How Dare The Birds Sing: Book One in the Love and Fate Series, #1

By Marina Osipova

Are Lyuba and Günter star-crossed lovers? When they first meet in 1933 Soviet Russia, their young love is filled with hope and naiveté until Günter disappears. Her fleeting relationship with him has devastating consequences, forcing her to take a humiliating way out to save herself and her family. This choice unleashes a sequence of fatal events that shatter her life, affecting everyone involved.

In June 1941, World War II comes to Russian soil, hurling Lyuba, along with millions of others, into the inhuman grinder, testing the limits of her strength and resilience of her heart. Will it be strong enough years later to allow her to reveal the ugly secret she has buried from the only person the war has left for her to love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marina Osipova
• Release date: Jan 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386835820

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Copyright © Marina Osipova 2019

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission in writing of the author.

ISBN:9781386835820 (paperback)

To all women burned by war. Any war.

She raised her face toward the sky, absorbing its shining radiance into her soul, which opened wide to welcome it.

How could the sky be as strikingly blue here as it was at home? And the lonely birch behind the coiled wire fence, so tenderly green? And the breeze like a promise of life, so light and delicate upon her cheek?

She held her breath. A bird’s song, floating on the air, came in honey-sweet waves toward the earth, to be heard by those still living.

Had she ever heard a bird sing with such ecstasy?

Then . . .

A scream like a helpless animal, a long, drawn-out, tormented agonizing wail.

The fierce barking of German shepherds.

A machine gun burst.

A moment of a horrible, swelling, billowing silence.

A broken whisper, How dare the birds sing?

PART I

Lipetsk, a two-century-old provincial Russian town about 250 miles to the south of Moscow, April–September 1933

1

The starlings have come back. Lyuba glanced at Natasha and stopped, stifling her breath for a moment, listening to the sweet love song of the birds. To catch sight of them, Lyuba shaded her eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun. Five dark dots appeared on the horizon, drawing closer and closer till they were airplanes. Then the sound came, a low, droning boooo.

Natasha followed her friend’s gaze. I will marry a pilot. They are strong, fearless men, not like our classmates who don’t know how to kiss.

At seventeen, perhaps you know too much about kisses. You’d better think of the final exams, Lyuba said then, to her own surprise, blurted out, I would never marry a pilot, never ever.

It’s because of your father, Natasha replied. But that was when there was war. There won’t be any war anymore. Never. I’m telling you.

Lyuba gave a resigned shrug and waved for her friend to move on.

The planes reached the city border and, after making a smooth arc, turned back toward the horizon.

On this first warm Sunday evening of April 1933, it was so nice to walk along Lenin Street, which the working-class people branded bourgeois. Lyuba loved her beautiful street. The once proud mansions, now with rickety porches and the faded paint peeling off of their walls, conjured for her the image of servants in dapper livery opening the grand doors for ladies in long, magnificent dresses and men in fine tailcoats, like her grandparents in the yellowed family photograph that her mother hid in the crown of the grandfather clock. By now, the few remaining gardens had a wild, overgrown look. Here and there, washing lines hung between fruit trees, sagging under the weight of freshly washed rags and clothes.

Natasha hooked Lyuba’s arm. I wish the exams were behind us. And then a new life begins, away from my henpecked dad and Svetka. She screwed up her face as she always did when mentioning her stepmother. Now please, Lyuba, wouldn’t you rather go with me to technical school? What fun is it to be a teacher, like your mother? All these endless exercise books. No one wants to learn German nowadays. Besides, there will be no boys in your pedagogical college. Well, maybe one or two, bespectacled or dull, like your Volod’ka.

He is not mine.

But he is crazy about you.

Lyuba felt the heat creeping up to her cheeks. How do you know?

Everybody knows. Don’t you see how he ogles you?

Stop it, Natasha, please. And I know why you want to go to this grease-and-metal school.

Hmm. Why?

Because you will be the only girl there, and all you think about is getting married.

What’s wrong with that? Shouldn’t every girl find herself a nice husband? Aren’t you going to?

