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The Story of Us: The sweeping historical debut of 2018 that you will never forget
Lana Kortchik
'A powerful and hard-hitting novel' – Deborah Swift Love can’t be defined by war…Watching the Red Army withdraw from Ukraine in the face of Hitler’s relentless advance, Natasha Smirnova realises her life is about to change forever.As Kiev is cast under the dark cloud of occupation, Natasha falls in love with Mark, a Hungarian soldier, enlisted against all his principles on the side of the Nazis.But as Natasha fights to protect the friends and family she holds dear she must face up to the dark horrors of war and the pain of betrayal. Will the love she and Mark share be strong enough to overcome the forces which threaten to tear them apart?The Story of Us is a powerful tale of love, loss, and the power of hope set in Kiev during the Second World War, perfect for fans of Kate Furnivall, Pam Jenoff and V. S. Alexander.What readers are saying about The Story of Us:‘A really brilliant read’‘Excellent research and a fascinating story’‘Great story, definitely worth reading’‘I was really drawn into the story and finished it in a few sittings, and would recommend it heartily’‘Brilliant story, from the start to finish just couldn't put it down. Such a good author’
About the Author (#u1325997f-3c55-5091-9c95-cb3cab63da3b)
LANA KORTCHIK grew up in two opposite corners of the Soviet Union – a snow-white Siberian town and the golden-domed Ukrainian capital. At the age of sixteen, she moved to Australia with her mother. Lana and her family live on the Central Coast of New South Wales, where it never snows and is always summer-warm, even in winter. She loves books, martial arts, the ocean and Napoleonic history. Her short stories have appeared in many magazines and anthologies. She was the winner of the Historical Novel Society Autumn 2012 Short Fiction competition and the runner-up of the 2013 Defenestrationism Short Story Contest. This is her first novel.
Praise for The Story of Us (#u1325997f-3c55-5091-9c95-cb3cab63da3b)
‘A powerful and hard-hitting novel, it tackles the themes of loyalty and compassion, and emphasizes the hard choices that need to be made in wartime.’
Deborah Swift, author of The Lady’s Slipper
‘Its powerfully descriptive language pulls you into the bleakness of war, the longing for peace, and the exhilaration of profound, unconditional love.’
Marie Silk, author of Davenport House
‘I didn’t want this story to end. It’s one of those books you hold close to your heart and don’t want to let go … left me speechless and wanting more.’
Sharon Laker, author of The Railway Mice of Countesthorpe
‘I cried, smiled, gasped and laughed while reading this book. It will stay with me long after I’ve finished it.’
J.L. Leslie, author of Tame Me
The Story of Us
LANA KORTCHIK
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Lana Kortchik 2018
Lana Kortchik asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © December 2018 ISBN: 9780008314835
Version: 2018-11-16
Table of Contents
Cover (#ue27f3e76-5227-50b4-a38b-5912fdf34d3d)
About the Author (#uc50abd88-0a4d-53a7-ab08-5ebad781487d)
Praise for The Story of Us (#u78dee1d1-495c-55f1-9ce4-d08a70b701f9)
Title Page (#u69a3a054-2aad-5270-8ecf-a95b080e0c52)
Copyright (#u64959647-be21-5db3-8a57-4a190a87ee0d)
Dedication (#u3ddb82e5-3b93-583b-af87-2bbc012cd3be)
Part I – In Iron Shackles (#u12e6725f-81e4-5d5f-8dca-94777f763d6a)
Chapter 1 – Black Cloud Descending (#ubf1f099f-0b00-5ee9-ba02-21cfd3350349)
Chapter 2 – The Barbaric Hordes (#uf421a467-0be4-508c-8edc-23a677a1a40f)
Chapter 3 – The Soldier (#uedb4fc26-3abd-5b67-815a-189755d40293)
Chapter 4 – The Bleak Despair (#uc65db4bc-c239-5549-aa5a-a235a56cd84d)
Chapter 5 – A City Ablaze (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 – The River of Death (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 – The New Beginnings (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 – The Snow and the Illusions (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 – The Icy Fortress (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 – At the Crossroads (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 – The Impossible Choices (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 – A Beacon of Happiness (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 – Freedom’s Elusive Glare (#litres_trial_promo)
Part II - The Everlasting Hope (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 – Rays of Sunshine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 – The Utmost Chaos (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 – Tentative Promises (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 – A World Aflutter (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 – Against All Odds (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 – Waiting for a Miracle (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 – The Battle of Kiev (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Thank You for Reading! (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading… (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
For my mum.
Thank you for always believing in me.
Part I – In Iron Shackles (#u1325997f-3c55-5091-9c95-cb3cab63da3b)
Chapter 1 – Black Cloud Descending (#ulink_039ae7e8-9ac8-5a2d-a586-00ab1f1e7e3d)
September 1941
It was a warm September afternoon and the streets of Kiev were crowded. Just like always, a stream of pedestrians engulfed the cobbled Kreshchatyk, effortlessly flowing in and out of the famous Besarabsky Market. But something felt different. No one smiled, no one called out greetings or paused for a leisurely conversation in the shade of chestnut trees that lined the renowned street. On every grim face, in every mute mouth, in the way they moved – a touch faster than usual – were anxiety and unease, as if nothing made sense to the Kievans anymore, not the bombings, nor the fires, nor living in constant fear.
