mascara on. Just look at your eyelashes!’ Lisa examined Natasha’s face as if she had never seen it before.
‘I wear make-up sometimes. You just never noticed.’
‘Never noticed? You don’t even own make-up. You say mascara makes your eyes water. Hang on a second, is that my make-up you’re wearing? Did you take it out of my drawer without even asking?’ Lisa put her hands on her hips, letting go of Natasha.
Once again Natasha tried to get past Lisa, but her sister was too fast. She blocked the way. ‘So what? Like you didn’t take that scarf without asking? It’s Mama’s favourite,’ said Natasha, pulling at the silky shawl that was skilfully arranged around Lisa’s neck.
Lisa ignored her, sniffing the air around her. ‘And what’s that smell? Is it Mama’s perfume?’
‘Lisa, what do you want?’ Natasha wished she had left a minute earlier. Had she done that, she would have been halfway to Kreshchatyk by now.
A neighbour walked past, glaring at the girls. The sisters fell quiet, waiting for him to pass. When he was gone, Lisa said, ‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on or do I have to follow you?’
‘You’re going to have to follow me,’ said Natasha, shaking with impatience.
‘Fine. Keep your secret. Won’t be the first time,’ said Lisa, moving sideways and letting her sister go.
Natasha breathed out in relief and opened the door. Only when she was outside did she realise that Lisa was close behind her. ‘What are you doing?’ asked Natasha.
‘What does it look like I’m doing? Going to see Olga, of course,’ said Lisa, sniggering.
Natasha watched Lisa for a mute moment and then said, ‘You know what, Lisa? I don’t feel so good. Why don’t you go to Olga without me? Tell her I said hi.’
Not waiting for her sister to reply, Natasha turned on her heels and disappeared through the front door of their building. She ran up one flight of stairs to the window, just in time to see Lisa vanish around the corner.
*
When Natasha thought it was safe, she emerged from her hiding place. Looking around cautiously, half expecting her sister to jump out from behind the next tree, she set off in the direction of Kreshchatyk. Her hands trembled in fear, in excitement. What if he wasn’t there? Or worse – what if he had given up on her and left? Although she didn’t own a watch, she knew she must be quite late.
Natasha almost sprinted down the street, despite the shoes that were half a size too small and pinched her feet mercilessly. And there, on a bench under a golden-brown chestnut tree basking in timid autumn sunlight, was Mark.
Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. And then it struck her: He’s not wearing civilian clothes today, he’s wearing his uniform. What would people think when they saw her strolling hand in hand with a Hungarian soldier? What if someone she knew recognised her? Would they tell her parents? Would they call her names and spread awful rumours? Would they think she was betraying her country, just like the women she’d seen welcoming the Nazis to Kiev? She shuddered.
But he was here, waiting for her, and at that moment in time, it was the only thing that mattered.
He stood up to greet her, and suddenly she didn’t know what to do. Did she hug him? Did she shake his hand? What was the acceptable protocol for a Soviet girl meeting a Hungarian soldier on the streets of occupied Kiev? He was so tall, she couldn’t raise her eyes high enough to see his face. She stared at the buttons of his tunic instead. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ she blurted out. ‘My sister… She wouldn’t let me out of her sight. Have you been waiting long?’
‘Not too long. Do you want to walk to Taras Shevchenko Park?’ Natasha happily agreed. She knew there were only a handful of warm days left before winter arrived, bringing with it the icy cold and the gloomy skies. It was a beautiful sunny day and the park was bathed in autumn colours. The ground hid under a thick carpet of leaves, and Natasha enjoyed the soft feeling under her feet.
The trenches stood empty, their mocking mouths agape.
They ambled side by side, not looking at each other. ‘I come here all the time when I’m off duty,’ said Mark. ‘I love the park.’
Natasha wanted to tell him that she loved the park, too, but then she glanced at the spot where three days ago a German officer shot her grandmother. And she didn’t say anything.
‘I’m sorry about your grandmother,’ said Mark, as if he could read her mind. ‘Is she feeling any better?’
‘Not better. Not worse. Just… the same.’
They walked in silence past the trenches, past the chestnuts clad in shades of red and brown, past the gigantic Taras Shevchenko monument, whose bronze eyes seemed to follow them in motionless curiosity. When they were level with the monument, Natasha took Mark’s hand. But then a Soviet couple strolled by, and the woman narrowed her disdainful eyes at Natasha. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ she exclaimed. And Natasha let go of Mark’s hand. To hide how much the confrontation had upset her, she bent down and picked up a leaf of a particularly bright tint of gold.
‘Don’t worry about her,’ said Mark.
‘I’m not worried.’
‘She’s only saying that because she’s scared and upset. And who can blame her?’ When Natasha didn’t reply, he added, ‘Taras Shevchenko is my mother’s favourite poet. “And with my heart I rush forth to a dark tiny orchard – to Ukraine.”’ He recited the famous poem in Ukrainian with his eyes closed, as if in his thoughts he was far from Ukraine, from the occupied Kiev and from Natasha, in a small Hungarian village called Vacratot.
‘I know this one. We learnt it at school.’ Natasha was quiet for a moment, trying to remember. ‘“I think a thought, I ponder it, and it’s as though my heart is resting.”’ When she looked up, she saw he was staring at her with such intensity, she blushed and let go of the leaf she was still holding. In silence she watched as it hovered for a fraction of a second in the breeze, before slowly drifting downwards. ‘Your mother speaks Ukrainian?’ she asked at last.
‘She understands it. When she was a child, she spent every summer in Ukraine with her grandparents.’
‘What is she like, your mother?’
‘She’s very kind. I’ve never heard her raise her voice. We are very close.’
‘I’m close to my mama, too. My papa, not so much. Lisa is his favourite.’
‘My dad and I always fight. He’s authoritative, strict, doesn’t talk much. Except when we’re arguing. Then he seems to have a lot to say.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Natasha, thinking of her own strict, authoritative father. ‘What do you argue about?’
He frowned. ‘Pretty much everything. The farm. My choice of friends. What I should study at university.’
‘What did you study?’
