Mother Tongue

by Tania Romanov

  “Oh, duše, I didn't want to marry any Croat. I knew it was you from the moment we met. There was no one else for me. And I haven't changed my mind.” She so wanted to walk over and hug this man who was everything to her, but she couldn’t give in again. “But there is something you're going to have to do.”

  “What's that?”

  “It's about the home for the elderly in France.”

  “I can't do it,” he said, with a pained—almost frightened—look on his face.

  “You can't do what?”

  “I can't leave my mother behind.”

  “You don't have to leave her behind.” Their neighbors Tama and Sonja had both been too old to get visas, and they went to a home for older Russian émigrés in Cannes, on the south coast of France. It was sponsored and funded by the Tolstoy Foundation and Zhenya had gotten a letter from them the day before. Zora knew they were happy and doing well.

  “She doesn't want to go there,” said Tolya, knowing what she was thinking.

  “Tama says it's on the beach,” Zora continued, determined. “They have a view of the sea from their room. The food is French. There's room for Babusya.”

  “I've tried to get her to go, but she's afraid. She wants to stay with me. She wants to go with us to America.”

  “Your mother has always been stubborn. She didn't want you to marry me, she hates me because I am not Russian, and now she is ruining our lives!”

  “She doesn't hate you; you're exaggerating.”

  “At first it was because I wasn't Russian. Then she wouldn't move out of the master bedroom in our apartment in Belgrade. And we couldn't move to our own apartment because you didn't want to abandon her.”

  “I know, I know. But she's my mother.”

  “She's also your brother's mother, yet he’s gone. She puts him on a pedestal, him and his Russian wife, but she lives with us, and it's my life she criticizes. I'm not taking it anymore.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean is that either your mother goes to France, or I go home to Yugoslavia.”

  “You can't mean that, zolotko.”

  “Oh, but I do. Zhenya learned when he went to the consulate to get the paperwork for Tama to go to France that they are not taking any more elderly people in the United States directly from here. The quota for the year is full. If we miss this chance, we will soon be on our fifth year here. It's too much.” Zora was determined to finish without crying, but it was getting hard. “I am at my wits end. Our children need a home; our lives need to be going somewhere. I can't live in a barracks partition for the rest of my life, with no work and no future. We’ve spent four years with five people living in three square meters (one hundred square feet). It’s enough.”

  “She'll hate me.”

  “She'll get over it. It's not the end of the world. When we get to America we can bring her over. The visa quota from France is bigger than from here, I've heard.”

  “That could just be another myth, like so many other stories have been.”

  “It might be, but it's not a myth that we aren't making any progress on the list as we are. Either we get on that list as a family of four rather than five, or three of us are going back home.”

  “You know I couldn't go back there with you.”

  “I don't know what to believe anymore. I don't want to go back to Yugoslavia, but I can't stay here either. Aren't you sick of it?”

  “Oh, dear God. I am so sick of it.” Tolya put his head in his hands. “If I take one more picture for one more person who is leaving for their future, I might kill myself.”

  My father had set up a darkroom in that tiny space and used his camera to earn the money needed to supplement our diet, to keep reapplying for the visas, to buy fabric for the clothes Zora sewed for all of us.

  Zora looked at him and the desperation in his eyes frightened her. He had always been so strong in his need to make sure we could all rely on him. She finally put her arms around him, as if she were the one who towered over him rather than the other way around, and held him as if she could protect him from what he had to face up to.

  “Oh, Tolya, Tolya, I'm so glad we are finally being honest with each other.”

  “Me too, zolotko. It's been too long; it's too hard.” He held onto her as if he would never let her go, and Zora knew, deep inside, that he could never do so. She was his life. They had each other and nothing else. Tolya couldn't believe that it had come to this; that he had to choose between his mother and his wife.

  He loved them both, but he had to tell his mother, Daria Pavlovna, that she was going to France.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Babusya's last stand

  Daria Pavlovna Romanov, as she liked to be known, had, if anything, gotten more determined since living in the Campo. She had worn mourning garments since her husband died years ago, but the man she mourned had known, as well as everyone else, that she was the head of their household and had been ever since she had decided he was the one for her in a small village in the middle of Russia. He may have been the son of Don Cossacks, but she was a Cossachka and, while not much has been written about that species of woman, this one was proof that they were not to be messed with. But in Zora she had met her match.

  Tolya had already tried to talk to her about France, more than once. She wouldn't budge. But now he was caught between his wife and his mother, and he knew how he would choose. Besides, he really believed it was the right decision, even if it meant going against her wishes.

  They were alone and he hoped everyone else in the barracks was too busy to listen in.

  “Mama, you know we need to talk.”

  “I knew she was talking to you again. Don't think I don't know what goes on between you.”

