The Story of Us Read online

  About the Author

  LANA KORTCHIK grew up in two opposite corners of the Soviet Union – a snow-white Siberian town and the golden-domed Ukrainian capital. At the age of sixteen, she moved to Australia with her mother. Lana and her family live on the Central Coast of New South Wales, where it never snows and is always summer-warm, even in winter. She loves books, martial arts, the ocean and Napoleonic history. Her short stories have appeared in many magazines and anthologies. She was the winner of the Historical Novel Society Autumn 2012 Short Fiction competition and the runner-up of the 2013 Defenestrationism Short Story Contest. This is her first novel.

  Praise for The Story of Us

  ‘A powerful and hard-hitting novel, it tackles the themes of loyalty and compassion, and emphasizes the hard choices that need to be made in wartime.’

  Deborah Swift, author of The Lady’s Slipper

  ‘Its powerfully descriptive language pulls you into the bleakness of war, the longing for peace, and the exhilaration of profound, unconditional love.’

  Marie Silk, author of Davenport House

  ‘I didn’t want this story to end. It’s one of those books you hold close to your heart and don’t want to let go … left me speechless and wanting more.’

  Sharon Laker, author of The Railway Mice of Countesthorpe

  ‘I cried, smiled, gasped and laughed while reading this book. It will stay with me long after I’ve finished it.’

  J.L. Leslie, author of Tame Me

  The Story of Us

  LANA KORTCHIK

  HQ

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

  Copyright © Lana Kortchik 2018

  Lana Kortchik asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  E-book Edition © December 2018 ISBN: 9780008314835

  Version: 2018-11-16

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Praise for The Story of Us

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part I – In Iron Shackles

  Chapter 1 – Black Cloud Descending

  Chapter 2 – The Barbaric Hordes

  Chapter 3 – The Soldier

  Chapter 4 – The Bleak Despair

  Chapter 5 – A City Ablaze

  Chapter 6 – The River of Death

  Chapter 7 – The New Beginnings

  Chapter 8 – The Snow and the Illusions

  Chapter 9 – The Icy Fortress

  Chapter 10 – At the Crossroads

  Chapter 11 – The Impossible Choices

  Chapter 12 – A Beacon of Happiness

  Chapter 13 – Freedom’s Elusive Glare

  Part II - The Everlasting Hope

  Chapter 14 – Rays of Sunshine

  Chapter 15 – The Utmost Chaos

  Chapter 16 – Tentative Promises

  Chapter 17 – A World Aflutter

  Chapter 18 – Against All Odds

  Chapter 19 – Waiting for a Miracle

  Chapter 20 – The Battle of Kiev

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Dear Reader

  Thank You for Reading!

  Keep Reading…

  About the Publisher

  For my mum.

  Thank you for always believing in me.

  Part I – In Iron Shackles

  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 think about us. He won’t even notice we’re not there.’

  Pulling Lisa by the arm, Natasha replied, ‘He’ll notice all right, especially if you don’t get a move on.’ At nineteen, she was only a year older than her sister but she was always the serious one, the more responsible one. Sometimes she admired Lisa’s impulsive character, but not today. Not on the day when the Nazis were perilously close and their father was going to kill them.

  Lisa turned her back on her sister, her long red hair swinging out to whip Natasha across the face. ‘Alexei, are you coming?’ Her voice was too loud for the muted street, and several passers-by glared in her direction.

  Alexei Antonov, a blond, broad-shouldered boy, had stopped at what seemed like the only market stall in Kiev that was still standing. The stall boasted a great selection of combat knives, and Alexei was in deep conversation with the owner.

  ‘Alexei!’ Lisa called again. Her voice quivered.

  Alexei handed the stall owner some money and pocketed a knife. ‘Wait up!’ he cried, breaking into a run.

  ‘Dillydallying as always,’ said Lisa, her plump lips pursed together in a pout. ‘Keep this up, and we’ll leave you here.’

  ‘Nagging already? And we’re not even married yet.’ Pecking Lisa on the cheek, Alexei adjusted his glasses, his face a picture of mock suffering and distress.

  ‘Get used to it,’ said Lisa, pinching the soft skin above his elbow. He attempted a frown but failed, smiling into Lisa’s freckled face.

  They paused in the middle of the road and kissed deeply. A van swerved around them. The two lovers didn’t move. They barely looked up.

  ‘And this is why I walk five metres behind you. It’s too embarrassing.’ Natasha stared at the ground, her face flaming. Wishing she could run home but not wanting to abandon Lisa and Alexei in the middle of the street, she was practically jogging on the spot. ‘You heard Papa this morning. Under no circumstances were we to leave the house.’

  ‘We had to leave the house,’ said Lisa. ‘You know we did. It was a question of life and death.’

  Natasha raised her eyebrows. ‘A wedding dress fitting is a question of life and death?’

