Lana Kortchik - The Story of Us - The sweeping historical debut of 2018 that you will never forget

‘I thought it was you,’ he said, and his eyes twinkled. They were the colour of chocolate, just like she remembered from their brief encounter the night before. They looked even darker now in the sun than they had in the light of his torch in her shady apartment. His hair was raven black and there was a tiny scar above his left eyebrow.

His dark-eyed, dark-haired confidence made her even more nervous. Blinking, she looked down into her hands. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

‘I was just…’ He hesitated. ‘Actually, I was coming to see you. I wanted to see how your grandmother was.’ He watched Natasha intently. She adjusted her hair, cursing her plain ponytail, and raised her face to him. ‘So how is she?’ he asked.

‘She’s weak. Burning up. We are hoping she’ll get better but…’ She sighed.

They were standing in the middle of the street, facing each other, while all around them pedestrians, cars and motorcycles whizzed past, and a bizarre cacophony of Russian and German mingled with honking horns and barking dogs. Natasha barely noticed any of it.

‘Can I walk you home?’ he asked, smiling into her timid face. Natasha felt her heart and lungs melt, and a warmth trickled down her body all the way to the soles of her feet.

They walked down Taras Shevchenko Boulevard and along Tarasovskaya in silence. Every now and then, their arms touched. And every now and then, Natasha would raise her head and look up at him, hoping he wouldn’t notice. The silence between them felt tense but it didn’t feel awkward. Natasha knew she had to say something. Preferably something witty and humorous but at that point anything would do. Trouble was, Natasha couldn’t think of anything, witty or otherwise.

Finally, she muttered, ‘I’m glad I bumped into you. I wanted to thank you…’ She paused. ‘For saving us.’

‘No thanks necessary,’ he replied. ‘I’m Mark, by the way. What’s your name?’

‘Natasha,’ she said quietly.

‘Natasha,’ he repeated.

She liked the way he pronounced her name, drawing out every syllable and making them sound soft, melodious. Again, she wondered about his accent.

He stretched his hand out and she shook it, her own hand barely half the size of his. She didn’t want him to let go and for a few seconds, he didn’t.

‘Mark. Are you…’ She paused. ‘Are you German?’ Holding her breath, she waited for his answer.

‘God, no. Hungarian. From Vacratot.’ Seeing the confused expression on her face, he added, ‘It’s a small village near Budapest.’

‘I don’t know anything about Hungary. Is it far?’

‘Not that far.’ He was looking straight at her, and Natasha felt her cheeks burn. She stared at the ground. Mark continued, ‘We share a border with Ukraine, as well as Romania, Croatia, Slovakia and Serbia.’

‘Sounds far,’ said Natasha. Other than her trip to Lvov last year, she had never been outside of Kiev. ‘Where did you learn to speak Russian so well?’

‘My parents are from Moscow. They left Russia during the Great War. Two of my brothers were born there.’

‘Two brothers? How many do you have?’

‘Six.’

‘Any sisters?’

Mark shook his head. ‘I’m the middle child, and I think by the time she’d had me, Mum was desperate for a little girl. She kept trying and trying. And now she’s stuck with seven boys. She calls us her football team.’

‘I have two brothers and a sister. We’re close, but Lisa can be very annoying. We’re fighting constantly.’

‘I know what you mean,’ he said. ‘I used to fight with my brothers all the time. I really miss it now. Strange, isn’t it?’ Suddenly his smile was gone, only to come back a few seconds later wider than before.

‘Not that strange. You must miss home so much. Are your brothers soldiers like you?’

‘Four of them, yes. It was quite a tragedy for my mother, watching us leave one after another.’

‘Hungary, huh,’ said Natasha. ‘Aren’t you German allies?’ She remembered reading about it in the papers. Hungary had joined Hitler’s side in June, shortly after his attack on the Soviet Union. The country had a pro-German government but was reluctant to take part in the war. When the Hungarian town of Kassa was bombed, they blamed the Soviets for the bombing, finally allying with the Germans. Natasha’s grandfather was adamant that it was Hitler himself who had orchestrated the bombing to push Hungary into the war.

‘Reluctant allies,’ replied Mark, raising his head and appearing even taller. Something flashed through his eyes and for a second he looked sad. Transfixed, Natasha watched him.

‘And yet, here you are, in Ukraine, on Germany’s side. Fighting for Hitler.’

‘None of us had much choice. That’s another reason why this war is such a tragedy for my parents. They’re still very Russian at heart, despite the decades they have spent in Hungary.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Natasha. ‘My older brother Stanislav is fighting somewhere. Mama cries almost every day.’

Mark said, ‘Hungary had no enthusiasm for the war. Yes, our political leaders made the decision to join the German side but no one felt any sympathy for this decision. Most of us were horrified by it. We thought it was a big mistake. No one I knew volunteered for this war.’

‘What happened when the war started?’

‘I was a member of the anti-fascist society at university, and we protested on the streets, encouraging soldiers to desert. In the end, it became too dangerous and we had to stop. And then my brothers and I were drafted. At first, my parents hid us in a barn on our farm. But we were discovered, my father was arrested, and before I knew it, I was on a jam-packed train headed for Lvov. And here I am, a sergeant in the Hungarian regiment, fighting against my beliefs.’

How terrible, thought Natasha, touching his hand softly – wanting to touch his unsmiling face.

‘The country wasn’t prepared for war. We have no equipment, no machinery. Our mobile units are made up of bicycles. Our tanks are so fragile, they get stopped by pumpkin vines before they even make it to battle. But that’s not the issue. The issue is that we are unwilling participants in a capitalist war none of us can identify with. That we are dying for a principle we don’t believe in.’

Natasha was so engrossed in what he was saying, she didn’t notice when they arrived at her door. They paused in the middle of the yard. Thankfully, it was deserted – she didn’t want the conversation to end.

‘We’re stationed at the library on Institutskaya Street,’ said Mark. ‘Do you know where that is?’

Natasha nodded. ‘It’s a good library. With a great collection of the Russian classics.’

‘Which I’ve already discovered. When I’m not on duty, I read. I just started Lermontov’s Hero of Our Time .’

‘I love Lermontov. Even his prose reads like poetry. I’ve been rereading Tolstoy’s War and Peace .’ She glanced at a passing Nazi patrol. ‘Kind of ironic, really,’ she whispered. ‘My grandfather doesn’t approve of that book. He’s too pro-Napoleon to enjoy Tolstoy’s writing.’