There you go again, Lyuba said. Why is it so difficult for you to understand our entire lives should not revolve around finding someone to marry?

Bang! Too close to them, a truck lurched forward from the curb. The backfire startled a tight black knot of crows. With ominous, throaty cries, they exploded into the dusty sunset air.

As if nothing had happened just a moment ago, Natasha raised her eyes dreamily. But most likely I won’t even need to go to technical school . . . if Dmitry marries me.

You have seen this Dmitry once, and you already have decided—

He fell in love with me at first sight, I know. Oh, Lyuba, he is the most handsome guy I have ever met in my life. You have to see how cute he is in his pilot uniform. Natasha stopped abruptly. But promise you won’t try to charm him. You won’t, will you? She wagged her finger at Lyuba.

Lyuba felt uneasy under Natasha’s assessing gaze. She always did when people looked at her. She resented the roundness of her own face and the milky color of her skin that was quick to acquire a musk-rose flush. Oh how she was embarrassed by the heaviness of her hips, and especially her breasts—voluptuous as a stranger had once remarked to her face. At the recollection, she cringed.

Although she would not admit it even to herself, she secretly envied Natasha’s petite, reed-like figure, the hardly discernable plum swell of her breasts and her narrow hips. There was something feline in the way her friend moved. Lyuba wished she had Natasha’s raven-black hair, which reflected the sun like glass. Although Natasha’s nose was slightly larger than would be advantageous for her narrow face and thin lips, the light in her almond-shaped emerald eyes beneath her dark, arched brows made it hard to men to take their eyes off her, as though she were a fallen horse blocking up the street or a dancing bear. She would respond to their stares with a coquettish flutter of her lush eyelashes, and to the girls’ appraising sidelong glances with an inexplicable haughtiness.

Let’s hurry up. Dmitry must be waiting for me already, Natasha said as they reached the massive, rusted wrought iron gates of the Upper Park. Framing either side of the entrance, life-sized alabaster sculptures—a man with a pick hammer and a woman with a bundle of wheat ears—stood watch. Along the shadowy walk, the girls passed by placards with slogans, calling for workers and collective farmers to increase their daily production.

Wait. Natasha stopped in front of one of the placards, peering into the reflection of its glass cover. She fixed her hair, which had been ruffled by the breeze, then unfastened the top two buttons of her knitted green shirt and, after glancing around, rolled up the waistband of her skirt. We can go now.

At a curve in a pot-holed side path, Lyuba froze, noticing a familiar, pathetic figure. Her male classmate seemed to follow the play of the skylarks above the trees, turning his long, thin neck from side to side.

Natasha chuckled. Oh, look who’s here, your admirer. Hi, Volod’ka!

In his mended suit, the trousers ludicrously too short but lengthened by the addition of vaguely matching material at the bottom, he dropped his gaze, his long heavy black lashes in stark contrast to his pale, sharp face.

You see, Lyuba, you did not hit the dance floor yet, but you already have a dance partner.

Please, don’t say . . . nonsense. Lyuba rushed to keep pace with her friend.

They walked on, passing by an arbor, and then an old stone fountain that gurgled and spat musty water, in which a sparrow splashed. Then they turned to the left and continued toward the sound of music.

A podium came into sight, canopied by two old weeping willows. A brass band of four played a waltz. Elderly couples circled around the smoothly shaven wooden platform. Next to it, groups of girls stood, spitting the husks of sunflower seeds under their feet and scarcely veiling their fascination with the few lads who milled about pretending indifference.

Natasha’s eyes darted around, and then, as if finding the object of her desire, they flashed in a familiar display of excitement. Lyuba followed her stare. To the right of the podium, two young men leaned against the gray-brown trunk of an old oak.

The taller of the two had close-cropped auburn hair and an inscrutable expression. There was an air of isolation about his lean figure. His impeccably ironed three-piece linen suit and well-groomed appearance struck Lyuba as out of place. She shifted her gaze to the shorter one, whose shirt was stretched across his broad shoulders and muscular chest. Noticeable even from a distance, the color of his forget-me-not flower blue eyes contrasted strikingly with his dark straight hair. Sucking at his cigarette and with no attempt at concealment, he considered Lyuba and Natasha with a playful expression on his face.

