“You start at the gymnasium in September,” Galina said, a wistful tremor in her voice. “We will no longer see each other.”
“I may need to buy a toy from time to time,” Filip replied, his eyes fixed on the ground. They were strolling in the park, the air thick with competing aromas of honeysuckle and lilac. He stirred the pebbles on the path with one sandaled foot.
“That’s silly. There are no children in your family.”
“I have cousins,” he protested. “Some of them quite small. They need toys. And we can still meet here, for Sunday dances.”
“You know my mother doesn’t approve of dancing in public,” Galina reminded him. “She only lets me come to hear the songs.”
They walked a while in silence, while birds sang lustily, concealed in flowering fruit trees. “Galya, listen.” Filip stopped at an ornate wrought-iron bench. He perched on the edge of the seat, pulling her down to sit beside him. “You know the troupe, Fyodor Andreevich and his theater players?”
“Of course. I admired your trees in The Cherry Orchard last winter, even if they did need more green paint.”
“We can’t always get what we need, so we make do. I’m learning new ways to mix colors. It can be challenging,” Filip admitted. “But here is what I wanted to say. We need a singer for the summer season, someone to engage the audience while we change sets between plays. What do you think? Would you do it?”
Galina stared at him, wide-eyed. “Me? Onstage?”
“Why not? Your voice is so fine. People would love to hear you sing.”
Galina gazed into the near distance, where a family of ducks paddled around the lily pond, the fuzzy youngsters following their mother like beads on a string. “Mama would never allow it,” she said decisively. “Why even think about it?”
“Well, what if I . . . you know . . . if I were to ask her, to explain . . .” Filip’s voice trailed off, breaking up into a hoarse crackle he thought he had outgrown. He coughed, twice. “It might help,” he continued, back in control of his vocal cords.
Galina said nothing. She watched the ducks dive in unison for tasty tidbits under the water’s surface, their tail feathers wagging in the air like a line of folk dancers’ scarves. A tall thin man walking a large thin mutt passed their bench, casting a questioning glance at the tense silence between the young people. How does he manage to feed that dog? Galina wondered. He must give it all his meat rations.
She pushed away the irrelevant thought, waited until the man and his dog had moved on down the path, and turned to face Filip, her fingers laced tightly together in her lap. “Horosho. All right. We can ask. But don’t be surprised at the answer.”
They boarded the tram at Pushkinskaya Street, found a seat at the rear, facing the back of the car. They sat straight as soldiers on parade, their bodies not touching but close enough to feel the heat radiating from each other’s sunbaked skin. “Look at those tracks,” Galina giggled, watching the car glide along its prescribed course through a web of city streets, the parallel silver rails stretching behind as if spun out by the rhythmically clicking wheels. “Like a pair of snail trails in Mama’s garden.”
Filip smiled absently, his attention focused on the people in the street. Some hurried by with paper-wrapped parcels or string shopping bags, in which he spotted the occasional bunch of carrots or beets. Most people, though, were not moving. They stood in long lines that snaked through the streets and around corners, waiting for a loaf of bread, a half kilo of sausage, a pair of ill-fitting shoes, a small measure of rice. Why was that? He knew there were war shortages, that the nation’s defenders had to be fed and that their needs came first. He had heard, too, that the German occupation troops often commandeered shipments of food and supplies to send to their own homeland, now under attack from both east and west. But wasn’t Ukraine a region of limitless resources and efficient collective farms? The newspapers printed photographs of strong, cheerful women, hair tied back with head scarves, filling vacancies in factories and operating farm equipment while the men served in the armed forces, defending the nation against yet another intruder who had not learned the lesson of Napoleon’s ignominious defeat.
Filip understood the need to make sure basic goods were fairly distributed among the people, to discourage greedy hoarding for personal capitalist gain, but was it really necessary to have these lines? He hated waiting, standing in place in all kinds of weather; more and more, these days, he had to perform this deadening duty while his mother stood in another line for another commodity. With school nearly out and summer approaching, he knew he would be spending precious time at this boring activity, taking time from his painting, his stamps, his books, and his theater work.
“We get off here,” Galina said, tapping his arm. Out on the street, she led him briskly through a maze of alleys, skirting groups of playing children. Pairs of old men sat on overturned crates, absorbed in games of chess or dominoes, while lines of washing snapped overhead, strung between second-story windows.
Filip had never seen this part of the city. Away from the vintage architecture of hotels and elegant tourist guesthouses, the shops and government buildings he passed every day going to and from school, here was life as he had never imagined it. He followed Galina into a short cobblestone alley that ended in a small open courtyard, the earth packed down hard by years of daily use, a water pump and shallow trough in the center. The yard was bordered on four sides with identical two-story brick-front houses; a narrow wooden balcony ringed the upper level.
All around him were signs of life—chickens scratched gravely in the dirt, children squatted over a game of marbles. A woman filled battered tin buckets at the pump; a baby wailed; an old man’s voice raised in querulous anger floated on the afternoon air. Filip’s nose was assaulted with an intensity of smells: harsh laundry soap mingled with cooked cabbage, fried fish, baked goods, the sweetness of rotting fruit.
