by Kelli Stuart
I listen quietly, my mind drifting to my granddaughter lying in a hospital bed, her arms empty. I feel something twist inside, a pain in my heart that’s more than physical. My eyes fill with tears.
“Oh, Mama, it’s okay,” Nina says gently. She reaches awkwardly for my hand. “Annie is okay. She saw the baby for a brief moment, and she’s considering meeting the adoptive parents now, which I think would be the best thing for her. I think she needs to see them and talk to them so that she can feel confident in her decision.”
I slowly reach up and wipe my hand over my eyes, erasing any evidence of emotion. Turning my head to gaze out the window, I wish that I could get out all the words that seemed locked up inside.
“Mama?”
I shift back to look at Nina.
“Mama, are...” Nina sighs and stands up. She rubs her eyes and walks to the window, crossing her arms over her chest as she looks back at the morning sky all blue and alive, the clouds dancing past the hilltops in a morning praise. Nina doesn’t look at me when she asks the question, and her voice is so soft that I have to strain to hear her.
“Mama, did you give birth to me?” Nina asks.
I lean back on the pillows and blink my eyes. For a long moment, the question hangs between us both. It’s heavy and thick, and I feel the weight of her query pressing down on me. I shift my gaze back to Nina who has turned to face me, full of longing and fear. Slowly, I shake my head from side to side.
“Nyet,” I whisper.
Nina’s eyes fill with tears. She nods her head. I reach out my hand to her, to the little girl I raised, the one who left me and made her own path in this world. I remember the morning I held her for the first time, the horror I felt in knowing that she was a part of me that I would not be able to turn my back on. I look in her eyes, and I think of Tanya. Would she be pleased with the job I’ve done? Can I even take credit for any of the good in Nina?
Nina blinks hard as she places her hand in mine. “Who did?” she asks.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I see my sister standing there with us in the room. She isn’t looking at me. She’s looking at her daughter, at Nina. Her eyes are soft as she takes in the sight of this strong, grown woman.
“My. Sister.” The words stagger out in a whisper. “Tatiana Kyrilovna Doroshenko. Tanya.”
Nina sinks down onto the bed, her hand going limp in mine. With my free hand, I point to my chest.
“Victoria Kyrilovna Doroshenko. Vika.”
The name falls from my mouth, so foreign and strange. It is my name, but it’s the name that I abandoned so many years ago. I remember that girl now, but she doesn’t feel like me. It seems that I did manage to rewrite my own history.
“Ekaterina Grigorevna Doroshenko,” I whisper. “My mother.”
Nina pushes away from the bed and takes several deep breaths.
“Dmitri Kirilovich Doroshenko. My brother. Dima.”
Soft sobs escape Nina’s throat as she watches me. I feel the strength beginning to ebb as I siphon off the names that I locked away so long ago. The room is going dim, and I don’t have much time. I need to tell her one more thing.
“Kiril Andreyevich Doroshenko. My father.” I need her to know. I need to give her this one last piece before the darkness pushes over me. “Died,” I breathe. “Gulag. Kulak.”
I sink then into the darkness, and for the first time in months I sleep peacefully. No memories, no heartache. Just rest. As I drift to sleep, a plea escapes my lips.
“Forgive me.”
It passes from my soul with the hint of a sigh. I cannot be absolved of all my guilt, because the one I betrayed is not there to hear me. But as my soul quiets, I hear my mother’s voice, soft and gentle, like a breeze through a meadow. She’s whispering in my ear the way that she did as a child when she pressed up against me in the frigid nights.
“You are forgiven, my daughter. You are forgiven. Accept that because it’s grace, and it’s given for you. You just have to believe.”
The freedom of my confession releases the weight that had clamped down on my soul all those years ago. I grasp at her words, my fingers lacing through them, breathing in a peace I have never known. I was foolish to think that I could choose State over Family. How could I have been so blinded to the truth?
She’s humming over me now, the old lullaby that’s so very familiar. Her voice is soft and warm. She sang this song to me often as a child. I remember.
