Suddenly the bell tinkled again. When Hans saw the incoming customer, he was so surprised that his top dentures fell out onto the counter with a plasticky clatter. As Franny craned her neck to see who it was, she heard a familiar voice say: “Good afternoon. I would like a bottle of milk, some coffee, and some sugar, please.”
It was Olga! Franny’s heart nearly stopped and fell into her stomach. What on earth was she doing here? She never came shopping—usually Charlie or Franny did it for her. In a hurry, Franny stuffed the Life magazine under some potatoes, not wanting to be seen with it. Olga was extremely protective of her privacy, and there Franny sat, plain as day, reading about the deepest, darkest moments of the Russian’s past.
Hans fumbled on the counter for his teeth and jammed them back into his mouth.
“We’re all outta coffee,” he said. “But we got sugar and milk right there in the back of the store. Help yerself.”
Norma and Melba glared at Olga with as much ice and venom as they could muster. The Russian ignored their rude stares as she walked to the back of the store to get a bag of sugar.
“Well, look at that,” Melba said in a loud whisper. “She’s wearin’ silk stockings to do the grocery shoppin’, but she can’t be bothered to wear them to church.”
“And look at that fur coat,” Norma rasped. “Who’s she tryin’ to impress? It’s like she’s lettin’ everyone know that the Queen’s arrived at last.”
Olga walked back to the front of the room. As she passed Melba and Norma, she nodded coolly to both of them. Then she paid old Hans for the milk and sugar and opened the front door.
“Wait a minute, Mrs. Koenig,” Norma called. Olga stopped, the blustery breeze outside fluttering the collar on her fur coat. “Please take one of our flyers. I think you might really enjoy our new club.”
“Thank you,” Olga said, taking the folded piece of paper. When she opened and read it, a peculiar, crooked smile crossed her face. She folded it up again, dropped it into her grocery bag, and looked up at Norma and Melba.
“A club in my honor—how flattering,” she said with deadpan dignity. “I will certainly try to come by.” And she left, the door clanging shut behind her.
“Lordy, that was gutsy of you, Norma,” giggled Melba.
Norma looked prouder than a newly inaugurated president. “Just lettin’ her know what’s what,” she said. “It’s only fair to let yer enemy know that the battle’s about to start. Come on, we still got the rest of Main Street to paper before we call it a day.” And they sailed out of the store.
Franny sat back on the floor with a thud. She knew that all of the women from the Colosseum hated the idea of Olga, but usually all they did was talk meanly about people behind their backs, not confront them directly. And what did Norma mean by battle? They weren’t going to try to hurt Olga, were they? She was so disturbed that she ran home empty-handed.
Lorraine met her at the front door.
“Where on earth have you been?” she cried. “And where are the potatoes?”
“I forgot them,” Franny said, her face reddening, and she told her mother everything that had happened at the grocery store—from the magazine to the newly launched charter of W.O.R.N.A.T.C.T.
“Well, I swear,” Lorraine said, her wooden spoon dripping lumpy gravy on the floor. “I can’t believe those silly women sometimes.”
“Why can’t they just leave Madame Malenkov alone?” exclaimed Franny. “She never even bothers anyone, but all they can talk about is how having a Commie in town is like having a plague here. I see Madame Malenkov all the time, and she never talks about hating America or blowing us up or anything.”
Lorraine shoved a turkey into the oven. “I’m sure that Norma and Melba think that they’re doing a good thing,” she said, standing up and wiping her hands on a dishrag. “Everyone sees things differently. When you look at Mrs. Koenig—I mean, Madame Malenkov—you see a very private woman who is giving you an opportunity that you wouldn’t have had otherwise.”
Franny blushed as her mother went on.
“But all they see is a mysterious Russian woman who seemed to come out of nowhere, and in their minds, that spells trouble. Politicians have been telling us bad things about the Commies for so long that some people get scared and do foolish things, like form this club.”
“You’re not going to make me stop taking lessons with Madame Malenkov now that all of your friends hate her so much, are you?” pressed Franny.
