The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  I leave our futures, then, in your hands. I know you will do your best for us, and can ask no more. Your affectionate niece . . .

  Mathilde leaned back in her chair and glanced over the letter once more before sealing it. She would take it this very afternoon to the village and mail it, but for now she would keep the matter to herself. It would be best not to raise any false hopes in Paul or her father. And perhaps in a few months she might have a tremendous and delightful surprise for both of them!

  11

  How beautiful Katyk was in the summer! The boughs of the trees were thick and heavy with rich green beneath a sky of azure with a smattering of white clouds to give it depth. The earthy scent of newly mown hay mingled in the brisk morning air with the fragrance of honeysuckle.

  Anna could not be blamed for detouring from her purpose that morning. Instead of heading directly to Akulin to attend Mass, she took the little path through the trees to the edge of the stream. She found her way easily down the path that led to a small grove of trees about a quarter of a versta from the main road, and a stone’s throw from the stream. She had been this way too many times in her life to forget it.

  Maples and poplars and birch jutted their leafy branches into the bright morning sunlight, but Anna ignored these on her way to her destination, a hoary willow on the edge of the grove. How old this particular tree was, she had no idea. It had been gnarled and ancient when she had first discovered it as a little girl. Its trunk was thick for a willow, and sitting on the edge of the grove as it did, some of its roots extended to the stream, and those nearest the base were twisted in such a way that as a child Anna could use them as a backrest. But she liked to lean against the trunk itself, where two roots separated and formed a crevice, a kind of nook that seemed to have been formed just for her. As a child she had sometimes imagined it was a royal throne, and the bending branches covered with green were a canopy of emeralds.

  Feeling just a bit naughty, Anna crouched down into the nook. She hadn’t planned on tarrying; there was too much to do at home today, and she had left with her mother’s blessing only because she had planned to go to Mass.

  Today was her little brother Ilya’s Name Day—the day of St. Ilya, or Elijah, when his mighty chariot could be heard rumbling through the heavens. At least that was how the frequent thunder often heard during this season had been explained to Anna as a child, and how she explained it to her own children. Anna described Ilya as her “little brother,” but the phrase fit only in age. He was a man of twenty-five now and had inherited every bit of his papa’s brawny, lumbering largeness, with no small share of Yevno’s gentle simplicity. Ilya had returned only a few months ago from his five-year stint in the army and was now married, with a child of his own on the way.

  Anna’s sisters were all grown up, too, and married. Vera, now twenty-nine, had three sons and a baby daughter and lived with her husband in Katyk, about a versta from her family. Tanya would soon be twenty-seven. Seven years ago, during the terrible famine that had devastated nearly all of Russia, she and her young husband had moved to Moscow in hopes of finding work and lessening the burden at home. But Tanya’s husband did not read or write, and Tanya had never taken well to her older sister’s efforts to teach her as a child, so the family heard little from them. The last correspondence had been several months ago when Tanya had given birth to a son, her third child.

  Anna’s mama, Sophia, lamented that she had a grandson that she had never seen and could not dote upon. The highlight of Anna’s trip to Moscow two years ago for the coronation had been her stay with her sister. It had been a joyous reunion, but difficult as well because the young couple was not faring well. Tanya’s husband had been laid off from the cotton mill, and they were barely making it on the piecemeal work he could find. Anna had wished she could have given them hope in returning to Katyk. But what could they offer here but more poverty and more hunger?

  Ah, Anna, she silently remonstrated herself, you are idling away precious time. You must be on your way so you are not late for Mass and can light a candle for Ilya.