I finally understand after all these years. I can hear Mama’s song melt into my heart. It’s the one she sang at night, when the icy winds of Siberia thrummed past our little hole in the ground.
A dream is wandering at night,
A nap is following his way.
A dream is asking, “Dear friend,
Where shall we now stay?”
“Where the house is warm,
Where the baby is small.
There, there we will stay,
Lull and hush the baby-doll.”
She would sing this until our bodies relaxed against hers, then she whispered words to a God I never understood or wanted to know, and I accept now that perhaps she had been right all along. And so as the weight of my secrets float away, my spirit joins my mother’s voice in a gentle whisper. I believe now, and it is well. After all these years, it is well.
Ten Years Later
“You ready?”
Nina looks up as Viktor enters the kitchen. The tips of his hair are still wet, and a scent of aftershave trails behind him down the staircase. He steps up behind her and kisses her cheek.
“Almost,” she replies. “I just need to finish the salad.”
Using the edge of her knife, Nina slides the cut radishes off the cutting board and into the waiting bowl. She grabs two spoons and begins mixing it all together, the tomatoes and cucumbers combining with radishes and green onions to make a colorful and inviting summer salad. She tosses in fresh dill and the prepared bowl of smetana, then mixes it all together and inhales deeply and smiles.
“This smells like home,” she says. Viktor grins, reaching over her shoulder and grabbing a cucumber out of the bowl.
“You say that every time you make this,” he says.
“It’s the only dish I really remember my mama making as a kid. I know we ate borsch and vereniki and plenty of blini, but every summer, this is the dish that mama didn’t let go empty. She made a fresh batch of radish salad every single day.”
Nina steps to the sink and rinses off the knife, then grabs a towel and wipes her hands.
“What time are we supposed to be there?” Viktor asks as he reaches in the bowl and pulls out another bite. Nina smacks his hand and shakes her head as he grins sheepishly.
“We’re meeting them at 4:00, then they’ll come back here to have dinner with us. Annie wanted to let the baby get an early nap before they had to leave the house.”
Nina glances out the window and takes in the sight of the perfect spring day. This is the tenth time they’ve visited Mama’s graveside together as a family, and each year it feels more and more like a celebration. Nina thinks back to the morning that her mother passed away, just three days after she offered to Nina what felt like a last confession. She never opened her eyes again after the morning that she shared her real name. It was as though she was finally at peace enough to let go.
Nina spent the year following her mother’s death researching old records, contacting researchers nationwide who specialized in searching for those lost to the generation of gulags. She looked for whatever information she might find on her family and came up empty. Based on her mother’s last name and birthdate, a sketch of where she may have been born was formed, somewhere in central Ukraine, likely on a collective farm, the daughter of a wealthy peasant who became a threat to Stalin’s paranoia.
She also pieced a vague story together based on the very few entries her mother made in the small journal Nina found after her death. Written by the unsteady hand of age, the journal told Nina that her
mother had lived in a holding camp outside the gulag where she survived harsh winters. The details were sparse, but they were enough to paint a picture of the life her mother lived long ago, and they gave her some tangible evidence of her birth mother, Tanya. Nina would never really know where she came from, but somehow what she did know became enough.
“I’ve been thinking,” Nina says as she and Viktor walk to the car. “Annie’s daughter is ten years old now, almost the same age Annie was when my Mama came to stay with us. Annie will probably receive a new update on her soon with a picture. I wonder what she’s like. Last year, Jenny told us that she was becoming quite an accomplished ballerina. I wonder if she’s still dancing...” Nina’s voice drifts off as she considers the granddaughter being raised by another family.
Viktor inhales deeply, taking in the scent of the budding honeysuckle that grows on the side of the townhouse every spring. “Does it bother you still, not really knowing her?” he asks.
