The evening meal was nearly done. Talia was setting plates around the table in the small kitchen. Raisa was mashing potatoes while Anna sliced bread. Cabbage soup, with a few bits of beef added for flavor, steamed on the stove, filling the kitchen with a pleasant fragrance. Anna marveled at how simple fare could be made so inviting, but Raisa was something of an artist. She had a special talent for the creative use of seasonings—a bit of garlic, basil, or fennel was enough to make even simple cabbage a gourmet delight.
Andrei came in with an armload of wood for the stove.
“No more wood, Andrei,” said Raisa. “The soup is done, and we don’t want it any warmer in here than it needs to be.”
Andrei dumped the wood in the box near the stove, then washed his hands. “Guess what I saw down the street?” When no one responded immediately, he went on, “Come on, Talia, guess.”
“I don’t know; it could be anything.”
“Use your imagination.”
She shrugged apologetically. “I don’t know—wait a minute! I just thought of something.”
“Well, what?”
“One of those fancy automobiles—a silver one, with a chauffeur and a grand duke and duchess in the backseat.” She smiled, obviously pleased with herself for her inventiveness.
“I didn’t say to make up a fairy tale. Whoever heard of an automobile in our neighborhood?”
“You said to be imaginative,” said Yuri, who had followed Andrei into the kitchen.
“Oh, never mind. If there are no better guesses than that, I’ll just have to tell you.”
A knock on the door interrupted him.
“Who can that be?” Raisa frowned. “And at this hour?” She dried her hands on her apron and headed for the front room. Curious, everyone followed.
Raisa opened the door to reveal a postal clerk, a satchel slung over his back, and mail in his hand. From the kitchen doorway, Andrei grunted.
Anna realized that her son’s announcement had been spoiled by its very object. But letters came so seldom—who would have guessed that the postman he had seen in the street was coming here?
“I’ve mail here for S.I. Christinin,” said the man.
Anna stepped forward. “That is my husband.”
Anna took the letters and glanced at the return addresses. She smiled. “They’re from my niece,” she said to the man, as if an explanation for this unusual event was necessary. “She’s a nurse at the front—in the war.”
“Well, you must be proud.”
“Very.”
“Good day to you, then.”
The moment the postman left, everyone crowded around Anna, clamoring to see the letters and hear news from Mariana. But Anna had to disappoint them.
“We must wait for Papa to get home.”
Sergei arrived fifteen minutes later. The children had a hard time restraining their eagerness while he paused at the “beautiful corner” to cross himself and offer a brief prayer. Andrei, ever impetuous, pounced on him as he was rising from his knees.
“We had letters today, Papa. Two, from Mariana!”
“Excellent!” Sergei braced his hand on his son’s shoulder as he rose. “I was beginning to wonder when we’d hear from her.” He straightened up slowly, groaning a bit.
“Andrei,” said Anna, “let’s let Papa wash up and have his dinner first. He’s had a long day.”
“I’m too anxious to wait,” said Sergei. “We’ll read the letters around the table.”
Mariana’s account of distant places—the wonders of Siberia and the exotic Far East—left everyone in awe. Of the group, only Sergei had traveled more than two hundred miles in any direction from their present home. It suddenly occurred to Anna that Mariana might grow beyond her family and home in Russia. She would never disdain them, but could she be content here after the war? Still, Anna knew a fledgling bird must be given its wings. Her own papa had taught her that when he let her “fly” from little Katyk many years ago. It was the natural way of things.
11
Later that night, Sergei and Anna discussed Mariana’s letters. One of the great luxuries they had since moving in with Raisa was having a little room of their own. Since their marriage, they had almost never been alone. Mariana had been with them right from the beginning, and the extended family continually surrounded them in one way or another. Poor peasants knew nothing of “honeymoons,” and so Anna and Sergei had never had one. But this little cubbyhole in their flat was like a honeymoon haven for them where they could interact and talk as intimately as they wished. Anna often said it made her feel like a newlywed all over again. Sergei countered that he had never stopped feeling like a newlywed.
“Sergei,” Anna began after they climbed into the bed that nearly filled the little closet of a room. “I need to have my worries about Mariana eased a bit. I know they are futile and we have been over this ground before, but every now and then those motherly anxieties try to overtake me.”
“Anything specific? It sounds like she is quite close to the fighting.”
“I’ll worry about that until she is safe by my side again.” Anna sighed as she shook her head. “What I really fear is that by allowing her to go so far away, we will have lost her. By comparison, her life here will seem humdrum and unappealing. And she says her American friend is in Manchuria. What if he should want to marry her and take her with him all the way to America?”
“It’s not something I like to think about either, Anna. But we want her to be happy.”
“Yes.”
“The old proverb says, Let your child follow her own path and it will always lead back to you.”
“Sergei,” Anna said tenderly, “you are sounding more like my papa every day with your wonderful and wise proverbs and sayings.”