“How many families live here?” he asked, trying to cover his amazement at this concentration of human activity, its messy intensity completely unlike his own quiet neighborhood.
“Eight,” Galina replied. “About forty people, more or less. Someone is always leaving or coming to stay awhile with relatives.” She led him across the yard and stopped in front of an open door. “Wait here a minute. I’ll get Mama.”
Filip listened with growing apprehension to the kitchen sounds drifting out the open window—a lid clanged against a cooking pot, an oven door creaked shut, releasing the tantalizing aroma of baking dough.
He wanted to run, to be anywhere but here. This cauldron of humanity had no relevance at all to his mission. The errand he had invented, which had appeared so inspired in the sanctuary of the group’s wishful discussion, now seemed foolish and impetuous. What did any of this have to do with Galina singing at the theater? He had new stamps to sort, a Victor Hugo novel to finish reading. His mother, back from the day’s shopping expeditions, would be putting down her crochet hook, or pausing in a game of solitaire, beginning to wonder why he was late. He wanted to run, but felt trapped by the maze of streets and did not know the way out. There was nothing to do but wait.
He became aware, through the ceaseless overlay of noise, of a faint rustling off to the left of the door. Turning, he gave an involuntary shudder, then stepped closer, overcome by curiosity, for a better look. A small oblong table placed against the wall of the house held several rough wooden trays covered with wire mesh. The trays were alive with glossy dark-green leaves and white grubs thick as his little finger. He watched, fascinated, while the revolting mass writhed in an orgy of feeding, like maggots in rotting meat.
“Silkworms.” In his absorption, he had not heard Galina come out of the house. “We take the cocoons to a cloth manufacturer in the Tatar settlement, outside of town, in exchange for food and household stuff. They have horse meat and fine leather things, the Tatars. Sometimes my father carves the belts and little boxes with ornamental designs and sells them in the bazaar. Germans pay good
money for them, along with Papa’s carved ivory brooches and Yalta mementos.”
“I had no idea,” Filip said, bemused.
“Of what? Where silk comes from, or of how we get by? The worms are not much trouble, as long as we can get mulberry leaves for them to eat, and keep the birds away. Come inside,” she instructed. “Mama would rather not talk in the courtyard.”
“I had no idea,” he repeated. His head buzzed, bombarded by impressions, his eyes opened to a complexity of survival tactics far beyond the scope of government programs or Pioneer guidelines. Here, just beyond the reach of the orderly officialdom that ruled his own household, was another way to live, trading worms for food. It was too much.
Galina led him through a small sitting room crowded with old furniture. In passing, his eye caught a faded upholstered chair, a simple lamp on a low cloth-covered table, a sewing machine set on a vintage desk in front of the only window, a narrow daybed against the opposite wall, draped with an ornamental rug, several small embroidered cushions piled at one end. Another rug hung on the wall, a troika speeding through a wooded winter landscape. Filip stopped in front of the tapestry, admiring the realistically rendered horses, manes flying, breath steaming from flared nostrils, a wild look in the single eye turned toward the viewer.
“It’s been in the family for years,” Galina said. “My grandfather was a merchant. He brought it from the Caucasus, along with these others.” She gestured vaguely, taking in the spread and the floral rug beneath their feet.
“And the icon? Are you not afraid to have it on display?” He pointed to the holy image on a high corner shelf, a votive candle reflected in the protective glass.
“Mama is not afraid. She says Saint Nicholas—that’s him, in the icon—will protect us. He has been her family’s patron saint for generations. So far, it seems to be working. Come. Now. Mama has to finish the wood.”
They passed quickly through a doorway draped with floor-length curtains separating the living area from the tiny kitchen. A freshly baked pie cooled on the cast-iron stove, filling his senses with its savory blend of potatoes, onions, and pastry, provoking a gnawing, instantaneous hunger. At home, there would be grape leaves stuffed with rice—he had seen the leaves soaking in a basin when he left for school—and maybe a thin soup for supper, depending on what rations his mother would have received that day. Good, but nothing like this. Was there any hope of getting even a little taste?
Filip was so distracted he did not notice how he and Galina had ended up in the little yard behind the house, where he could see garden tools in a tiny rough-built shed next to a flourishing kitchen garden. A tall, large-boned woman was splitting logs for firewood, stacking the finished pieces under a corrugated metal canopy next to the back door.
He would always remember his first meeting with Ksenia, the indelible impression of bare, powerful arms wielding an ax with as much skill as any man. She had the preoccupied appearance of a woman with too much to do. Her hair, cropped to just below the ears, for convenience rather than any concession to style, was a fine light brown streaked with silver. Her features had none of the radiant beauty Galina so innocently displayed; only a slight resemblance around the mouth revealed the relationship.
“Mama, this is Filip.” Galina raised her voice to be heard above the crack of splintering wood.
Ksenia buried the ax in the chopping block and looked at him with unsmiling gray eyes. “Ksenia Semyonovna,” she introduced herself.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Filip answered formally. “I am sorry to intrude on you. I can see you are busy.”