Nina cocks her head to the side and thinks. “No, not anymore,” she says. “It did for a long time, but the more I’ve thought about my mother and what she did when her sister left me, the more at peace I am with Annie’s choice. I don’t really know what happened with my birth mother. I don’t know why or how I ended up being raised by her sister, but I don’t think it matters, because that’s how it was supposed to be. I was supposed to be the daughter of Elizaveta Andreyevna Mishurova. Not her sister. And not Victoria Kyrilovna Doroshenko. For whatever reason, my mother needed to abandon that name and start over, and I had to be raised by the woman she became. I won’t ever understand, but it’s okay. Because it led me here, and it gave me Annie, and...” she stops as Viktor pulls open the door and turns to face him.
“It gave me you,” she says.
Viktor smiles and leans in for a soft kiss. “Your big, strong, Russian man,” he says in a thick accent the way her mother would say it. Nina laughs then slides into the car.
Twenty minutes later, they pull up to the cemetery and park in a spot near the small plot where her mother rests. As Nina pushes open her door, she looks up to the crest of the hill and sees Annie and James, the baby set firmly on Annie’s hip. Beside James stands their three-year-old son. When he sees Nina, he breaks into a wide grin.
“Babushka!” he cries, running down the hill, his little legs barely keeping him upright. Nina squats down and catches him just as he trips and falls into her arms. His hands are sticky and his hair is a mess. Nina grins and kisses the top of his head.
“Hello, my beautiful boy,” she croons in Russian. Sasha looks up at her and giggles.
“Mama taught me a new poem today!” he says.
“Oh really,” Nina replies standing up and grabbing his hand. Viktor steps up beside them and ruffles the top of Sasha’s head. “Let me hear it.”
“Beliye baranyi! Bili v barabanyi! Beliye baranyi! Bili v barabanyi!”
Sasha marches in time to the beat of his poem as Nina and Viktor laugh at his enthusiasm. They reach the top of the hill where Annie and James greet them.
“He’s doing well,” Nina says. Annie grins.
“Well, he and I are kind of learning together,” she replies. “Speaking comes pretty naturally, but reading and writing are harder. We’re working on it, pravda Sasha?” she says switching to Russian. He grins back up at her.
“Pravda!” he shouts.
Nina reaches out for the baby, and Annie hands her over. “Privyet, Vika,” she croons in her granddaughter’s little ear. Victoria bounces and babbles, drool spilling down her chin. James reaches over to wipe her mouth, then leans in and gives Nina a kiss on the cheek.
“Privyet,” he says. Nina raises her eyebrows.
“Are you learning Russian, too?” she asks.
“Well, I kind of feel like I have to now!” he answers with a laugh. “Otherwise these three are going to gang up on me, and I’ll never know what’s going on.”
Laughing, the group makes its way to the graveside where they stop and stare at the small plaque marking where the matriarch of the family rests.
ELIZAVETA ANDREYEVNA MISHUROVA
VICTORIA KYRILOVNA DOROSHENKO
“I bet Babushka would like that we come out here every year to visit her,” Annie says softly. Nina cocks her head to the side and offers a wry smile.
“Maybe,” she says. “Or maybe not. She wasn’t much for being outdoors. I can almost hear her tsk-ing and asking me why we don’t just stay inside and drink some chai instead of coming all the way out here.”
Annie snickers. “You’re probably right. She would have had some comment, I’m sure.”
They stand silently for a few more minutes before Sasha breaks through the breeze and interrupts their thoughts.
“Babushka, Ya khochu kushat,” he says, his Russian words lisped. “I want to eat!”
Nina smiles. “Okay, Sashenka,” she says. “We can go back to my house now and eat. How does that sound? And Dyedushka bought you a new toy to play with!”
Sasha jumps up and down and claps his hand, grinning up at Viktor who smiles back, his eyes gleaming with pride. Viktor relishes his role as grandfather, doting on the children at every opportunity.
The group turns to leave but Nina remains. “I’ll be there in a moment,” she says. Annie reaches out for the baby, but Nina meets her eye.
“May I keep her with me?” she asks.
