here, it can always be placed in an orphanage.”

Karla’s eyes flashed. “Because it will still be half mine. And it is such a cruel world. I must give it some kind of a chance. But I would never want the child to know that I was its mother. I would just send money for its support.”

“Then eventually you will send for the child?”

She shook her head. “I am going to be a ballerina. It is hard work. I will give the child money . . . not love. In that way he cannot ever miss what he has never had.” She touched her stomach wistfully. “It is not good to grow up knowing someone does not want you. It is better to think the parents are dead.”

He held her close that night. And she looked at him intently, as if trying to imprint his image on her mind.

“I shall never forget you, Karla,” he said as they made love.

She clung to him, because although she knew she could never really love a man, she was grateful for all he had done . . . and his body felt so young and strong.

Karla closed her eyes as the plane began its descent to Heathrow Airport in London. She had sent Jeremy a cable. But would he be there? He was getting so old. Each time she saw
him, he seemed to have shrunk a little more. What would she ever do when the day came that Jeremy would not be there?

The plane landed. . . . There were photographers on the airfield. Karla covered her face and followed the waiting airline official who led her to the limousine. Jeremy Haskins was waiting inside the car. She sat beside him and squeezed his hand. “It was nice of you to come and meet me.”

The old man managed a smile. “I’ll be eighty next month, Karla. As long as there’s a breath inside of me, I shall consider it an honor to meet any plane, boat, or train that you choose to take.”

She sat back in the car and closed her eyes. “We’ve traveled a long road together, Jeremy.”