Most stores were padlocked shut and abandoned, and only one remained open on the corner of Taras Shevchenko Boulevard and Vladimirovskaya Street. A queue gradually swelled with people, until they spilled over into the road, blocking the way of the oncoming cars that screeched to a stop, horns blaring and harsh words emanating from their windows. Soon, as is often the case in a line for groceries, a heated argument broke out near the entrance to the store.
‘I’ve been standing here since four this morning, I’m not letting you ahead!’ screamed a red-faced man with dull eyes. He looked angry enough to strike the intruder, a small woman holding an infant.
‘I have a baby. She hasn’t eaten since yesterday,’ the woman pleaded, lifting her little girl for everyone in the queue to see.
‘So what? You are not the only one with a mouth to feed,’ said the angry man.
The woman moved towards the end of the line, while her baby screamed at the top of her lungs.
‘Do we have to listen to this?’ were the parting words from the man.
‘Come over here, my dear,’ said an old woman dressed in a winter coat with a kerchief over her head, despite the mild weather. ‘You can go in front of me if you like.’
‘Why are you letting her ahead? We’ve been waiting for hours,’ complained a matronly lady behind the old woman.
‘And another two minutes won’t make a difference,’ replied the old woman in an I-won’t-hear-any-argument voice. And apart from a few belligerent looks, she didn’t get any.
As the mother thanked the old woman with tears in her eyes, two young girls and a boy approached the store from the direction of the Natural Sciences Museum. They didn’t try to jump the queue but stood quietly at the back, unsmiling and serious, as if they were attending a lecture at a prestigious university.
‘What are we queuing for?’ asked Natasha Smirnova, a tall, dark-haired waif of a girl.
‘Sausage,’ said the old woman.
‘Flour,’ said the woman with the baby.
‘Tomatoes,’ said the matronly lady. But no one seemed to know for a fact, and the line didn’t move, nor did anyone leave the store with bags of sausages, flour or tomatoes.
‘That’s good. Tomatoes will keep,’ said Natasha.
‘They won’t keep,’ replied her companion, a petite redhead with a ponytail and a sulky expression on her face. ‘We’ll have to eat them in a week.’
‘If we pickle them, we can have them all winter.’
‘Winter? This war won’t last till winter,’ said the young mother confidently.
‘You mean, we won’t last till winter,’ murmured the old woman. ‘Not if the Nazis come here.’
‘Haven’t you heard?’ said the old man directly in front of the woman with the baby. ‘Chernigov fell last week.’ The old man puffed his chest out, seemingly proud to be the bearer of such important news.
‘What are you talking about?’ exclaimed the old woman. ‘If Chernigov fell, we would have known about it. We would have heard on the radio.’ Others in line had interrupted their conversations and were now listening in, their faces aghast.
‘Believe me, comrades, Chernigov is in German hands,’ said the man, enjoying the attention. ‘I heard it from my cousin, a captain in the Red Army.’
‘My daughter is in Chernigov,’ cried the old woman, wrenching her arms.
The queue fell quiet. Chernigov was only a hundred kilometres from Kiev. If Chernigov fell, was Kiev next?
‘Let’s go home,’ said Natasha dejectedly. ‘We won’t get anything here. The queue is not even moving. Let’s just go home.’ She regretted stopping at the store and overhearing the conversation. Dread like liquid mercury spread inside her, heavy and paralysing.
The three of them made their way through the crowds towards Taras Shevchenko Park, wide-eyed at the commotion around them. Those who weren’t busy queuing for food occupied themselves by looting and robbing. The Red Army had retreated in July, and the government evacuated in August. In the absence of any form of authority, no shop, library, museum or warehouse was safe. Men, women, even children, moved from store to store, laden with sacks and boxes, searching for something valuable, preferably edible, to steal. Outside the entrance to the park, two men carried a piano and a woman struggled with a potted plant and a typewriter. Eventually, she placed the typewriter on the ground and took off with the plant. ‘It’s a palm tree,’ said Natasha, watching the woman with a bemused expression on her face. ‘I wonder what she’s going to do with it. I’d take the typewriter if I were her.’ When she didn’t receive an acknowledgement from the redhead, she added, ‘Lisa, will you look at that?’
‘Who knows what she’ll do?’ replied Lisa, shrugging. ‘Grow bananas? Barricade the door from the invading Germans?’ She chuckled but her eyes remained serious.
When the woman disappeared around the corner, Natasha turned to Lisa. ‘We should get going. If Papa realises we’ve left, we’ll be in so much trouble.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Lisa. ‘He’s too busy searching his newspapers for news from the front to think about us. He won’t even notice we’re not there.’
Pulling Lisa by the arm, Natasha replied, ‘He’ll notice all right, especially if you don’t get a move on.’ At nineteen, she was only a year older than her sister but she was always the serious one, the more responsible one. Sometimes she admired Lisa’s impulsive character, but not today. Not on the day when the Nazis were perilously close and their father was going to kill them.
Lisa turned her back on her sister, her long red hair swinging out to whip Natasha across the face. ‘Alexei, are you coming?’ Her voice was too loud for the muted street, and several passers-by glared in her direction.
Alexei Antonov, a blond, broad-shouldered boy, had stopped at what seemed like the only market stall in Kiev that was still standing. The stall boasted a great selection of combat knives, and Alexei was in deep conversation with the owner.