“Sure,” Annie replies. She grabs James’ hand, and the two of them turn and walk down the hill together, Sasha running ahead of them toward the car.
“Hi, Mama,” Nina says softly. The birds overhead chirp in a springtime harmony that fits this perfect day. Nina holds Vika tight as she babbles and kicks her feet.
“This is your great-granddaughter. Her name is Victoria Elizabeth. Annie named her after you.” Nina blinks back tears, pulling the baby in a little closer and putting her chin on top of her little head, her wispy, blonde curls blowing in the breeze.
“We are doing well, Mama. Annie and James are happy and healthy. Annie is even teaching her children Russian if you can believe that.” Nina smiles at the thought of her mother nodding her head in approval.
“Viktor and I have been married for ten years now, and Mama, as much as I hate to admit it, you were right. There is something about a Russian man that is so much better. You would be pleased.”
Nina looks down the hill at the rest of her family. Annie is wrestling Sasha into his car seat while James and Viktor stand to the side talking, probably about the latest book they’re each reading. James is a literature teacher at the local high school, and he’s passionate about his job. He and Viktor love to dissect the books they’re reading, from the poetry of Pushkin to the theology of C.S. Lewis.
Nina turns once more to her mother’s grave and blinks back tears. “Thanks again, Mama,” she says. “Thanks for giving me a chance. I don’t know what happened, but I know it must have been a huge sacrifice for you. I didn’t tell you enough when you were alive, but Mama...” Nina stops and takes a deep breath. “Mama, I love you.”
Turning, she makes her way down the hill to the family that’s waiting, ducking under the willow tree that shades her mother’s grave. Its branches whisper the wisp of a song that Nina can hear gliding away on the wings of the wind.
“A dream is wandering at night,
A nap is following his way.
A dream is asking, “Dear friend,
Where shall we now stay?”
Acknowledgments
No author can claim she did it all on her own. Every story takes a team of people to mold and shape the characters into something that truly resonates. I am most fortunate to have a rock star team who not only cheers me on but also believes in my abilities with unwavering faith. They are the people who make me brave. There are so many people to thank for helping me bring this particular story to life.
First and foremost, I must thank Bethany Hockenbury, my editor extraordinaire and dear friend who spent hours on this project, losing s
leep and sacrificing time in her busy life to ensure the story was as concise as possible. Without Bethany, this book would have been a mess of misplaced commas, overused adjectives, and underdeveloped characters. Bethany, you refuse to let me settle for mediocre. Thank you for pushing me toward excellence.
My dear friend and Ukrainian sister, Svetlana Tulupova, read the earliest version of this manuscript and offered profound insights into the life and history of those who were known as kulaks. Thank you, Sveta, for helping me bring Elizaveta’s story to life. I am deeply grateful for the time you spent gathering details and data so that I could accurately depict that history. You are a gift.
Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to Julia Kuznetsova-Radivlov for reading the manuscript and offering thoughts and perspective on life in 1980’s Soviet Union. Both Julia and Natalia Scarberry were key in offering the little details that give this book necessary authenticity. My dear friends, I am grateful to you both for your enthusiasm and willingness to help an American writer tackle Soviet history.
Emerson Cooper, you are a phenomenal talent. Thank you for so enthusiastically catching my vision for Annie, and for helping capture her through drawings. I am unendingly grateful to you for the time you put into this project, and I’m thankful that I have the unique privilege of calling you family. Keep drawing!
Thank you to Susie Finkbeiner, Jocelyn Green, and Catie Cordiero for listening to my ideas and encouraging me to keep writing and pushing forward in the story. I am deeply grateful to you all for your encouragement.
Thank you to Roseanna White for her expertise in layout and design, and for helping me make this final product a reality! I am so grateful.
Thank you to those who read early copies of the manuscript and offered thoughts, encouragement, and insights into the story so that I could make it stronger: Amy Hewitt, Katie Finklea, Becke Stuart, Barbara Stuart, and Wendy Speake.