by Kelli Stuart
My head begins to spin, and I shut my eyes tight to quell the confusion that rips through me. “When he returns home from where?” I whisper. Tanya snorts next to me.
“What is wrong with you?” she asks. “When he returns home from the fields. He and Dima always get home in the evening.”
And that’s when I hear the snap. As Mama and Tanya stare at me, the room grows increasingly warm. I take it all in, the wooden walls, the fabric flapping in the window, the birds chirping and the water boiling. Then I look down at the table where Tanya and I sit, and that’s when the color in the room starts to fade.
There is food on the table. Why do we have food? This memory suddenly feels out of place, as though it’s a story drawn from imagination rather than reality. Did we always have food? No, of course we didn’t. We never had enough food for a salad, or a hearty borsch. I never sat and watched the window fabric dance happily in the open frame. And I never heard my mother refer to my father in the present. My father resided only in the past tense.
This isn’t a memory—it’s a dream. Or maybe it’s a nightmare, for the loss of this type of experience in my youth feels so very empty. It feels as though a knife has sliced right through me. I look down at my hand, and blood is pouring from the wound now. The room is spinning, and it’s gone from hot to bone-chillingly cold.
I remember now where I came from. I remember who I was. And I remember why I left.
Annie
“Hey you!”
Annie pulls her head from her locker and turns to James, a wide grin splitting her face.
“What’re you doing?”
Annie sighs and turns back to her locker. “I’m looking for my Biology book. It’s somewhere in the abyss.” She gestures to her locker, strewn with papers and binders and books. James laughs. He leans forward and rifles through the locker, a look of mock horror painted on his face.
“You know, I think there are whole TV shows dedicated to people who can’t throw stuff away,” he says. Annie punches him in the shoulder.
James pulls his arm out and thrusts a book in the air. “Haha!” he says, triumphant. Annie raises one eyebrow and gestures with her chin.
“That’s Civics,” she says. He brings his arm down and looks at the book.
“Oh,” he says with a shrug. “Well... need your Civics book?”
Annie smiles and nods. “I do, actually,” she says, plucking it from his outstretched hand. “Thank you.”
James shrugs and looks down at the floor. “What’s this?” he asks, leaning forward to pick up a sheet of paper that fell. He turns it over and takes in the picture.
“Oh, that’s nothing!” Annie cries. She reaches out to grab the picture, but James pulls it away.
“Did you draw this?” he asks.
Annie shifts from one foot to the next. Her cheeks are warm as she watches James study her drawing.
“How did you...” James stops and clears his throat.
“I saw a picture on your photo stream,” Annie confesses. “Are you mad? I really didn’t mean to draw them. It just sort of came out one day when I was in class.”
James shakes his head. “I’m not mad,” he says, his voice hoarse as he studies the picture of his mother and sister. Pencil drawn, the lines are smudged and faded, but the image is still so clear. She captured his mother well, the way her smile turned up a little higher on the right side than the left, and how her bangs hung across her forehead as though she’d left the house without brushing her hair that morning.
But it was the drawing of his little sister that really took his breath away. James blinks back tears as he takes in the way her eyes seem to dance. Annie had somehow managed to capture the mischievous way Lily had always grinned at the camera—like she knew a secret that no one else knew, and she couldn’t wait to share it with you.
“Can I keep this?” James asks. He looks at Annie and she nods.
“Yes, of course,” she says. “It’s not my best drawing,” she confesses.
James steps forward and kisses her, his mouth lightly brushing across hers. Annie pulls back, surprised.
“Sorry,” James says, his cheeks deepening to a crimson. “It’s just...” he looks back down at the drawing. “Annie, this is amazing.” He looks up at her, his brown eyes swimming. Annie swallows a lump in her throat.
“I’m glad you like it,” she whispers. They stare at one another for a long moment before laughter interrupts them.
“Aw, look how cute! The little Mama is so happy with her Baby Daddy.”
