Stolen Child (7 page)

The book slid off my chest and fell to the floor with a
thunk
. I jumped awake. The lamp was still on. I was safe in my bedroom in Canada. My head still swam with the nightmare. I rubbed my eyes and the image disappeared. I had been safe in the car and the fire was outside. Why had I wanted to get out? And who was that girl who looked like me? Was it just a trick of a dream, or did this really happen?

Those first few weeks of school were better than the horrible first day. Miss MacIntosh taught one of the higher grades and she’d nod to me when we passed in the hallway. Knowing she was in the building gave me comfort. It was the same with Mychailo. For all anyone could tell, we were strangers, but we were the only DP kids there and we had a special bond.

After school he would often drop by. He even helped me with homework once. If the other boys ever knew that, he would be teased. But I had Linda to play with at recess, and each day English seemed easier. I was grateful that Miss Ferris would not tolerate me being called “the Hitler girl” in her presence. But that didn’t stop Eric and David from whispering it behind my back.

One recess as Linda and I were walking around the schoolyard pretending to be interested in watching the other children play, she turned to me and asked, “Would you like to come to my place after school today?”

I was delighted with the invitation, but had to say no. “Marus— Mama wouldn’t know where I was,” I told her.
“Can you come to my house instead?”

Linda grinned. “I could do that. I’ll let Grace know and she can tell Mom and Dad where I am.”

It felt nice walking all the way home with someone to talk to. Linda loved the swing Ivan had made for me. I showed her through the house as well. When I opened the doors to each of the rooms, I tried to see it through Linda’s eyes. Would she think that we were extremely poor? What would she think of the chipped tub in the bathroom and the repainted icebox in the kitchen? She hadn’t commented on the cinder blocks that we used as back-door steps, but I noticed her looking at them.

When we got up to my bedroom, she sat on the bed and tested the springs. “Comfy,” she said. “And I love the lilac-coloured walls. Everything here is so fresh.”

I looked at her face to see if she was making fun of me. I was sure that most of the kids at school had nicer homes than mine, but she seemed sincere.

“You must love it here,” she said.

I was beginning to get used to my new home, and Canada was growing on me. Did I love it? Maybe. “The place I lived in before was much nicer than this,” I said. The words were out before I knew it.

“Where was that?” asked Linda, flopping down on the bed.

“In Europe,” I said, my heart starting to hammer. Why had I started this conversation?

“If you had a nicer place, why did you come here?”

I said nothing. I wished I could take back the words I had already let out.

“Doesn’t make sense,” said Linda.

“It was because of the war.” I hoped that would end the conversation.

She looked at me strangely. “If you had a nicer place, were your parents well off?” she asked.

I opened my mouth to reply, but then closed it again.
Why
had I started this conversation?

“I was kidding,” I told Linda. “We were just regular people.”

Mychailo had warned me to never let Canadians know that Marusia and Ivan weren’t my real parents, because the government could take me away from them. Marusia too, all those years at the camp, and on the ship.

I was so mad at myself for coming so close to betraying them. The last thing I wanted was to be separated from the only two people who had ever cared for me. I smiled at Linda and shrugged, hoping she’d brush off my comment.

“Nadia? I’m home!” The sound of the front door creaking open and Marusia’s footsteps on the wooden entranceway made me practically jump out of my skin.

“I’m up here,” I called down. “With a friend.”

I could hear Marusia walking into the kitchen on the level below us, and the rustling of a grocery bag as she set it on the table. Then I heard her footsteps on the stairs.

In a few seconds she appeared in the doorway of my bedroom. “There you are, Nadia.” She looked from me to Linda. “Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”

“Ma– Mama, this is Linda. Linda, this is my mother.”

Linda scrambled to her feet and held out her hand. “Glad to meet you, Mrs. Kravchuk.”

Marusia shook Linda’s hand. “Come on downstairs in
a couple of minutes. I’ll go make you a treat.” She turned and walked back down the stairs.

When we could hear her down in the kitchen again, Linda whispered to me. “What did she do in the war?”

I didn’t know how to answer that. Why hadn’t I been quiet about it like Mychailo had warned me to? “I’ll tell you about it later. Let’s go get our snack,” I said, hoping she would forget about all of this.

When we went downstairs, Marusia had sliced an apple in a bowl for each of us and drizzled them both with honey. “You can take it outside to eat if you like,” she said. “But bring the bowls back when you’re finished.”

The swing was just wide enough to hold us both if we squeezed on together, and Linda’s legs were long enough to keep it steady, so that’s where we sat together and ate our snack.

“This is yummy,” said Linda, crunching with satisfaction.

I loved the gooey treat too. It wasn’t something Marusia had ever made just for us. I guess she wanted to serve something special for my friend. She always tried so hard to make things good for me. It made me feel guilty for the things I had said to Linda.