Lorraine sighed. “Of course not,” she said. “But it’s not as easy a decision as I’d like it to be. Your father is right; you need this opportunity. But I wish … there weren’t these problems with Madame Malenkov. After all, we have to live here in Rusty Nail—not just you, but me and Daddy and Owen and Jessie. And it’s hard thinking that people might look at us funny for letting you spend so much time with the Russian lady.”
“So why are you letting me take lessons at all?” Franny asked, feeling a little bit guilty for putting her family in this position.
“I guess because I trust Charlie,” Lorraine said. “And your father wants big things to happen for you so badly. So I tell myself—what would a dangerous Commie want with Rusty Nail? People in this town just want more drama and excitement in their lives, and this is Norma’s way of convincing herself that Rusty Nail is more important than it really is.
“Besides, that silly club will be like a rocking chair to Norma and the other ladies,” she continued. “It’ll give them something to do, and get them nowhere. They’ll just stand around the Colosseum on Sundays, gabbing as usual.”
Franny giggled. “I’m telling Dad that you said ’Colosseum,’” she said.
“I did?” Lorraine exclaimed. “Well, I didn’t mean it. Now go down to the store and get me some more potatoes this instant.”
As Franny ran down the front stairs, her mother called after her: “And bring back that old copy of Life as well!”
“I have a treat for you, Dyevushka,” Olga said as she opened the front door for Franny the next day. “Follow me.” She walked into the music room and put a record on the player.
“Listen to this,” she said excitedly. “It just arrived in a package from New York.” She put the needle on the record, and a wonderful piano concerto played from the speakers. When it was over, Olga turned to her and said: “Well? What did you think?”
“I loved it,” said Franny, wondering why Olga was beaming. “What was it?”
“Rachmaninoff, of course!” Olga exclaimed. “Who else? And guess who was playing it? Me!”
“That was you on the record?” shouted Franny, running over to look at the label. Sure enough, it proclaimed:
Sergei Rachmaninoff, Piano Concerto no. 2 in C Minor Played by Olga Malenkov and the New York Philharmonic
“We recorded it last year, but this is the first time I have heard it,” Olga said.
“I can’t believe it,” said Franny, flabbergasted. “I have a question, though: why do you like Rachmaninoff so much?”
“Because his music is like Russia itself,” Olga said grandly. “Romantic, tumultuous, and treacherous. It is my life’s tragedy that I will probably never go back.”
“Why can’t you?” pressed Franny.
“For lots of reasons,” said Olga, looking somber. “That is enough talking now—you have work to do.”
Franny began unpacking boxes of Olga’s regular books in the living room. Her stomach still jumped when she thought about the article in the grocery store, and Olga’s comment about never going back to Russia only made her feel more tense. Finally, when she took a Russian book into the kitchen for Olga to identify, she decided to bring it up.
“Madame Malenkov? I, uh … I was in the grocery store yesterday while you were there.”
“Yes,” said Olga. “I saw you there, hidden away in the corner.”
Franny’s face reddened. “Oh,” she said. “Well, I just wanted to say that I hated the way that Norma and Melba acted in there.”
/> “Yes, well, I guess that they do not know any better,” Olga said, looking into her teacup. “They even sent me a little present afterward.”
She picked up a folded letter from the kitchen table and handed it to Franny, who gasped when she read it:
Notice from the W.O.R.N.A.T.C.T. The Women of Rusty Nail are watching you!
All suspicious activity will be reported to the authorities. We’re serious! So you better watch out!
Olga took the note back and reread the missive. “They did not even have the courage to sign it.”
“Sometimes I hate Rusty Nail,” Franny blurted out. “Most folks around here think that they’re so all-American and Christian and welcoming, but then they turn around and start mean clubs and stuff like that.”
“That is called hypocrisy,” said Olga. “And it is everywhere, not just Rusty Nail. I would not get too upset about it if I were you.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” said Franny. “You’re a famous pianist and can leave anytime you want. I bet you hate it here and can’t wait to get away.”