Annie whips her head to the right to see the group of girls standing at their lockers across the hall. The tall one, Sarah, raises one eyebrow.
“So when are you due?” she asks.
Annie puts her hand self-consciously over her stomach. James grabs her arm and gives her a tug. “C’mon,” he mutters. He slams her locker shut and pulls her with him.
The girls laugh as Annie stumbles behind James, blinking hard as she follows him down the hall. Dizzy, she grabs his arm to steady herself. They turn the corner and Annie stops, her feet frozen in place.
“People know,” she says. Her voice is calm, monotone. There is no inflection, no emotion, but she feels the hollowness of her words. James drops her arm.
“Looks like it,” he says.
Annie looks down at her stomach. It’s February now, so the cold weather gives her more opportunity to dress in layers. But even beneath her bulky sweatshirt, the protrusion of her stomach is obvious.
“I knew people would find out eventually,” she mutters. “I knew they’d start talking.” She looks up at him, her eyes shining.
“They think you’re the father,” she whispers, a look of horror crossing her face. She puts her hands on her cheeks, hoping to cool them down, to stop the hallway from spinning so fast. “James, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
James shrugs. “Who cares?” he asks. “I don’t even know those girls’ names. I couldn’t care less what they think of me.”
“The girl talking was Sarah,” Annie replies. “I’ve know her since we were kids. She came to my twelfth birthday party.” Annie closes her eyes and shakes her head.
James sighs. “You don’t have to apologize, Annie,” he says. “And you really don’t have to defend me. They can think whatever they want. We only have to see them for three more months, then we’re out of here.”
Annie swallows hard and looks down. “I’m due in two months,” she says. “I’ll have the baby before school is over.”
James watches her, but doesn’t respond.
“I have it narrowed down to two potential families to raise the baby,” she says. “Did I tell you that yet?”
James shakes his head no.
“They both seem nice,” Annie continues. “I don’t really know how to choose. This is all so confusing and hard, and with my grandmother still in the hospital, my mom isn’t really available to help me decide. I don’t have anyone to talk to,” she says.
James clears his throat. “What about Toby?” he asks, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably. Annie winces.
“I called Toby last week to talk to him about it. He said he doesn’t care. I haven’t seen him since before Christmas.”
The bell rings, and Annie jumps, the sound echoing like a clanging symbol beating against the insides of her brain.
“Well,” James says. He looks down at the drawing in his hand, then looks back up at Annie. “If you need help deciding, or you just need to talk, I’m here, okay?”
Annie nods. “Okay,” she whispers. She leans over and gives him a soft kiss on the cheek. “Thank you,” she murmurs.
Annie turns and rushes down the hallway to her next class. James watches her go, his heart racing as he tries to process the overwhelming emotion that’s bubbling in his chest. It feels like love, but he’s not sure he really knows what that is. All he knows in that moment is that he would do anything to protect her.
Elizaveta
O, cold melody of my h
eart!
Why do you torture me?
I’m trapped. For the second time in my life I am imprisoned, only this time it’s not a physical confinement. I can feel my extremities on the outside world, but somewhere inside I am unable to break loose. People talk around me in words and syllables that don’t make sense, a gibberish that leaves me exhausted. Shapes float in front of me on occasion, some of them almost recognizable, but then they fade, and I slip back into the past. It chased me for so long, and now it has caught me, clutching me tight into the vice-like grip of memories that are too terrible to bear.
Each time I slip back into it, I find myself back on the bank of the pond. Only it’s not springtime anymore. It’s winter, and I’m freezing. The willow tree isn’t silver-green. It’s barren, the branches pricking mercilessly at my arms and neck. It’s mocking me, that tree. Reminding me that the shadow of my past cannot be avoided.
“Victoria!”
The voice pierces my thoughts, weary and drawn. I look to the left, following the sound of the voice, and I see it again. It’s my home, the small, wooden roof heavily slanted over rickety walls that never really kept us warm in the winters. But after the long years in Siberia, none of us complained, because this house was the home we longed for when we lived in captivity. Mama said it was our answer to prayer, but I didn’t understand what that meant; it was an answer to her prayers, perhaps, for I had never prayed.
