Max and Magda

This is how their days went. During the day, both had to work. Terrible jobs, of course, since neither had so much as a middle school diploma. Still, even young as they were, they saw how much time, how many years sprawled before them. For years, the future had been a thing the enemy pried from their near-dead hands. In Poland, when the morning came, and the slave labour, and the horror, began again, neither of them knew if they’d live to see another sunrise or even sunset. Not that living or dying made too much difference where they were. There seemed to be no boundary between the dead and the living. Neither of them really wanted to live. Staying alive didn’t feel particularly important. Out of spite and nearly involuntary instinct, both survived. 

For Max, seeing her alive gave back his will to live. Not for his own sake but for Magda’s. Max wanted to keep her safe, to keep her breathing. He’d heard somewhere that while there was life there was hope. He did not quite believe that, but he did when he thought of all the things he did, all the things he’d be willing to do, to keep Magda alive. 

One time, she told him that the act of saving her wasn’t just about her as a person. Though she loved him dearly for it, she told him, it was about who he was. 

“You’re a protector. It’s your nature. Me being the lucky one you happened to choose was incidental,” Magda had said.  

Max hadn’t agreed. It was their first fight. 

They went to work angry that morning. Max was miserable the entire time. For the first couple hours, he was angry at her. Then he felt like an ass and could not wait to apologize. 

It was a long day. 

When he got back to their cabin, she was sitting in her chair, peeling potatoes. Max washed up and joined Magda, settling down in the chair closest to hers. Looking at the ingredients, he could tell she was preparing a stew. As always, there would hardly be any meat in it. They could not afford any more. 

The Ukraine was a country under communist rule. You had to have food tickets, which barely provided you with enough to prevent starvation. Obviously, the black market for food items flourished. People, every single person, stole what they could from their jobs to trade for food. Those who worked with livestock and food products stole that and traded it for furniture, for cloth, for whatever they wanted. The problem was, Max and Magda did not have jobs that had good opportunities for theft. Stealing from the state was one thing, but Magda cleaned people’s homes. Stealing from a person was a much larger violation than stealing from a state-owned factory or some such. Of course, putting “state-owned” in front of “factory” was redundant. There were no privately owned businesses in the country, not really. Almost not at all. 

Max reminded himself that they could someday leave. Nothing would be keeping them here. They’d learn French and go live in France like they wanted to do when they were hospitalized there. Or they’d learn English and go to England. Both Max and Magda spoke German. It was their native tongue for them both. It was the only language they truly had in common, so they used it all the time with each other, though it was a hateful feeling for them both. They started sprinkling in a little Russian, so eventually they would never have to use German again. Nevertheless, English was easy to learn for German speakers. Everyone said so. So maybe England wasn’t such a terrible idea, down the road, once they found their footing in this brave new post-war world. 

For now, the Ukraine suited them well enough. They were, after all, exactly the kind of folk communism was tailor-made for. Young people without a penny to their names. The poor, the uneducated, who did not mind others having all their belongings taken because it meant they were less likely to starve. That was the one good thing. Wretches that the two of them were, they wouldn’t be beggars on the streets here. Instead they’d have terrible jobs and they’d sit in their tiny room, cold and hungry, but at least they were unlikely to die of it. The type of poverty that can’t kill you but won’t ever let you escape. That was Communism. It was not a comfortable fit, but Max kept reminding himself that at least they weren’t on the streets. The Ukraine was not an easy life, but both he and Magda had known worse. Far, far, worse. So did it really matter at this point whether they were always a little tired, a little hungry and a little cold? No, all that was nothing compared to what they survived. And they were together. That was something. Yes, that was something. 

Thinking such things, the time passed slowly for Max. He did not know what exactly he should say. It was hard, worrying that Magda could just leave. It made him want to retreat, to keep conflict away. To keep his thoughts to himself. That was no way to live. There had to be some way for Magda to see how much he loved her and how he never wanted to spend time away from her. Max wanted to be with her for the rest of his life. So he started to tell her. He said a great many things. 

“You’re all I have,” he said. 

I’ve never said anything before because I was scared. I knew it would change things and I didn’t want changes. I had been so happy just to know you are alive that it would have been enough. Then we came here and nothing altered for a bit. Until it did. Which made me realize that no matter what I do, things won’t stay the same anyway. That we couldn’t just live next to each other and never deal with the situation. It made no difference whether I rocked the boat or not. So I’m not afraid anymore. This is me dealing with the situation. Just know I’ll always care about you, whatever you decide. 

He had the sense that something was forgotten, left dangling, but what it was he could not say. Magda blinked at him sadly. 

“What are you saying?” she asked. “Are you asking me to leave?” she added. 

Max looked at her in shock. “I must have done it all wrong! Leave? I don’t want you to leave. I love you. I want you to marry me.” 

Magda cried and laughed. “You really did do it wrong! Truly!” 

“What do you say?” Max asked, more self-conscious than he could remember being. 

“Yes! Of course I’ll marry you, stupid!” 

“I love you,” Max said. 

He looked at her with a hopeful, slightly worried, look on his face. Looking back, even he would admit that the expression must have been tender in the open, vulnerable, child-like face he used to wear when he was with her.