MARIA "MASHA" IVANOVNA

June 22, 1941 Kiev, Ukraine

"Papa! Papa!"

The screams lift from my chest, but I don't feel them escape. As the flat flashes and shakes, I turn circles. I know I'm home, but I don't know just where I am. I can't cry, can't walk, can't find my family. I can only scream, and again I cry out, the sound pulled involuntarily from my soul.

"Maria!"

I gasp as strong arms wrap around me, pulling me to the floor.

"We're here, Dochka," my father cries. "Follow me."

He flips to his hands and knees, and I grab on to one of his ankles behind him, shuffling along the floor to the hallway where my mother, sister Anna, and brother Sergei huddle close. They are three who look like one, intertwined in such a way that I can't tell where one begins and the other ends. I join the heap, my father lying over all of us.

For the first hour, I'm sure that we're moments from meeting the saints. I pray to Saint Maria to bring me quickly to her with little pain. I fear pain.

As I pray for an easy transition into the afterlife, my father speaks soothingly in my ear. "You're fine, my daughter," he whispers, a balm to my terror. "We're going to be fine."

I don't believe him. I want to, but I can't. So as the sky flashes, I continue to whisper my litany mostly because I can't stop. Truthfully, I know very little about this act of prayer. I know some saints are useful to the protection of our souls. Outside of this basic fact, however, I know nothing of the spirit world.

But tonight as the earth spins and booms, I allow my soul to reach out to the unknown with hope that protection waits in my faithfulness.

As the rumbling fades into the distance, we remain piled on the floor, terror and fatigue anchoring us tight. Sergei is the first to extract himself, and he sits up slowly, rubbing his hands through his short, coarse hair. Anna and Mama remain hugged together, their cheeks streaked with tears, both sleeping soundly. I envy their slumber.

When Anna sleeps she looks like a younger, more delicate version of our mother. At sixteen, Anna is two years older than me, but in maturity I believe she's a lifetime ahead. She's kind and thoughtful, brave and helpful. I am none of those things. I can be, of course, and I do want to be. But I have to work very hard at being that kind of girl, whereas Anna was born with the ability to love. Grace runs through her veins, spite through mine.

Mama, like Anna, is small and gentle. Her light brown hair is long and soft, though she rarely wears it down. Every day Mama twists it into an elegant bun at the nape of her neck. It seems a shame to hide such glorious hair, but with it pulled back, her perfect features are much more visible. Mama's eyes are a warm brown and reveal the depths of her very being. Mama can never hide how she feels. Her eyes dance with laughter and swim with sorrow, and when she's angry, I'm certain I've seen lightning flash straight through them.

"Masha," Father whispers. I look up to see Sergei standing and stretching alongside him. "We're going to have chai, would you like some?"

I nod and stand up slowly, my legs and back stiff. Sergei grabs my elbow and pulls me into the crook of his arm. He smiles at me, then kisses my forehead. Looking up at my older brother, I get the frightening sense that I'm telling him good-bye. He'll be eighteen in two weeks, and we're at war. A fresh lump develops in my throat and tears prick the corners of my eyes.

"Shh, Masha," Sergei whispers. He knows my thoughts.

Together we walk into the small kitchen where Papa already has the kettle on the stove. He lights a match and puts it inside the firebox, then leans back against the wall. The kitchen in our flat is very small. The three of us can barely fit in it together. In fact, we rarely ever enter this room since Mama long ago declared it her domain and ordered us out under threat of starvation.

Papa sits quietly, his arms crossed over his narrow chest. He's a thin man, my papa, but very tall. Sergei and I stand side by side as we wait for the kettle to sing. We don't speak. I don't know why Papa and Sergei remain mute, but I simply don't have words. Every time I open my mouth, the words disappear on my tongue like the puffs of smoke from Papa's pipes. So I sit, my shoulder pressed to Sergei, my eyes shifting nervously across Papa's worn face.

"We'll wait a few hours to make sure the bombing has stopped," he finally says. His voice bubbles with the heat of one who's been falsely accused. "Then you and I will go out and survey the damage," he says to Sergei. The kettle shakes slightly and lets out its mournful whistle. I don't remember ever hearing it wail like that. It brings a fresh batch of tears to my eyes, and I wonder if I'll even be able to swallow over the lump in my throat.

"Is it safe to go out, Papa?" I ask.

Papa pauses and looks at me softly. The tenderness in his bright green eyes dissolves the lump and warms me from the inside. My papa, whom I favor much more than Mama, has always been my confidant, his strength carrying me through the pain of youth. For years I endured the dreadful taunts of my schoolmates. They laughed at my broad, stocky appearance, and I laughed with them because I refused to cry.

I can be strong like Papa.

"I don't know if it's safe, Masha," Papa says softly. "But we'll go carefully."

I nod and take the steaming mug he hands me, wrapping my fingers around the searing metal. "Can I go with you?" I ask. I already know his answer, but I ask anyway. Papa's lips spread out thin, and his thick brows gather over his eyes. "No, dorogaya," he says firmly. "It may not be safe for Sergei and me. It's definitely not safe for you."

And that's it. I know not to ask again. My papa is a patient man, unless you ask twice. Nobody asks twice.

Two hours later, Mama, Anna, and I stand in the doorway as Papa and Sergei walk out into the dimly lit hallway of our flat. It's damp, and the air smells of gunpowder and fear. It's oddly quiet as they shuffle down the narrow staircase. I can hear their shoes scrape against the ground, but nothing else. No happy laughter. No morning greetings. The streets bear no sounds of normalcy. The quiet of the morning screams, and I want to clamp my hands over my ears just to block it out.

Mama closes the door and leans against it. Her eyes close, and her beautiful hair lies in cascades over her small frame. Anna and I watch, not daring to move.

After a moment, Mama opens her eyes and forces a smile. "It's time to clean up, girls," she says quietly. She sounds calm, but I still see terror swimming in the black center of her eyes. She pulls her fingers through her hair and reaches in her pocket for a band to secure it in a knot.

"Maria, I want you to make the beds and dust the furniture. Anna, you come with me to the kitchen to help prepare tonight's soup."

Anna quickly mumbles, "Yes, Mama," and heads to the kitchen. I, however, look at my mother in surprise. We're cleaning? Today? For a moment I forget the attack and the bombs. All I can think is that today is our first day of summer break and we're cleaning.

Mama returns my gaze evenly. I see her willing me to challenge. I won't win a challenge with Mama, and I know there's little benefit in trying. The grief that she wears on her face swiftly brings back our new reality.

We're at war. Nothing will be the same again.