“There is always work to do.” The words echoed similar pronouncements he had heard repeated in Pioneer meetings and noticed on billboards around the city, but sounded decidedly different coming from this formidable woman. This was no ideology expressed for the good of the people. This was a fact of life.
“Yes. Well, I am involved in another kind of work. Well, not work, exactly, but . . . still important, in its own way . . . you know . . .” Filip floundered, feeling the sure ground of his idea give way in the face of this undeniable practicality. “Galina and I . . .”
“I know. You have been deskmates for years. You start at the gymnasium in the fall. You want to be an architect, yes? Galya chatters about you endlessly.” Ksenia glanced at her daughter, who stood meekly next to her earnest friend, twisting the end of her braid with nervous fingers.
“Oh, yes, I do. Unless I am called to serve the motherland.”
“Like my Maksim,” she said, offering no further explanation. Filip knew Galina’s brother was studying medicine at university, but felt too much a stranger to the household to ask for more details.
“Well. I work with the Theater Players. We are trying to keep our cultural heritage alive for future generations.” The words sounded condescending and grandiose even to his own ears, and he wished he had not spoken them.
Galina tittered. “Go on.” She punched his arm. “Future generations!”
He ignored her. There was nothing to do but continue. “And provide entertainment, of course. A rest from the routine . . . Anyway, we need a singer for the next production, the summer series. I know how your daughter loves to sing. I thought . . .” He trailed off, his courage ebbing with each word.
“And you want her to sing? To exhibit herself on the stage?” Ksenia faced her daughter. “Galya, do you want to do this, in front of all those people? People who may know you? And German soldiers, too?”
The young people both spoke at once, their words mixing in a chorus of enthusiasm the older woman found endearing in spite of her reservations.
“Yes, Mama, I do want to sing.”
“Her voice is so fine; it would be perfect for our program. The audience would be uplifted by its beauty. Don’t we all need some beauty now, in these hard times?” Filip finished bravely. If the cause was hopeless, he had nothing to lose.
“And how long?” Ksenia turned her head to one side, studying their flushed faces.
“Oh, just the summer, Ksenia Semyonovna. We perform Thursday through Sunday evenings, at seven o’clock, so everyone can be home before curfew.”
“No Sundays. Sunday is the Lord’s day.”
“Very well. Ladno.” Filip rocked on his feet, elated. Was she really giving in? “No Sundays. I will arrange it with Fyodor Andreevich.”
“So I can do it? Yes? And Papa will not mind?” Galina hopped in place, just stopping herself from clapping her hands.
“I will explain it to Papa. He will not mind.” Ksenia’s voice was firm. “My husband is often away, selling his jewelry and crafts in nearby towns,” she explained to Filip. “I cannot wait for him with every question.” He nodded, but sensed that making decisions came naturally to this forceful woman; unlike his own mother, she seemed likely to have the last word in any situation.
“Come inside,” she added. “Have some pie before you go.”
2
Kharkov, 4 February 1941
Dearest Mama,
I trust this letter finds you well. I know that life in Yalta is hard, but you are strong. And you have Galya to help you. She is good at practical matters. You know I am not.
About her singing—do not worry about the exposure giving her romantic ideas of a theatrical career. She has been wailing one song or another practically since birth, and I suppose she has a pleasing enough voice, but she lacks the discipline required of professionals, and is probably too old to begin formal training. Well, perhaps not. I really know little about the artistic world, especially of singers. I do know that with the real threat of escalation of the war, many have put aside pursuing personal ambitions until after the conflict ends. So let her sing if it pleases her and people want to listen. Soon enough she will marry and her life will take its course.
The theaters and concert halls are filled to capacity for every performance here. The other day, Uncle Vanya was interrupted by an air raid. Everyone just filed into the bomb shelter, then came back
for the final act. You could say we love Chekhov more than life itself. Recently, the Moscow circus was in town, and the performers say it is the same there, even though the German threat is advancing and many shops are out of food by eleven in the morning. I cannot say I truly understand this madness for theater, film, and ballet, except that we as a people have always loved the arts and appear to need this release, pretending for an hour or two that life is normal and all is well. Psychology is not my specialty.
My studies are going well. I have begun to see some patients at the hospital, under a senior doctor’s supervision. Once the initial shock of dealing with the flesh-and-blood application of theoretical knowledge is past, things begin to fall into place. This is the work I was meant to do.
With regards to the family,
Maksim
Kharkov, 16 May 1941
Dearest Mama,
You do not complain, but I can hear the strain behind your cheerful words. I know that life is difficult for you, especially now that Father has lost his job and is away so much, traveling with his wares. I know he always comes back with money and goods, and that your situation is not as desperate as it is with many here, farther north. Surely, part of the reason is climate; you do not have to survive the harsh, killing winters or the mud-swamped spring and autumn that make life miserable for people here.
Is Father aware of the daily threats and privations you suffer? Does he appreciate your boundless ingenuity, your trading trips to the Tatar villages and the endless waiting for rations which may run out before you reach the head of the queue? The increasing presence of the enemy among us must make a difficult situation almost unbearable for you.
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