  “Of course we were talking, Mama. She’s my wife, you remember. We have to figure out a way to get to America. We can't stay here forever. It's driving us all mad.”

  “You don't think I'm going mad since Shura and Kolya left? Who do I have to talk to? Do you think that I want to die here?” He could tell she was working herself into a rage.

  “None of us is going to die here. And please don’t shout.” He wished he could reach out to her, comfort her, but she was unbending and unyielding. “I'd do anything I could to take care of you, Mama, but I'm getting older. I’m almost forty. It's time to move on. With every month that goes by, my opportunities to get work in America will get fewer. Shura has written me that he has found work, and I can join him. He's fixing appliances in San Francisco, and that's something I know how to do also.”

  “Well, I am glad that your future is taken care of, but what about me? Why does everyone assume this is my fault? Why should I go by myself to France to live with all those old people?”

  “Mama, Mama, it wouldn't be for a long time, just until we get settled in America. Then we'll get you over to join us. I promise.”

  “You can't promise me anything. You've been waiting almost four years for those visas, and there's no guarantee you're going to get them.”

  “Mama, we've been over all this before. I'm filling out the paperwork in the morning, and you will go to France next month. As soon we get to San Francisco, we'll do everything we can to make sure you can join us.”

  “You know what you can do with trying to get me to join you. If you make me leave now, I will never speak with you or that foreign wife of yours again.”

  “Please, Mama, don't be like that. The children would miss you.”

  “The children would miss me? What about you? You're my son.”

  “Of course I would miss you.” He chuckled in spite of himself. Suddenly it felt like he was dealing with his daughter, not his mother. “You're my mother. I know you're not going to abandon me.”

  “Why don't you just send her back home to her country. This is all her idea; I know it is. See how she would feel about it if it happened to her!”

  “I don't want to send my wife back anywhere. I'm already worried that she might be thinking
about it. Her father's not doing well, you know. Please be reasonable.”

  “You're not going to get your way with me. Don't think you can sweet talk your way past this. If you send me away, I am not coming to live with you again. You'll just be on your own.”

  He didn't have the heart to tell her how happy this would most likely make Zora. And probably him too, for that matter. The constant tension was getting old. Zora really tried to get along with her, but Daria Pavlovna just couldn't get over the fact that he didn't marry the young Russian woman she had her eye on for him.

  “I'm going to write Shura about this, don't think I won't.” She always used Shura, her eldest, when she wanted her way with her other children. But now he was already gone and living in San Francisco.

  “I already have written him about it. I don't know why he hasn't replied. But he knows.” Privately, Tolya figured Shura was not getting in the middle of this. Always her favorite, he was going to let someone else take the responsibility for the hard choices. Shura was shrewd; he always landed on his feet. Well, that was just fine with Tolya. Once they got to America, he knew he would be able to count on Shura to help him find work and help them find a home.

  “I'm sorry, Mama; you will have to do what you need to do. But I am filling out the paperwork tomorrow.”

  The family is happy to be finally leaving the refugee camp, waving to those still left behind.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Leaving Zhenya

  It was the end of 1953 and Zora could hardly believe it might finally be happening. They were heading for the consulate; their visas had come through. There was no longer a need to go to Genoa. The United States now had an office in Trieste. Tolya's mother had left for France a few months earlier. All reports from Zhenya's aunts indicated that things were going fine, but nothing had been heard from her. She was in a sulk, upset that she had been sent away, and swore to anyone who would listen that she would never live with us again. Zora would have heaved a sigh of relief had she believed that was true. Deep inside she somehow knew Babusya would be back. But at that moment, she cared about nothing except getting on a boat to America.

  Since the early 1920s, exiled Russians could apply to have help from the Tolstoy Foundation in relocating to another country. Ever since the author's daughter established it after the Russian Revolution, the foundation had helped support a diaspora that spread around the world. In my family, Tolstoy was like a member of the extended family. People talked about his fond, the foundation, endlessly.

  As time passed, Zora had worried because there were rumors that they were running out of funds. As it turned out, by the time our family was ready to leave, in late 1953, the fond could no longer grant the money for transportation, but they would loan enough money to cover the cost of passage. Zora and Tolya were grateful for the support, as they had no ability to pay for the trip after four years in the camp. Tolya made some money with his photographic work, but not enough to feed them. Whatever funds they had brought with them from Yugoslavia four years earlier had been spent on living.

  Everything happened very quickly after the visas were approved. We qualified for a loan for third class passage and received the funds. It seemed my parents were going into Trieste on a daily basis. They learned the schedule for overnight trains to Genoa by heart. And then they heard that an American ship, the SS Constitution, was leaving for New York at the end of December. They planned to go buy tickets the next day.