Lyuba felt the heat stole into her cheeks. The impudent fellow, she labeled him in her mind. Which one is Dmitry? she said under her breath.

Natasha gave a start. Who? Dmitry? I don’t see him here yet.

The fellow with the stunning eyes said something to his companion and headed toward Lyuba and Natasha, his powerful well-muscled body moving with easy grace.

Lyuba dropped her gaze and heard Volod’ka’s tremulous voice behind her say, Would you mind if—

Another voice interrupted him, You, young fellow, clear out of here. The blue-eyed man laid his hand on Volod’ka’s shoulder and nudged him away while eyeing Lyuba and Natasha up and down. Who would ever imagine there would be such strikingly beautiful girls in this town? How about a dance?

Ha! Natasha lifted her chin and, after watching him with a critical squint, turned to Lyuba. He thinks we lack dance partners.

Natasha, please stop it.

Ah-ha, Natasha and Lyuba. And, by the way, I am Stepan. He raised his hand in mock salute then turned, beckoning his companion. Gena, let’s ask these beautiful girls for a dance.

Somewhat uncertain, Gena approached them and stretched out his hand for a shake. His grip was strong. He smiled, showing very white, even teeth, then cast his gaze down. He had a straight nose and a high, chiseled forehead. His cheeks were slightly pink, and it was not at once possible to say if it was his usual color or whether his pale skin was flushed with embarrassment.

Stepan grabbed Natasha’s hand and shook his head as if in disbelief. Oh, what eyes you have! He lad her out onto the floor and in no time, the dancing crowd swallowed them up.

There was an uncomfortable moment before Lyuba and Gena entered the circle of waltzers. He towered over her by a full eight inches. Barely supporting her hand and elbow, he arched himself away from the physical contact. She noticed the fan of freckles under his amber eyes and the light lashes that made his face look boyish. He was not what Lyuba would call handsome.

To avoid looking at him, Lyuba sought out Natasha and Stepan in the circling mass of people. Pressed to his chest, she was beaming. There she goes again, Lyuba thought. Already in love with the fellow she has just met.

When the brass band stopped, Gena stepped away from Lyuba, but they remained on the dance floor till the musicians raised their instruments at the urging of the other couples and started the same waltz again.

Stepan, his arm held around Natasha possessively, maneuvered toward Lyuba and Gena. Changing partners. He disengaged himself from Natasha and took Lyuba by the elbow.

What’s wrong with you, amber-eyes? Are we dancing? was the last Lyuba heard Natasha say to Gena before Stepan guided her away.

He was a perfect lead. His hand pressed against the small of her back evoked a gamut of unfamiliar, perplexing emotions. To her annoyance, she found herself biting down hard on her lower lip and tried to loosen his hold.

What a touchy person you are.

That’s me, she replied, in what she hoped was a cold tone.

He grinned with a corner of his mouth and yanked her closer. Natasha said that you girls are graduating from school soon. And you, Lyuba, are going to study to become a German language teacher.

Lyuba twitched inwardly, angry at her friend’s jabber, and moved her head away from Stepan’s lips, which seemed to come too close to her cheek. What do you do?

Work, like everybody else, he said.

Where? She allowed herself a glance into his startling blue eyes.

At a factory.

What factory?

A Voronezh factory. Is that enough of an answer?

He did not seem to be very keen on this conversation. To her relief, they almost collided with Natasha and Gena. Stepan swept Natasha from Gena’s arms and sent Lyuba into his friend’s.

When it was too long to keep silence, Lyuba said, Are you working at a factory in Voronezh as your friend does?

Gena’s back became ramrod straight. He nodded and as the music stopped, he gestured Stepan off to the side. They conversed in low voices and it seemed there was a disagreement between them.

On returning, Stepan lit up a cigarette then embraced Natasha with his free hand. Girls, girls, girls, when do I see you again? He turned to his friend. "We see you again. Right, Gena?"