Linda looked over to the house and whispered to me. “She can’t hear us from inside, can she?”

“I don’t think so.”

“So what did she do during the war?”

I slowly swallowed the piece of apple that sat on my tongue. “I was just being silly.” I said. “She was a factory worker.”

“What about you?” asked Linda. “It must have been
exciting to grow up in the middle of a war.”

Exciting? I had never thought of it that way. So terrifying that I couldn’t remember half of it, that’s what it was to me. “I was young,” I said. “It’s all jumbled in my mind.”

“Tell me what you remember, then.”

So I told her about Marusia and I escaping and our arrival at the Displaced Persons’ camp. Linda’s eyes went wide as I told her some things. I held back the ones about the German family.

The back door opened and Marusia stuck her head out. “You two are cosy on that swing,” she said, grinning. “Finish up your apples. Linda, Nadia and I will walk you home.”

“I can walk home myself,” said Linda.

“We would like to walk you home,” said Marusia.

She washed and shone some apples and put them in a paper bag to take with us. I was puzzled at first, but then realized what Marusia was up to. She wanted to meet Linda’s parents. The apples were a gift.

Linda’s one-storey yellow brick house was on Usher Street — behind the railway station and one street closer than the Ukrainian church. I had passed by on the way to church, but never realized she lived there.

“Would you like to come in?” Linda asked.

“That’s not necessary,” said Marusia. “I just wanted to make sure that you got home safe.”

Linda knew as well as I did that the real reason for this little walk home was to check out her family. “Wait here,” she said. “I want my mom to meet you.”

She ran ahead of us and flew in the front door of her house. A moment later a careworn woman drying her
hands on a blue apron stepped out onto the front step and greeted us, Linda peeking out from behind her. “I’m Rita Henhawk, Linda’s mother.”

“I’m Marusia Kravchuk, and this is my daughter Nadia. Here are some apples,” she added, holding the bag out to Mrs. Henhawk. “I picked them today.”

Mrs. Henhawk took the bag and smiled. “Are they from your own tree?”

“No,” said Marusia. “I work at a farm.”

Mrs. Henhawk nodded in understanding. “Can you come in for a cup of tea?” She opened the door wide. A striped cat darted between her legs and ran out onto the road.

I was about to chase after him, but Linda’s mother said, “Don’t worry. He’ll be back. Joe never misses his supper.”

We stepped inside the house and were enveloped by warmth and a savoury scent of something cooking. “Excuse the mess,” said Mrs. Henhawk. “I’ve been making corn cakes.”

There was no mess. The front door led directly into a living room that had only a few pieces of furniture in it. They had a worn sofa, two hardback chairs and a wooden chest that served as a coffee table. There were no bookshelves and the wooden floor was bare, but it was a tidy room. I could tell that the Henhawks were poor, but proud like us. So Linda had been sincere about the nice things she’d said about our house. That made me feel so much better.

Beyond that was a kitchen with a red linoleum floor, so newly mopped it was still glistening. A carved wooden bowl covered with a checkered cloth sat on one end of the
kitchen table. Linda’s older sister sat on a chair at the opposite side of the table, a textbook and binder spread out before her and a half-finished glass of milk close at hand. Grace looked up when we stepped in, gave a bit of a wave and went back to her homework.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” Mrs. Henhawk said, indicating the sofa. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

“That would be lovely,” said Marusia. She sat down on the sofa and patted the spot beside her. I sat down.

“And some milk for you, young lady?” Mrs. Henhawk asked me.

I wasn’t thirsty, but Marusia nudged me in the ribs, so I said that would be lovely. Linda went into the kitchen to help. In a few moments she came back out, carrying two glasses of milk and two mugs of tea on a tray. Her mother came out of the kitchen with a platter of small golden cakes.

I held my corn cake in both of my hands and blew on it to cool it down. Marusia took a bite of hers. Smacking her lips with delight, she said, “This is delicious.”

I bit into mine and had to agree. It was like butter, corn and bacon all mixed together.

“It’s an old family recipe,” said Mrs. Henhawk. “I’m glad you like them.”

Marusia and Mrs. Henhawk made small talk while Linda and I sat impatiently waiting for them to finish. I would have liked to explore the neighbourhood with Linda. Or at least explore the house. But I knew this step was necessary. Marusia is very protective of me.

Finally, Marusia finished her tea and set down the cup. “It was so good to meet you,” she said. We both stood.

“They seem like nice people,” said Marusia, as we walked back home. “You can go there after school sometimes, but you’ve got to let me know the day before.”

I had a friend in Linda, parents who loved me and a roof over my head. The weeks marched by, and before the first frost, Ivan had finished all the painting and had installed the inside doors. Marusia and I planted tulip and daffodil bulbs by the front walk. I looked forward to seeing them bloom the following spring. I was lucky to be loved by Marusia and Ivan.

