24 September 1941

It's been two years since I left home. Sometimes it feels like decades, sometimes it feels like seconds but home never feels far. It isn't, really. My home, with the white curtains and the pressed flowers and the herbs potted by the windows, is in the same city. It's only a walk away. I could go back if I wanted to. But I can't.

No one would be there if I did. And how could I go back? When we ran away that night?

In some ways, I like to think that the Samsonovs are better than Maria. I can be left alone, I can escape. No one would harm me, with the Samsonovs. I could walk down the street and they know that I am their ward, they know that I am protected. I couldn't do that with Maria. But sometimes I worry. That if Mama and Papa came back, they wouldn't know where to find me. I wouldn't be with Maria, where they left me. I would be here, in this dark red prison.

Sveta thinks it's a prison. She pretends she doesn't but I see it. She didn't mind it so much when Veronika was alive. But the only thing left of Veronika is that empty room that neither of us can walk by. I have to run down that corridor, past the room, like I did that day. But I don't stop like I did that day. I don't stop, I can't stop.

That day won't get out of my head. I wake up in a cold sweat with the gunshot still ringing in my ears and the door just there, closed before my eyes, begging me to open it. But I don't. I never did. I let Sveta open that door. I let her go in first when it should have been me. I owed Veronika that and now, I owe Sveta that.

It's strange, living with someone you owe your life to. Living with a girl whose wrists are tied to yours because of her dead mother's quiet rebellion. She doesn't even know. Sveta doesn't think I'm anything but a friend but I'm so much more than just her friend. Did friends keep friends alive? Did friends owe friends like we do?

Sveta would lie and say that she is my friend. And I would lie and say that she is mine. We would both lie and say life pulled us together but that is not true. Stalin brought us together. Stalin and his hatred for Poles. Stalin and his alliance to Sveta's father. I would lie for her and she would lie for me but we don't talk about the lies we tell each other. That everything is fine. That Sveta isn't afraid or burning in anger. That I'm not frozen in my own fear.

Instead, we keep lying and keep pushing forward. Don't push the river, it will flow by itself. 

 Smile, Sveta. 

Step back, Zhanna. 

Smile and keep planning, keep pushing.

I had a dream last night, that Mama and Papa were hammering on the big oak front doors of the Samsonov home, begging to take me home. They had found me. They had found me after two years. I ran down the stairs and they held me, so tightly it felt real. We didn't pack, we didn't say goodbye. I didn't even look back. I knew they were taking me home, really home. Back to Poland where my family was. Aunts and uncles who knew me by name and I them, but I didn't know their faces.

We were running down the streets of Stalingrad, hand in hand. Doing what we did best. Running. Polyakovs run. It's what we did, it's what I still do. Mama and Papa ran from Poland and then they ran back. I ran into the waiting arms of the most powerful family in all of Russia and, now, in this dream and how I wished was reality, was running away again. But they were leaving me again. Their hands slipped through my fingers. I couldn't keep up. And they ran away from me, leaving me behind again. I fell, stumbling, to my knees and when I looked up, they were gone.

I could only hope that this would become a reality. That I would really see them again and I would clasp tightly to their hands and never let go again. Never let them leave me behind.

Sometimes, even when I'm not asleep, I dream that they come back. Or that they took me with them, back to Poland, back to a place that I've only heard of. Back to people I've only heard stories of and read letters from. Aunts and Uncles that I knew by name only but never face or laugh. I only know Stalingrad.

I can lie to myself too. That I don't worry, between the dreams, both waking and sleeping. That I don't think they are gone. I hear from Sveta and the servants about the Poles, who were rounded up. The numbers. The lives lost. Mama and Papa could have been stopped, anywhere between the outskirts of the city to the border. They could be dead. I wish that they would have taken me. That no matter what, running or bleeding, we would have done it together.

I'm tired of being left behind. I'm tired of not being Russian enough for Stalingrad but what if I wasn't Polish enough for my family?

They promised they were coming back for me. They would find me. Mama and Papa would find me. That dream would be a reality. And I would smile, really smile. Zhanna would really smile and the river would keep flowing because it was supposed to happen as I had imagined. Mama, holding me tightly. Papa, his hand on my hair. I wouldn't be cold anymore. We would be together again. That isn't a lie. That isn't a dream. That is my future. That is real. Everything would be okay. Everything was okay. Because we have to follow the path laid out before us.

Sveta will smile and I will step back. Like we are meant to. As we always will.