To her embarrassment, Lyuba found Gena’s eyes on her. The pink patches on his pale cheeks grew a little more intense. Unable to hold his gaze, she looked down but somehow, she could still feel him watching her.

So next Sunday then? Here? At five? Natasha gave Stepan her most flirtatious smile.

Sure. Our word of honor, right, Gena? Stepan said.

Gena nodded, forcing a smile of acquiescence, and they hastened to the park exit. Stepan, turning back time and again, waved his hand and blew them kisses until they were out of sight.

So, your most handsome pilot did not show up? Lyuba said.

Ah, that one . . . he is a bore. I’m glad he didn’t. Otherwise, he might have scared Stepan away.

Stepan did not seem like one to be easily scared, Lyuba retorted.

May I ask you for a dance? The voice made Lyuba crane her neck to see a young man, his eyes fixed on Natasha.

With rapidly appraising eyes, Natasha glanced back and gave him an annoyed one-shouldered shrug. I am tired of dancing.

The lad half-turned to Lyuba, but before he could open his mouth again, Natasha was pulling her along toward the park’s exit.

When the sounds of the band faded away, Natasha stopped in the middle of the walk. Did you see how he ogled me?

Who ogled you?

Stepan, of course. Who else? Do you know what he whispered into my ear unceasingly as we danced?

What?

That my eyes are like emeralds, that my hair is like a raven’s wing, that . . . well, all things like that. Not getting any reaction from Lyuba, she continued, And your redhead, did he even utter a word?

Natasha, please, why is he mine? What, is Stepan already yours? And no, he did not.

He will be mine. Natasha winked at Lyuba. But your Gena is either dumb, or—I don’t know. She twirled her finger around her temple in a comical manner. Something is wrong with him.

When they reached their junction, Natasha turned left toward the workers’ settlement called Stone Log while Lyuba continued on to Lenin Street, the most beautiful part of the town. She lived with her mother in a solid red brick two-story house with a decorative frieze that ran under the massive cornice of the top floor. Before the Great October Revolution of 1917, the house had belonged to her mother’s family. In February 1918, the Soviets requisitioned it for the people and turned it into a communal living space. Hence, plywood partitions divided the airy ballroom with the neatly inlaid parquet floors, the family bedrooms, and the high-ceilinged salons.

Before the three families of workers from the Novolipetsk Metallurgical Plant had come and crammed into the first floor, some trucks arrived and the dripping chandeliers, the Steinway grand piano, and the elegant furniture have been driven away somewhere. All Lyuba’s mother was allowed to keep was the old grandfather clock and the books.

Despite the new dwellers’ great dissatisfaction, the former owners were allotted a three-room cold-water flat on the second floor, the servants’ part of the house in the past.

Before Lyuba turned the large handle to push open one-half of the front double door, she stopped and listened to the sounds of starlings from the linden trees then went slowly up the polished oak staircase. It creaked beneath the press of her feet.

The door of her apartment was not locked. She let herself in and went along the corridor to the living room. In its gathering darkness, her mother sat at the little table with the Singer sewing machine on it. Her head was lowered over the piece of white fabric, heavy golden locks draping down. She raised her gentle face, which bore a familiar, unassertive expression. Her warm gray eyes lit up. Had a good time, my little daughter? She put the sewing down.

Natasha and I . . . we were at the Upper Park. We listened to music and . . . danced a bit.

With the boys from your school?

Lyuba nodded and at once felt a pang of guilt at her lie.

Hungry, daughter?

Uh huh, Lyuba said.

Stuffed peppers are on the table. Must still be warm. When you are done, come back, and we’ll have a fitting.

In the herb-scented warmth of their tiny kitchen, Lyuba sat at the table, picking at the glossy skin of the sweet green pepper but seeing Stepan’s eyes. What’s wrong with me? she thought, alarmed by the rush of confusing and startling emotions, similar to the feeling she’d had when Stepan had pressed her to his chest. She pushed the plate away, then got up and joined her mother in the living room.