It wasn’t all perfect. Eric still called me “the Hitler girl” whenever he saw me at recess or on the way home — and he made a point of seeing me often. Thank goodness that other boy had tired of the game. My memories of the past had stopped coming at me so quickly and I was able to sort some of them out, but there were still huge blanks in my memory.

On the last Sunday evening in October, I sat between Marusia and Ivan on the cinder-block steps at the back of our house. Someone in the neighbourhood must have been burning leaves, because there was a haze in the air and I could smell smoke. Marusia brewed a pot of camomile tea with honey and we each sipped a mug of it.
As I sat there between the two people who had changed their lives to protect me, I looked at the swing that Ivan had made me. I saw the lilac bushes that he had planted for me. I thought of Marusia protecting me in the camp and of the skirt and blouse that her farm-worn hands had stitched with love. I began to cry.

“
Sonechko
,” said Marusia, leaning her head onto my shoulder. “What is the matter?”

My throat was filled with sobs. “Nothing … it’s fine, it’s fine … ” I tried to stop the tears but they had a mind of their own.

“Did you have another nightmare?” asked Ivan.

I shook my head. “I am happy,” I said. “I don’t know how you can love me, but I’m glad that you do … ”

“Nadia, Nadia,” cooed Marusia. “You may not be the daughter of my blood, but you are the daughter of my heart. I love you and Ivan loves you.”

“But I don’t deserve to be loved,” I sobbed. “You say I’m not a Nazi, but my memories say I am.”

Ivan pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dried my tears. “Tell us everything you know, Nadia. Maybe we can help you make sense of it all.”

My memories tumbled out. I told them about Eva and the pink dress and where I thought it came from. I told them about the books I was forbidden to read and the one I was forced to read. I told them about meeting Hitler. It seemed like Marusia had known some of this, but not all. Ivan sat listening in silence, his lips set in a thin grim line. When I finished, I was empty of tears.

“Do you remember when we met?” Marusia asked.

I closed my eyes and thought hard. Marusia was so
much a part of my life, but when we met? I drew a blank. Marusia and I escaping on the flatbed of the train was a vivid memory. And the day we arrived at the DP camp. On the edge of my dreams was an image of Marusia with that same German family at that same farm in the countryside. I didn’t know how she fit in, but she was somehow there and so were lilac bushes. Marusia back then was like a once familiar song now forgotten.

“Do you want me to tell you about it?” she asked.

I began to shake. I had no idea why. “Not now.”

Marusia lightly touched my forearm with her fingers. “I don’t mean to push you,” she said. “But it is important for you to fill those forgotten parts of your life. Otherwise, we’ll never find out who you really are.”

That is what scared me the most. Did I
want
to know who I really was? What if I didn’t like that person? That was the thought I fell asleep to …

I pull at the handle of the door but it won’t open and the window won’t roll down. I pound on the glass. “Let me out, let me out.” Outside, the world is filled with smoke. I hear sirens. See a face that looks like mine
.

The front door clicked softly open and shut. I bolted out of bed and scrambled to the window. Ivan. I knew it was Ivan on his way to the foundry in the darkness of the early morning. Why did this sound scare me so?

I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and thought of the dream that was still a fragment of fear in my mind. Why did I dream I was trying to get out of a safe car when a building was burning outside? It made no sense. And how could I be outside and inside that car at the same time?

I tiptoed downstairs and slipped out to the backyard. I sat on my swing in the darkness and breathed in the faint scent of burned leaves. The smell reminded me of something that happened long ago, something I
did
remember …

The long black car idled beside the smoking ruin of a newly bombed factory. Vater got out. “I won’t be long,” he said to Mutter as he closed the door.

“You’d better not be,” Mutter said, more to herself than to Eva or me. “We can’t be late for this rally.”

Yet another rally. It was hot in the car and my pink dress felt itchy. My hair was pulled so tightly into a braid that my scalp ached. Eva’s hair cascaded loose down her back and her dress was made of cool pink muslin, yet she couldn’t sit still. The buckle of her shoe nearly caught on my skirt as she clambered over me to get to the window. I smoothed it back down and sighed.

“Sit down, Eva,” said Mutter, reaching over me to tug at Eva’s dress, but Eva stayed where she was.

“It’s hot in here, Mutti.” Eva rolled down the window and a cool smoky breeze drifted in.

“We’re going to smell like smoke,” said Mutter.

“At least we won’t smell sweaty,” said Eva.

Had I said that, I would have been slapped. I arched my neck so I could see what was happening at the factory. I knew that this one made weapons for the war and that was why it was attacked.

One long wing of the building was bombed flat and smoke curled out of the remains. Anyone who had worked in that part of the factory would have died.