I struggle to my feet, my joints screaming against the aching, bitter cold. I feel something turn inside me and look down, horrified. This is a new memory, one that I haven’t yet been forced to relive. My stomach protrudes just enough that it unlocks this moment. I remember the feeling of life moving around inside of me. I look back at the house, and I know. This is the day that it all happened. This is the day that I’ve spent a lifetime trying to erase.
I look back at the water in the pond. It’s frozen, but I can tell where the ice is thin. It would be so easy to walk out there, to step to the places that would crack and open up, swallowing me whole. But somehow I know it wouldn’t matter. I’d still end up back here. I’d still be forced to relive this moment.
“Vika!”
Turning back, I slowly begin to make my way toward the house, a sense of dread building in my chest. I step inside and take sight of Mama standing over the fire, stirring a broth in the small pot. The broth is mostly water. There is one small potato tossed in, and half of an onion. The rest is simply melted snow, heated up and stirred into a loose soup that won’t satisfy any of us.
There is no bread because the grain supplies are gone. Everything our village harvested in the last two years was given to a government who did not know how to use it. And the overtaxed ground yielded so much less than it had before. The war had devastated our land, leaving it dusty and dry, and with so many men gone, sacrificed to the Nazis and the gulags, those of us left behind were less confident on how to coax produce from the earth. So we found ourselves, once again, at the mercy of a ruthless government, taxed to the point of death, and starving because there was nothing left when it was all said and done.
Mama turns to face me, and I take in a sharp breath. Her face is drawn, her cheekbones clearly defined under dark eyes. I remember this now, the way my strong Mama had faded in the years following the gulag and Dima’s departure. I remember the way that the light had faded in her eyes, and how her spoken prayers had changed from whispered psalms of praise to desperate pleas for deliverance. This is the Mama I find in today’s memory. I look at her skeletal face, and my heart slows. Her features had hardened, yet still there was a gentleness in her eyes that hunger and heartache never did steal away.
“Darling, I need you to help me feed Tanya,” Mama says. She turns to look at my sister who lies still in the bed. Tanya is young, and she’s sick again. She was sick a lot that winter. I remember now how many times we were certain she would die, and each time Mama managed to nurse her back to life. Mama said it was because she prayed, and God saw fit to answer her.
I think it’s simply a matter of luck, though I cannot decide if it’s good luck or bad luck that would keep Tanya in this ice-cold hell.
I walk to my sister and sit down on the bed beside her. She looks up at me, blinking heavily in the dim light. There’s a hardness permanently etched inside her eyes. It settled there the day we left Siberia, when we ripped her from Svetlana’s arms and forced her to mold into the broken family that she didn’t understand. She looks at me as though she’s hoping for me to somehow free her, but I can’t hold her gaze long enough to offer any kind of reassurance.
I stand up and turn to Mama, reaching for the bowl of broth in her hands. She looks back at me in horror. Her eyes drift to my stomach and then back to my face, and I know she’s figured out my secret.
“You’re pregnant,” she whispers.
I don’t answer because what can I say? I take the bowl from her trembling hands and turn to sit next to Tanya. Blowing first on the steaming broth, I slowly tilt the spoon toward her upturned lips and let it drip into her mouth. She winces as it burns her tongue, then swallows. For several minutes, I feed her in silence. Finally, she relaxes against the blanket folded beneath her head and drifts to sleep. She ate only half the broth.
I stand up and take the bowl to the fire, trying to warm away the cold. It’s just the three of us here. Just me, Mama, and Tanya. I remember it all now, everything I’ve been running from for so long. It’s all right here, staring me in the face. I turn to look at my Mama who now sits quietly in a chair in the corner. I feel the hardening in my heart, the ice that settled in my veins and allowed me to make the unimaginable choice.