  Lisa nodded. ‘Not just any fitting. The final fitting.’

  ‘The final fitting,’ mimicked Alexei, rolling his eyes. ‘I had to wait for you for an hour! An hour in the dark corridor.’

  Lisa pulled away from him. ‘You know you can’t see me in my wedding dress before the wedding. It’s bad luck.’ She whispered the last two words as if the mere mention of bad luck was enough somehow to summon it.

  ‘It’s bad luck to be outside at a time like this,’ murmured Natasha.

  Lisa said, ‘Don’t worry. The streets are perfectly safe. And Papa will understand.’

  ‘I doubt it. Just yesterday he said you were too young to marry.’

  Lisa laughed as if it was the most preposterous thing she had ever heard. ‘And I reminded him that Mama was younger than me when they got married. And Grandma was only sixteen when she married Grandpa. When Mama was pregnant with Stanislav, she was the same age as you.’

  Exasperated, Natasha shook her head.

  Lisa continued, ‘Did you hear the dressmaker? Apparently, I have the perfect figure. Mind you, I still have time to lose a few pounds before the big day.’

  Alexei ran his hands over her tiny frame. ‘Don’t lose a few pounds, Lisa. There won’t be any of you left to marry.’

  His words were interrupted by a distant rumble. Half a city away, the horizon lit up in red and yellow.

  An explosion followed.

  And another.

  And another.

  For a few breathtaking seconds, the ground vibrated. Somewhere in the distance, machine guns barked and people shouted. And then, as if nothing had happened, all was quiet again. On the outskirts of town, fires smouldered and smoke rose in a gloomy mist.

  ‘Don’t be scared,’ said Alexei, pulling Lisa tightly to his side. ‘There won’t be much bombing today.’

  ‘How do you know?’ demanded Natasha.

  ‘Just something I’ve heard. The Nazis don’t want to destroy our city. They’re saving it.’

  ‘Saving it for what?’ Lisa wanted to know.

  ‘For themselves, silly,’ said Natasha.

  Lisa gasped and didn’t reply. Natasha could tell her sister was scared because she no longer dawdled. Racing one another, they turned onto Taras Shevchenko Boulevard. It was sunny and warm, as if summer had decided to stay a little bit longer and wait – for what? The Nazis in the Soviet Union? The daily bombing? The sheer joy of nature in late bloom and its unrestrained abundance seemed out of place in the face of the German invasion. The blue skies, the whites and reds of the flowers, contrasted sharply with distant gunfire and burning buildings.

  Posters adorned every wall, most of them depicting a comical figure of Hitler, his body twisted into a shape of a swastika. We will kick Hitler back all the way to Germany, the posters declared. On every corner, loudspeakers yelled out Soviet propaganda and occasional news from the front. Natasha wished the news were as optimistic as the posters, but it was rarely the case.

  As she tried to keep up with her sister and Alexei, Natasha thought of the first time the bombs had fallen on Kiev, on Sunday 22nd June. She thought of the shock and the fear and the disbelief. Nearly three months on, they had become accustomed to the shelling, to the regular din of machine-gun fire, like a soundtrack to their daily lives. With dismay, she realised it had almost become normal. The realisation scared her more than the Nazi planes drifting overhead. She didn’t want to accept the unacceptable, to get used to the unthinkable. But she knew she wasn’t the only one feeling this way because there w
ere more and more people on the streets during the bombings. Yes, they made an effort to walk closer to the buildings to avoid being hit, but they no longer slowed down, or sought shelter, or interrupted their quest for food. Even now, as explosions sounded, the queue outside the shop didn’t disperse. As if nothing was happening, people continued to wait for their bread and their sausages and their flour, for all the things they needed to survive and stave off the war. What was happening to their city now, what had happened three months ago when Hitler attacked the Soviet Union, seemed like a nightmare that would never end. Natasha felt as if at any moment she would wake up only to find the streets of Kiev peaceful and quiet.

  Since the day her city was first bombed in June, Natasha had waited impatiently to wake up.

  In Taras Shevchenko Park, the ground was littered with shells that had once carried death but now lay peacefully at their feet. Natasha could feel their sharp edges through the soles of her boots. One of her favourite places in Kiev, the park was unrecognisable. Anywhere not covered by pavement was excavated. In the last three months, it had transformed into what seemed like the habitat of a giant mole, full of holes and burrows. All the trenches that the Kievans had dug, all the barricades they had built, enthusiastically at the end of June, habitually in July and sporadically in August, now stood empty and abandoned. How meaningless it all seemed, how futile.

  Uncertainly Lisa muttered, ‘The Germans aren’t coming here. Haven’t you heard the radio?’ Like clockwork every few hours, the radio and the loudspeakers outside screeched, ‘Kiev was, is and will be Soviet.’

  How ironic, thought Natasha. As if anyone believed it now.

  ‘The Red Army will soon push Hitler back,’ added Lisa.