Vater was giving orders to boys who wore swastika armbands. Frightened women in grey rags limped out of
billowing smoke. Everything was in shades of grey except for the slashes of blood on clothing where sharp fragments of blasted brick had cut forearms and shoulders. Blood dried a sticky brown in tangles of blond and black and chestnut hair where shrapnel had hit scalps.

“Why aren’t they wearing the yellow stars?” asked Eva.

Mutter leaned over to get a better look at the women. I did the same. These ones were wearing white and blue badges saying
OST
.

“They’re the eastern workers,” said Mutter.

“Are they animals like the Jews, Mutti?”

“Yes, dear, that’s why they work in the munitions factory. You wouldn’t want Germans to get bombed, would you?”

I squinted at individual faces in the sad and tattered crowd of OST workers. One girl had hair not quite as fair as my own. As if she could feel my stare, she looked up. It was like I was seeing an older version of myself. Our eyes met and her mouth formed a wide O of shock. She tried to call something to me but then one of the Hitler Youth stepped in front of her and pushed her away …

The back door opened with a squeak. I blinked once, and then again, and looked around. It was daylight and I was on my swing. My feet were blue with cold. I looked to the back door and Marusia was standing there, clutching a thin housecoat around her shoulders.

“Nadia,” she said. “I had no idea you were out here. You are going to catch your death.”

I stumbled a bit on frozen legs as I got off the swing. Marusia wrapped a blanket around me when I got inside. She busied herself at the stove, then set a mug of scalding
cocoa on the table in front of me. It warmed my fingers as I raised it to my lips. Flashes and flakes of that memory still seemed as real as my cocoa. That girl who looked like me — I knew now that it wasn’t me. And the OST badge she wore — where had I seen one before?

“Did you remember something more?”

“Not about when we met,” I said. “I remembered about that black car and I know why there was smoke.”

I told her about the bombing and the girl who looked like me. She reached out and took one of my hands. She didn’t say anything for a bit. It was like she was trying to figure out what to say. “Millions from Ukraine and Poland were taken as
Ostarbeiters
— OST workers.”

I had an image of Marusia in a worn grey dress, with an OST badge stitched to her chest. I set my cocoa down so quickly that some of it sloshed onto the table. I covered my face with my hands, but the image wouldn’t go away. “You were an OST worker too, weren’t you?”

“Nadia,” Marusia said. “Your memory is coming back. Do you remember when we met?”

“Were you at that bombed-out factory? Was it you I saw?” But even as I asked the question, I knew that I was wrong. Looking at Marusia was not like looking at an older me.

“We met at the farm, Nadia. Try to remember.”

Parts of it came back to me … The military truck stopping in our drive. A soldier unlatching the back door and an OST woman tumbling out onto the gravel. From the stench I could tell she’d been travelling for a long time. Marusia trying to stand, but her legs so wobbly that she fell back down. Looking up and seeing me. Then me
feeling so guilty of my finery and of who I was, and running back into the farmhouse to hide in shame.

“I remember, Marusia” I said in a small voice. “I remember now. Where did you come from?”

“Zelena,” said Marusia. “A small village in eastern Ukraine. The Germans came and ordered everyone my age to come to the village square. Anyone who didn’t come was rooted out and shot. They sorted through us. I was loaded into the back of a truck.” She brushed a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. “It wasn’t heated and we weren’t given food. Some people had bits of food with them and we shared it. We travelled for many days.”

“And then you were taken to the farm?”

“No,” said Marusia. “I was sent to work at the Ford Werke factory in Cologne.”

Wisps of the past drifted into my mind. The bombed-out weapons plant … “I’m glad they didn’t have you making bombs,” I whispered.

“In that way I was lucky,” said Marusia. “But we were still slaves.”

“How did you get to the farm?” I asked.

“At the car factory, they locked us into a big barracks at night,” said Marusia. “But I escaped. I was caught and sent back, but the factory didn’t want me back. They said I was undependable, so I was sent to a concentration camp. But I convinced them that I was a good cook. I was given to General Himmel, who gave me to his wife.”

I stared at my cocoa. The man that I knew as Vater, Marusia knew as General Himmel. The thought of what she had been through made my stomach churn.

“It is good that you’re beginning to remember,” she said. “As you remember more, you will understand why you have nothing to feel guilty about.”

“Why don’t you just tell me everything you know about my past?” I asked her. “Wouldn’t that be simpler?”

“I don’t know your whole past,” said Marusia. “I’m afraid that if I tell you what I know, it could influence your memories. It’s best for you to air this out as the memories surface.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” I told her angrily. “You don’t have to live with these nightmares.”

Marusia was silent for a moment. She brushed away a tear from her eye, then reached out her hand and placed it on top of mine. “I am living with my own ghosts,
Sonechko
.”