“I do not hate Rusty Nail as much as you think,” Olga said. “I have very specific reasons for being here, and I am not ready to leave just yet. And anyway, it could be worse. In most American small towns, people use only words as weapons against you. What is that saying you have here, the one about the sticks?”
“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names can never hurt me,” Franny recited automatically.
“Yes, that’s it. Here it is mostly name-calling, but where I come from, they use more than just sticks and stones. They use blades and bullets against entire families.”
“What do you mean?” Franny asked.
“Haven’t you ever heard of Stalin?” Olga asked irritably. “What are they teaching you in that school—how to grow corn?”
Franny frowned. “I know who he is,” she said. “He was the evil Communist leader of Russia, the one who just died. But why would he kill Russians? I thought he only wanted to kill Americans with nuclear bombs and stuff.”
Olga looked at the wall. “I really do not want to talk about this anymore,” she said. “You have a lot to learn, and I do not want to be the one to teach you about it.”
Franny remembered the part of the article about the “purges” and how Olga never saw her parents again.
“Madame Malenkov,” she asked, “did Stalin want to kill your family?”
“Must I spell it out for you, Dyevushka?” Olga asked. “My parents are dead. They were Russian but they were not Communists. They were murdered for their political views, and I am the only one left. So, believe me—I am no Commie either. And that is all you need to know. Now please go finish the books.”
Franny walked back to the living room in shock. She didn’t dare go back into the kitchen for the rest of the afternoon.
Ever since Halloween, Franny simply had not been able to get Sandy to talk to her. Once Sandy’s suspension from school was over and she came back to the classroom, Franny tried all sorts of tricks to get her friend’s attention. She tried passing Sandy notes during class, but every time Sandy stalked up to the trash bin in the front of the room and threw them away unread. If Franny tried to sit near her in the lunchroom, Sandy would snatch up her lunch tray and go sit at another table.
The last straw was this: one day, before class, Franny brought in a box of Red Hots and left it with a note inside Sandy’s desk. Sandy trotted in and, as usual, sat down without looking in Franny’s direction. When she opened up the desk and saw the candy, she took out the box and eyed the note. And then she said: “Hey, Runty, c’mere. I got somethin’ for you.”
Runty dutifully clomped over and ripped the top off the cardboard box. He poured every single Red Hot into his mouth and threw the box on the floor. As he trudged back to his desk, he gave Franny a toothy grin, a few of the sticky candy pieces falling out of his mouth.
Franny’s face burned. Sandy was playing hardball. Franny resolved to find her after school and hash things out once and for all.
That afternoon, when the bell rang and everyone ran out of the classroom, Franny collected her things and walked toward their usual haunts on Main Street. She marched up to Hans Zimmerman’s general store and pushed open the front door.
To her disappointment, only old Hans and Mayor Reverend Jerry were there. They sat together at the front counter while old Hans idly slapped at a lazy fly with a rolled-up newspaper.
“Dang, Hans,” said Mayor Reverend Jerry. “Why don’t you just get some fly spray and put that thing out of its misery? Every time I come in here, you’re sittin’ here, swattin’ at that fly.”
“Nah, I couldn’t do that,” old Hans said slowly, gnawing away on a piece of tough old beef jerky.
“Why not?” asked the mayor.
“Well,” said Hans. “It’s just that the fly’s been around here for so long. It’s kinda like an old friend. I’d be real lonely without it.”
“My Lord, you’re a fool if I’ve ever seen one,” Mayor Reverend Jerry said amicably. “Are you sure you should be eatin’ this stuff with your wobbly ole fake teeth?” And then: “Oh, hi there, Franny Hansen. What’re you doin’ sneakin’ around over there by the candy?”
“Have you seen Sandy?” Franny asked.
“Nah,” said old Hans. “Her parents called me and tole me not to sell her any candy, so she don’t come in here no more.”
Disappointed, Franny walked toward the front door. Where could Sandy be?