“Ah, dear Papa Yevno! Thank you for such high praise.” Sergei propped himself on an elbow and gazed with open love at his wife. She never seemed to age, somehow always retaining that fragile loveliness that had captured his heart twenty-eight years ago on an ice pond. She had been sixteen, timid as a baby fawn exploring a new world, delicate as a spring bloom. In the ensuing years he had come to realize Anna was about the strongest woman he knew, though she had never lost those qualities he had first fallen in love with.
Anna blushed under his frank admiration, then quickly changed the subject. “Now, I’ve sensed since you came home this evening that there is something on your mind. I can’t promise you Yevno’s wisdom, but I can give you a listening ear.”
“This has been a very eventful day for me, Anna. First, I spoke with Mr. Cranston. When Daniel Trent mentioned his editor here in Russia, I never thought that it would affect me. But suddenly the man has become a very important part of my life—at least he has control over an important part of my life.”
Over the years Sergei had never stopped writing, though he had done so mostly for his own benefit. He never dreamed—except in the wildest parts of his imagination—that he’d be published again. But since coming to St. Petersburg, he had begun mingling with more literary types at the university, and friends had encouraged him to attempt to publish his work again. His first—and last—book had landed him in Siberia, but he had become much less political in his tendencies since then. He was able to get two short stories and several poems published in mainstream magazines—under a pseudonym, of course. It didn’t pay much, but the sense of accomplishment was enormously satisfying.
About two years ago Sergei had begun compiling an anthology of many of the poems he had written over the years. Viktor had suggested Sergei try foreign publication for this book. Though the poetry was not as politically incisive as Sergei’s first book, A Soldier’s Glory, many of the poems were still a bit too sensitive to pass Russian censors. Sergei remembered Daniel Trent’s editor, George Cranston, and, on a whim, visited the man. Cranston, himself an admittedly poor judge of poetry, agreed to pass the volume along to an American publisher he knew. That had been nearly six months ago. Since then, every time Sergei was
in the neighborhood of the newspaper office—sometimes even when he wasn’t—he would drop in to inquire if there had been any response yet. Sergei feared he was beginning to make a nuisance of himself, but under the circumstances they felt it was best for all communications with the publisher to be made through Cranston.
“Mr. Cranston had mail from America,” Sergei said, and Anna knew by the gleam in his eyes that he had good news.
“And?”
“The American publisher liked my poems.”
“Just ‘liked’?”
“Well, the word loved might have been used, and he did draw some comparisons between my poems and those of Pushkin and Lermontov—which only shows that such praise must be taken with a grain of salt.”
“Your poems are wonderful, Sergei!”
“As Pushkin’s? Never! As Lermontov’s? Not a chance. However the man, a James Duke, of Duke and Sons Publishing, did show in his letter more than a passing understanding of poetry—more, I have to admit, than I might have expected of an American.”
“Why, Sergei! If you recall, you were the one who opened up the world of foreign poets to me.”
“English poets, mostly. But I suppose I do sound rather like a snob. The world of American poetry isn’t exactly a desert. I’ve liked some of Whitman’s and Whittier’s.”
“You gave me that lovely volume of Emily Dickenson’s a few years ago. I’ve read it over and over.”
“I am grateful to be published at all,” said Sergei.
“Does that mean this Mr. Duke is going to publish your book?”
Sergei nodded, then grinned. Anna threw her arms around him and kissed him.
“That’s not all,” Sergei said, still holding his wife. “They will send me two hundred American dollars as an advance as soon as they have received a signed contract.”
“That is a lot of money, isn’t it?”
“Four hundred rubles, Anna! As much as I could earn in two years of tutoring.”
“Oh my,” breathed Anna in awe. “Sergei, would it be possible to use some of the money for sending Yuri and Andrei to the gymnasium? They are ready for a higher education.”
“That was at the very top of my list also, Anna.”
Anna could hardly believe their good fortune. She wanted to get new dishes for Raisa to replace the set that had gotten broken and chipped over the years. Sergei said he wanted to take Anna on a trip—a real honeymoon, perhaps to Paris. They laughed like children.
Then Sergei became a practical adult once more. “Of course, the wise thing would be to save what we can against a rainy day.”
“I never thought we’d do anything else,” said Anna. “But it was fun to dream for a while.”
“Well, Raisa will have her new dishes,” Sergei declared, “and you shall have a fine new dress and a winter coat with a fur hat and muff to match. And the children shall have new winter coats also.”
“People will wonder about our newfound wealth.”
“Let them wonder! We cannot always live in fear of my past, Anna.” He paused thoughtfully, then continued. “Not that this has anything to do with my past, Anna, but it is as good a time as any to mention the other thing that happened today. I saw Oleg Chavkin.”
Chavkin, a friend from Katyk, now lived in St. Petersburg. When they had first come to the city, he had taken in Anna and Sergei, and found Sergei a factory job.
“How is he? We see the Chavkin family so seldom now that we live on Vassily Island.”