“You should eat the rest of the soup,” she says softly.
I nod. Looking into the fire, I stand before it letting the heat nip at my cheeks. I fill the bowl up with more soup and take a sip. It’s hot, scalding my tongue and throat. I swallow and still feel empty. I know that the feeling won’t go away, even after I finish the bowl. The emptiness has never really left.
“Who is it?” Mama asks.
I turn to face her, the firelight flickering across her skin in a sorrowful dance. The kerchief on her head keeps her hair back so that the light perfectly frames her features.
“Kolya,” I reply.
Kolya worked the land with me as a laborer on the soil that didn’t belong to either of us. I didn’t love him, and I knew he didn’t love me, but he had decided to join the Red Army, to fight the Nazis and defend the Motherland, and he was scared. He had returned home after the war ended and confided in me the horrible things he had seen and experienced. It was one warm, autumn evening under the stars. He poured out his heart, and I wanted to comfort him, to somehow take away the pain that laced every word that came from his mouth. It was one night that meant nothing to either of us, and when it was over Kolya got up and left without even saying goodbye. For him, that was just another evening in a long string of evenings that would comprise his life. But for me, that evening would be the catalyst that changed everything.
“How far?” Mama asks.
I shrug. “I don’t know,” I reply.
Mama leans forward and puts her head in her hands. “Dorogaya,” she whispers. “What will we do with a baby?”
My jaw tightens in defense. It’s the question I’ve asked myself repeatedly in the months since I figured out my situation. I lift my shoulders up, then let them drop because I can’t answer her question.
“How could you let this happen?” Mama asks. She looks up at me, and for the first time in my life I see anger flash across her face. My gentle Mama, always soft spoken and kind, looks at me through narrowed eyes. There’s a fire that dances in the center, and I can’t figure out if it’s a reflection of the fire behind me, or if it’s coming from inside her. Either way, I shrink back.
“You foolish, foolish girl,” she seethes. “I can’t find enough food to keep you and your sister sustained, and now there will be a baby?” Mama pushes up off the chair and shakes her
head.
I raise my chin in defiance. “You don’t have to worry about it, Mama,” I say. “This is my responsibility. I will take care of it.”
Mama laughs. It’s a strange sound, to hear my Mama unleash such mirth. After so much happened, losing my father, surviving the gulag, losing Dima, and working herself to the bone every day, this would be the thing that broke her. Me.
I was the heartache that she wouldn’t overcome. Toska.
“And how will you do it, Vika?” she asks. “You are nineteen years old, unmarried, and a laborer. More than that, you are a kulak. That is a special brand of disgrace that you will pass to this child. This world isn’t good to women in our position. So what will you do now? How will you provide? How will you keep this child alive?” In two swift steps, Mama reaches me, her face so close to mine that I smell the hunger on her breath.
“My darling, you have no idea what it feels like to lose a child. You do not understand the devastation of not being able to provide for the ones who came from your womb. It’s a heartache that never leaves you. Why did you do this? Why?” She looks at me, her eyes swimming with tears. “This isn’t anything I ever wanted for you,” she whispers. Her words are daggers. They cut through me, slicing into my core, filling me with such a sense of failure and dread.
I can’t stay here. I need to get out.
I draw in a sharp breath and step away from her, shaking my head from side to side.
“Don’t, Mama,” I whisper. “Don’t try to put shame and guilt upon me.” I feel it then. The anger that had been bubbling just beneath the surface since my years inside the schoolhouse of the holding camp in Siberia begins to boil. “I’m only in this position because of our traitorous Papa.” The words come out hot. Tanya stirs on the bed behind me, and Mama draws back as though I had struck her.
“What did you say?” she whispers.
“I spoke the truth. If my father had not been a kulak, none of us would be here. Dima would still be alive. And we never would have gone to that horrible place.” My chin trembles violently, but I refuse to let the emotion break me. These are the words I wanted to say for years—the words I needed to say.