  Times were indeed hard, who could deny it? Yet she also could not deny the fact that God had a beautiful plan for each of her loved ones, her brothers and sisters—even Paul—her parents, her husband, and her children. He had proven himself over and over. Seventeen years ago as she had been passing through the refining fires of tribulation, she could not have imagined ever feeling as content with her life as she now did. Sergei imprisoned for life, Princess Natalia killed in a tragic accident, Prince Viktor fallen, the tsar assassinated. Then came Katrina’s shocking death in childbirth. Anna’s life had gone to pieces in a few short months. All the pillars supporting her faith had splintered and collapsed. Yet God had picked up each shattered fragment tenderly and lovingly and put them back together as perfectly as only a master craftsman could. As she visualized His wonderful work, she imagined that the seams where the breaks had been were now all but invisible. There was still some lingering hurt when she thought of Paul or missed Katrina’s friendship, but that served only as a reminder of how fragile life was and how faithful God was in caring for her.

  That morning, nestled in her favorite place, she breathed in the fragrant air of summer. At thirty-seven years of age, she had been blessed richly by God. She was in her dear old Katyk, married to the man she loved, surrounded by her beloved family, her mama and papa, and her own dear children. God had indeed turned her mourning into joy.

  12

  Anna passed through Katyk on her way home from Mass sometime before noon, walking at a brisk pace along the single dirt street that made up the little village. A few children darted back and forth between the buildings that lined the road. Women outside their houses waved to Anna, and she returned the greetings with a friendly smile.

  Again she realized how she loved this place—her home—though the inconsistency of her affection was not lost on her. How could anyone love such a dirty place, where poverty hung from the dilapidated log izbas like black mourning? How could affection linger where not even a flower bloomed in the dirt yards of the houses? Yet the answer was clear, as clear as the broad azure sky above. It was home!

  As Anna’s papa was fond of saying, “Home is not a kettle or a roof or a fancy icon; it is the hearts and smiles and even the tears of the poor moujiks who dwell there.”

  They had plenty of all those things in Katyk, if nothing else!

  Nearby, a woman who had been standing on the porch beating the dust from a broom began to wave. Anna’s pace quickened as she heartily returned the greeting.

  “Vera!” Anna called cheerfully, although the combined dust from the street and the broom made her nearly choke as she spoke.

  “Anna, you have been to St. Gregory’s,” said Vera. She was a buxom young woman who resembled her mother. Her plump cheeks were a healthy rose color, and her brown eyes sparkled even when her lips did not smile. A faded red babushka covered her braided golden hair, the only feature she had that in any way resembled Anna.

  “Yes, I wanted to light a candle for Ilya.”

  “Oh, Anna! You are so faithful. I thought about going to Mass once today, but the baby has been colicky all morning and then Pavel skinned his knee, and the cow got out and it took Ivan and three other men to round her back up.” Vera threw up her hands and gave a frazzled sigh.

  Anna could only imagine the mayhem her sister described. Vera’s house was never serene. Always one small catastrophe or another. But it was not unpleasant, just extremely lively. Anna enjoyed visiting Vera, but not for too long.

  “Will you still come tonight for Ilya’s party?” asked Anna.

  “Of course!” In Russia, Name Day, the day of the saint after which one was named, was just as important a celebration as one’s birthday. “Mama asked me to bake piroghi,” Vera added with another deep sigh.

  “Meat pastries! But wherever are you to get the meat?”

  “Oh, Mama brought it. She’s been saving her pennies for weeks, she is so
glad to have Ilya back. Oh, to be sure, it’ll take a keen eye to find the small pieces. But, Anna, you know I’ve never been much good at making piroghi! And it’s to be the most important thing there.”

  “Why don’t I stay and help you, Vera? Between the two of us we should manage all right.”

  “No one makes meat pies better than Mama’s. Why did she have to ask me?”

  “There is no better way to learn than by doing.”

  “If only I could afford to make some practice ones.”

  “I’ll stay.”

  “I wish you could, but when Mama was here a while ago with the meat, she told me to make sure you came right home after Mass.” Another ragged sigh broke from Vera’s lips. “I’ll manage.”

  Anna smiled to herself. Vera always seemed to have some woe or other to bemoan, yet she somehow always managed. And her pies were really not so bad.