Anna still shuddered when she thought of the kind of existence she and her family had lived when Sergei worked at the textile factory. Chavkin still dwelt in that rat-infested tenement with no heat, no running water, and twenty-five people jammed into two small rooms. Like the majority of workers in the city, there seemed no way for Chavkin to escape perpetual poverty. The factory owners saw to it that their workers remained virtual slaves.
“If Oleg has his way,” said Sergei, “I will be seeing much more of him. He has asked me to take on the task of teaching the men at the factory to read and cipher. There are about a dozen men who are interested in learning. But it is not as simple as it sounds. The owners strongly discourage their workers from bettering themselves. Not only would I have to volunteer my services for no pay, but I must do it secretly.”
“Sergei, do you dare?”
“Anna, I have thought about this all afternoon. God has blessed us richly all our lives, but especially in these last few years. I cannot forget where we would be if He had not sent Misha along to deliver me from that awful factory. God has interceded continually in our lives, and now I have a chance to repay to others the blessings He has given me.”
“But you serve God every day as you witness to the boys you tutor.”
“It’s not enough, Anna.” Sergei’s countenance bore a look of such taut determination that Anna knew it was useless to argue with him. “I can’t turn my back on the need Oleg has presented to me.”
Anna should have been proud of him, she knew . . . and in many ways she was. Still, it was hard for her to agree to something that could bring danger to him. But he hadn’t asked for her approval. He was going to accept Oleg’s offer—in fact, he had probably already given his consent.
“You’re upset with me, aren’t you, Anna?”
Anna shrugged silently.
“I thought you would understand,” he said.
“I’m just afraid of what could happen.”
Sergei put his arm around Anna and drew her close to him. This tangible sense of his strength helped to buoy her. She sighed and attempted a smile. It was no use to fight against both God and her husband. If this was God’s will, then somehow she would find the resources to accept whatever came.
12
Changes did not come quickly to the home of Anna and Sergei. The summer passed in its usual manner—warm and rather lazy, almost oblivious to the fact that war raged in a far-off land. The children, especially, were unaffected by the broader national events. A Saturday in August meant a day off from the lessons that their mother made them do during the summer.
This particular Saturday, each of the children had a few kopecks, earnings they had saved all month long from doing odd jobs for their neighbors. Anna and Raisa gave them permission to go on an outing by themselves if they promised to stay together and be home by five in the afternoon. The only problem the children had that day was agreeing on their destination and mode of transportation.
Yuri wanted to walk to Nevsky Prospekt and spend his money at Wolff’s huge bookstore, or one of the secondhand stores. There were no free libraries in St. Petersburg, and purchasing books was rather hard on the family’s small budget. Yuri never seemed to have enough books; he read them as quickly as his parents could buy or borrow them. In fact, he usually read each book many times before a new one found its way into his eager hands.
But it was a long walk from Vassily Island across Nicholas Bridge to the downtown area of the city. The reward of a book at the end was not much motivation to Andrei and Talia, who were of a less studious bent than Yuri. Andrei had seen a handbill posted advertising a circus in town, and that’s where he wanted to go.
When they found the handbill on a wall around the corner from their apartment building, they realized that the admission price would have drained all their money. Only Andrei was that eager to see the circus. In the end, Talia’s quiet suggestion won out. She proposed taking the steamer down the Neva to the Summer Gardens and having a picnic there. Andrei liked the excitement of being on the water, and Yuri liked the idea that he would still have money left over—money he could spend at the cheaper used-book vendors at St. Andrew’s Market on Vassily Island.
Raisa packed the adventurers a lunch, and they set out about ten in the morning. The day promised to be a scorcher, with temperatures already approaching eighty. The breeze off the water and the river spray was a welcome relief, and the children stood at the bow of the boat to get the full effect.
“Let’s pretend w
e’re sailing on the ocean,” said Talia, “going to some romantic, faraway place.”
“The South Seas,” put in Yuri, “where coconut trees wave in the warm sea breeze and the water is so warm you can swim all day and bask in the sun on a sandy beach.”
“And brown-skinned natives pick armfuls of beautiful flowers for us—orchids and hibiscus of every imaginable color.” Talia closed her eyes dreamily.
“Don’t forget the buried treasure we’re seeking,” said Andrei.
“Of course,” said Yuri. “And pirates.”
Talia opened her eyes. “Do there have to be pirates? Our island was so nice and peaceful.”
“Too many flowers and dancing natives could get boring after a while,” Andrei said.
Yuri had a solution to the problem. “Talia, you’d be the damsel in distress, and we’d rescue you.”
“But I didn’t need to be rescued before you brought the pirates.”
Andrei grunted impatiently. “Girls! Do you have to make everything so difficult?”
“It was my idea in the first place,” Talia replied quietly, almost as if she was sorry to have to make that point.
“Who wants to go to some boring island, anyway?” said Andrei. “If I could really be on an ocean liner, I’d go West, to America—a place that’s exciting and real. I’d visit all the tall buildings that are said to reach up to the sky, and I’d look at the Statue of Liberty. Papa says it’s so big a grown person could stand inside one of its fingers! That I’d like to see!”
The Russians Collection Page 157