“Jest a minute, Franny,” said Mayor Reverend Jerry, reaching for a piece of jerky. “Word ’round town is that you’re takin’ pian-er lessons with Charlie Koenig’s new wife. Madame Badame, or whatever she calls herself.”
Franny scowled. She’d heard enough banter about Olga in this store to last a good long while. “So what if I am,” she said.
“Hmm,” said the mayor, as though pondering a fascinating fact. “D’you ever see anything out of the ordinary in the house?”
“No,” lied Franny, automatically thinking of the mysterious phone call.
“It is kinda strange,” drawled the mayor. “We’ve all been waitin’ to meet her, and she never even comes to hear my preachin’, or even to say hello. I’m downright insulted. And then I get to wonderin’—why would a lady from Russia want to come to Rusty Nail in the first place? I’m worried that she might be tryin’ to spread Commie propaganda, and that she’s startin’ with our young folks.”
“She’s not a Commie spy,” Franny snapped. “She’s not even a Commie, for your information!”
She ran out of the store, the front door slapping shut behind her.
But then another “out of the ordinary” event did take place, several days after Franny’s exchange with Mayor Reverend Jerry and old Hans.
Franny had just left Olga’s for the evening. Charlie was out of town again for another trial. The black night sky hung heavily over the town, and Franny’s breath froze in powdery tufts in the cold air. Warm yellow light edged out from behind the closed curtains of the houses as families sat down for supper or listened to their favorite evening radio shows.
All of a sudden a strange car rounded the corner and drove up the street toward the Oak and Fair streets crossroads. Franny stopped and stared at it. In a town as small as Rusty Nail, where people could even tell the difference between a Hellickson pig and a Klompenhower one, everyone knew their neighbors’ cars and trucks. This dark sedan might as well have come from a different planet.
Franny just knew that it must be heading to Olga’s. Her heart pounding, she followed the car back up to the crossroads, running through backyards so that the car’s driver wouldn’t see her.
Sure enough, the car silently pulled up in front of the Koenig-Malenkov residence and parked at the curb. From Thelma Britches’ yard, Franny watched as two strangers wearing overcoats and fedora hats got out and marched up the path. She snuck around the side of Olga’s house to her old station behind the peony bush, which had a
good view of the front porch.
The men walked up the front stairs, and one of them reached out and rang the doorbell. Franny heard Olga calling: “Dyevushka? What did you forget this time?” Her footsteps approached the front door, and suddenly the light from inside poured out over the men on the porch.
“Olga Malenkov?” one of them asked gruffly. The other just stared at the Russian with hostility.
Franny’s stomach clenched in apprehension. What if they were the same people who had killed Olga’s parents back in Russia? Should she shout for help? But even if she did—who in Rusty Nail would come to the aid of the Commie?
“Who wants to know?” Olga demanded boldly.
One of the men reached into the breast pocket of his coat. Franny almost fainted, thinking that he was going to pull out a gun. Instead, he produced a sealed envelope and handed it to Olga.
“You can run, but you can’t hide,” he said. “Consider yourself served. This is an official summons, and I’d show up if I were you.”
And with that, the two men stomped back down the porch stairs, got into their car, and drove away into the darkness. Olga slammed her front door shut.
Franny fell back against the house and took a couple of deep breaths. Who were those men? Were they related to that strange phone call? And what did they mean by summons? The word conjured up an image of a genie in Franny’s mind, which made no sense.
She wished that she could talk to someone about what she’d seen—but telling her parents was out of the question, and Sandy clearly wanted nothing to do with her.
Franny didn’t see anyone else on the streets as she walked home, and she hoped that no one had glimpsed the strange car from their windows. Olga already had enough problems with the townspeople of Rusty Nail.
The next day was Saturday. After breakfast, Franny set up her music on the piano and began to practice. Wes ambled out of the kitchen and stood next to the piano, plate in hand. He was eating pie for breakfast since he said that Lorraine’s rubbery fried eggs were “too much to face before the coffee kicks in.”
The Rising Star of Rusty Nail Page 12