  Anna bid her sister goodbye and started on her way home again, this time with a quicker, more purposeful step than before. Some of Vera’s bustling activity had rubbed off on her. There was much to do before the festivities tonight, and she had been gone too long already.

  After the last house of the village proper, it was another brisk ten-minute walk to the Burenin home. She had to cross a little wooden bridge over the stream to get to the house; the bridge had been added to the countryside some ten years ago when a flood had caused the stream to change its course. Because of the bridge and a grove of trees, the house seemed much more isolated from the village than it really was. Beyond their house there was only one other, and then the land spread out into the field of grain. Each villager had his own plot to farm, but all was held together in a loose communal bond. Most of the villagers had been farming these same plots for generations, and they appeared to grow smaller as each successive generation divided the plots among the males in the families.

  Anna paused on the bridge, and it swayed a bit under her feet. She didn’t worry; the stream was only a trickle of water now and not too far below the bridge at that. Shielding her eyes from the sun, Anna gazed out toward the rye field, where she could just catch a glimpse of a man swinging a sickle high over his head, harvesting an early crop of grain. She couldn’t make out any details of the worker’s features, but it was the Burenin field, and from the man’s general size—tall and lean as opposed to Ilya and Papa’s hefty brawn—she decided the worker must be Sergei.

  Ah, her dear prince! Yet how natural he looked out there at a peasant’s labors. He had taken well to the country life. Perhaps it was even true, as Sergei often declared, that it had added years to his life. He was still plagued by a frequent cough that had persisted from his time at the Kara mines.

  Before she could reflect further, she heard the shrill sounds of jubilant calls much closer at hand.

  “Mama! Mama!”

  In a moment, two little figures bounded onto the bridge, threatening its rickety structure more than any storm or flood. But Anna only laughed and, kneeling to their level, caught both of her sons in her arms. Yuri, the elder, was eight, and Andrei was six. Like Mama and Papa, she and Sergei had borne children late in life. The doctor thought it might have had something to do with Sergei’s bout with typhus, but whatever the reason, they were glad to have little ones to brighten their middle years.

  The younger, caught up in his initial enthusiasm, blurted out, “Mama, I saw it first. I want to be the first to tell Papa—”

  But Yuri cut in while his brother was still trying to catch his breath. “I am older. I should tell. Tell Andrei, Mama, that’s how it is.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Anna. “How can I make a decision?”

  Andrei jumped up and grabbed his mother’s hand. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

  But Yuri quickly interceded. “If you show Mama, then it is really my place to tell Papa!”

  “That’s not fair!” cried Andrei.

  “Wait a moment, boys!” Anna stood to ease the strain on her legs, then led them both off the trembling bridge. “Why don’t you just tell me—one at a time. Yuri, you are older, so you may go first.” Andrei was obviously unhappy at this but held his peace in hope of final victory.

  “Mama,” said Yuri in as grown-up a voice as he could find, “over in the clearing in the woods by the stream we”—his emphasis of the word “we” was unmistakable—” found a hurt bird. Its wing is broken, Mama. We made a little bed for it and brought it to the barn.”

  “Can we keep it, Mama?” piped up Andrei enthusiastically.

  “Until it is healed and no longer needs us,” said Anna.

  “I know that, Mama,” said Yuri smugly.

  “Can I tell Papa?” asked Andrei, humbly but firmly.

  “If you were the one to find the bird, Andrei, then you should have the privilege of telling Papa.”

  “Oh, thank you!”

  “It is only fair,” added Anna, with a glance toward her older son.

  “Now, Mama?” urged Andrei.

  Anna glanced up at the sun. It was nearly time for the men to take a break from their work.

  “Come. We will take some food and drink out to the field for your papa and uncle and grandfather.” She took the boys’ hands and continued to the house.