From her mother’s hands, she took a blouse, slipped it on, and looked at her reflection in the full-length wardrobe mirror. Mama, here at the waist, please make it looser.

Her mother moved the pins. Good now? From the sewing box, she pulled out a narrow strip of white floral lace and a handful of little pearl buttons and caressed them gently with her fingers. Here, at the collar and—

Her schoolmates’ faces, contorted with envy, flashed in Lyuba’s eyes. Mama!

Yes, yes, daughter, I understand. We’ll make it simple. She sighed. For a long moment, she looked at the lace and buttons. Then, as if coming back from a faraway world, she put them cautiously back into the sewing box, handling them as one would handle irretrievable treasures.

Lyuba bent to a kiss, letting her lips linger on her mother’s cheek.

Good night, Mama.

"Sleep well, my Schätzchen—Darling."

In the night, Stepan’s impudent, handsome face came back to her. She could not help hearing his voice, could not resist recalling his words, could not help remembering even the scent of the cigarette smoke that had wafted from his garments. It was suddenly difficult to breathe.

She got up and drew back the curtain to allow a breeze to enter through the open ventlight. Impossible and absurd, she thought with puzzled revulsion. I really have no interest in him.

The curtain blew back from the window as the breeze rustled through, distracting her from her vision. Suddenly, another image came to her mind—of the silent, tall, red-haired Gena. I won’t be going next Sunday to meet them, she decided.

2

The next Sunday, at five in the evening, Lyuba and Natasha stood by the old oak tree.

Our girls are punctual. Like in the military.

Startled by Stepan’s voice, Lyuba turned abruptly and collided with Gena. Oh, sorry, she said. Good afternoon.

Gena adjusted a photo camera that hung over his neck and, after clasping a small tripod under his armpit, silently stretched his hand for a shake.

Girls, what about a photograph of the four of us? Stepan gave a wink.

Yes, yes! Natasha grabbed his hand.

He pulled her close to him, his other hand coming down over Lyuba’s shoulder. Don’t tense up, he said. I won’t bite you.

Natasha gave a snort of laughter. You don’t know our Lyuba. She has never— she whispered something into Stepan’s ear. He squinted at Lyuba, his brows raised.

Don’t scorch me with your stare! Natasha burst out laughing and threw her arms to her face as if defending herself from Lyuba’s gaze.

Meanwhile, Gena affixed the camera to the tripod and stepped to the left of Lyuba. A moment later, the shutter clicked.

Stepan glanced at his watch. We have an hour and a half at our disposal. Now, what do you want to do, girls? Dancing? Or can you offer something else?

As his silent friend pulled the tripod together, Lyuba, her heart still pounding from Stepan’s embrace, looked at Natasha.

How about boating? Natasha pointed with her forefinger to a wall of the crook-branched oaks. The pond is right there. See the wooden shack?

That works. Right, Gena? Stepan said. After his friend nodded, he went to the wooden pier, which was darkened by time and water and passed a banknote into the boatman’s hand, then unfastened one of the rowing vessels.

Its banks choked by duckweed, the pond exuded a dank and stagnant smell. From the farthest side of it came the quacking of ducks.

Stepan lit a cigarette. Gena, help the girls aboard.

Natasha pushed excitedly past Gena’s proffered arm and, holding the skirt above her skinny knees, jumped in, making the boat rock. She gave a throaty laugh and exchanged lustful glances with Stepan.

Gena took Lyuba’s elbow to help her in. With a sensation of awkwardness in her spine, as though someone were looking at her from behind, she sat down on a narrow bench in the middle and, unable to resist the urge to glance over her shoulder, shriveled as she found Stepan’s eyes fixed on her. His eyes, she conceded, were undeniably beautiful. Her breath quickened, and she clutched her arms to her chest. Did Natasha notice? The thought barely crossed her mind when Natasha reached overboard, scooped up some water in her palm, and sprinkled Stepan.

With a jerk of his hand, he wiped water from his suddenly paled face and spat out the end of his cigarette. You will pay for your mischief, he said, laughing.

Lyuba could not help