  Inside, there was nearly as much activity as there had been at Vera’s, but it was a calm, productive busyness. Preparations for the evening’s festivities were underway. Sophia was chopping cabbage and throwing chunks into the soup kettle, contentedly humming her perpetual nameless tune. At the table, Ilya’s wife, Marfa, only beginning to reveal her five months’ pregnancy, was kneading bread dough. Aunt Polya was stirring the fire under the oven, which was emitting a pleasant odor of some sweet cake.

  As Anna and the boys entered she led them directly to the “beautiful corner” where they crossed themselves before the icon. She had barely finished her brief prayer before the boys were already accosting their grandmother with news of their plans.

  “Mama is going to take food out to the field so I can tell Papa what I found!” declared Andrei in an excited burst.

  Sophia glanced at Anna. “Is this so, daughter? You won’t be long, will you? There is so much to do.”

  “Only half an hour,” said Anna. “But where is Mariana? She was to help you.”

  “I sent her to Vera’s to help out.” Sophia chuckled. “No matter how much work I have, Vera always has more! And to think she has another baby on the way. How will she manage?”

  “Another baby? She said nothing to me.”

  “She only told me this morning. I think she wants to make a big announcement tonight. Don’t let on I said anything.” Sophia gathered up a pile of cabbage chunks in her hands and dropped them into the pot. “Ah, if there is one thing this family has an abundance of, it is little ones. Praise the Saints!”

  Anna smiled at her mother and at the idea of her poor sister with another baby. She made no comment on the fact that she had seen no sign of Mariana at Vera’s, and neither did her sister mention Anna’s niece. Perhaps she had been sidetracked along the way. But Anna brushed aside her mild concern at the urgent proddings of Yuri and Andrei to hurry her up with the midday meal for the men.

  13

  Within ten minutes the children and their mother were traipsing gaily down the dirt path behind the house that led to the rye field, a heavy-laden basket on Anna’s arm. In less than five minutes more, all out of breath because Andrei had turned their walk into a game of chase, the three came within hailing distance of the workers. Anna could now see all three workers. Ilya and Sergei were swinging sickles, working together in perfect rhythmic cadence, while old Yevno followed behind gathering the cut grain.

  Anna would have liked to watch the men for a moment, but Andrei had other notions. He bounded forward, shouting as if he were attempting to engage in battle. The men heard the commotion at once and, not overly distressed to be distracted from their labors, left their work immediately. Sergei bounded forward at a jog, his own enthusia
sm nearly matching Andrei’s. He took the lad up in a big affectionate hug, swinging the boy around several times in the air before setting him back on the ground.

  “Papa, Papa! I found a hurt bird with a broken wing and Yuri and I made a bed for him and took him to the barn and Mama said we could keep it until it was better and I found him first, Papa, because I was walking through the woods like a little mouse just like you said I should—”

  “Hold on, lad!” laughed Sergei. “Don’t you need to take a breath?”

  “Not that one!” chuckled Yevno, tousling his grandson’s golden hair. “He could talk the fancy boots off a rich moujik!”

  “Come, come,” said Anna after everyone’s merriment had settled down. “We can talk while you three men refresh yourselves.”

  The men had been working for hours and did not argue. They found a place to sit by an old fallen tree trunk, and Anna handed out chunks of black bread and a flask of warm tea. The men ate the simple fare as if it were a king’s repast.

  “So, Yuri,” said Sergei when half his bread had been consumed, “were you in on the marvelous find, also?”

  “Yes, Papa,” said the boy.

  Anna noted how different her sons were, for, though Yuri was as full of energy as any eight-year-old, he was more serious, more sensitive than his exuberant younger brother. He resembled his father in this respect as well as in appearance, except for his darker hair and eyes. Andrei, on the other hand, had the light eyes and blond hair of his father, but those eyes could flash with zeal and mischievousness like his Aunt Katrina’s had.

  “Do you know how to care for a wounded bird?” asked Sergei.