  Sasha caught a cold that day, so Mama stayed home with us. We could not afford to have anyone sick before everything was finalized. There were many horror stories about someone who was not allowed into America because they got ill on the ship going over. Mama was taking no chances, especially with Sasha’s previous experience in the hospital. Tolya signed out of camp, walked up to the road and took the tram into town.

  It seemed to take forever, but finally Mama saw him walking back down the road.

  She had been waiting for him at the front gate, sitting with Zhenya and me and talking. Actually, the two of us were talking. Mama was just counting the minutes, waiting to learn what had happened at the shipping-line offices. “Were you able to get the tickets?” she called as he walked up to the gate.

  “We have four third class tickets from Genoa to New York leaving December 23!” Tolya beamed from ear to ear. He hadn't been this relaxed and happy in years.

  “And I got a letter from the Karsanidis today,” Zora replied with a smile. Our first friends in the Campo, the Karsanidis had left two years earlier and had settled down in Manhattan. “They say we can stay with them when we get to New York.”

  “That's wonderful, zolotko. I am afraid the tickets cost much more than we planned. We will have almost nothing left over after the voyage, so it's a good thing we won't have to pay for a hotel.”

  “Oh, Tolya. Right now I am so happy. I probably wouldn't care if we had nothing left over. I know we can start a new life.”

  They hugged and walked over to where Zhenya and I were still sitting talking. They weren't sure I understood what was happening.

  “Zhenya, Tania, we're going to America!”

  “Oh, thank God. I am so happy for you.” Zhenya beamed. “You will love it there, Tania!”

  “Isn't Uncle Zhenya coming with us?” I asked.

  “Not right away, Tania. He and Auntie Vava will be coming soon though.”

  “I don't want to go without Zhenya and Vava,” said I, starting to sob and burrowing my head in the old man’s jacket.

  “We'll be there soon, dorogaya, dear one,” Zhenya said. “You'll be with your mama and papa and your brother Sasha. Of course you want to go.”

  “I don't! I don't! I want to stay with you.”

  “Taniusha. We want you to come with us.” My father tried to cuddle me, but I was too frightened of what was happening and just kept sobbing and holding on to Zhenya, as if he were my lifeline.

  Mama knew I would be heartbroken to leave my dearest friends. Even she had a hard time imagining life without them. She and I would have to develop a new relationship. I think Mama knew somewhere deep inside that she had neglected me over the years. But she also knew I was always loved and cared for by everyone around her. She would make it up to me once we were in America.

  “Tania,” she said, “Vava gave me one of her old winter coats, and I used it to make a little warm coat for you to wear when we get to America. Come with me, and we can try it on.”

  “No! No.” I stomped my foot on the ground. “I want Zhenya to come with me. I don't care about a coat.”

  Mama was afraid it was going to be a long trip, with just the four of us. But she was confident that once we were on our way I too would start looking forward to our new life.

  “Never mind about the coat. Let's go tell Sasha the news!”

  “Oh, all right.” I always loved having news for Sasha. I jumped up and ran toward the barracks.

  Zora and the children on the deck of the ship getting ready to leave Genoa, December 1953

  Ship manifest of SS Constitution sailing from Genoa to New York December 1953. Four stateless passengers who had waited years for this trip. SS Constitution.

  SS Constitution.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The SS Constitution

  In December of 1953, by the time we left, most of our family and friends had already gone to America. Those who were still in Campo San Sabba came with us to the train station in Trieste to see us off. I wore the coat Mama had made from the small piece of creamy wool that had once been an old coat of Vava’s. I had a felt hat with a round brim. In the photos someone took with my father’s camera, I looked scared, excited and sad at the same time.

  I clung to Uncle Zhenya, my favorite person in the whole world, the grandfather in place of the one I never knew. He and Aunt Vava were still waiting for their visas. Everyone kept telling me they would join us in America, but at the last moment I didn’t want to let him go.

  “Don’t cry, Tanichka; we�
�ll be there soon,” he said, breaking up in tears. “You’ll see your Uncle Shura and Aunt Galya when you get to America. And we’ll be there soon; you’ll see.” I rubbed my face against his. I had never seen Uncle Zhenya cry. His tears mingled with mine and ran down into my mouth. They were warm.

  At that point, he passed me to my tall, handsome papa, who lifted me high above the group of well-wishers and carried me, repeating soothing phrases while I continued sobbing, into the train car. I wanted to stop crying, but it was hard. People had been leaving for America for my entire life, and now it was our turn. I had always been excited when people talked about going to America, but now I wasn’t so sure I’d be happy there. I did not understand why we had to leave anyone behind. And what if I didn’t like America?

  Our bags had been packed for days. Our clothing fit in a few small, brown suitcases. One larger orange pigskin kufer, or trunk, squared off and with a large handle, held the special clothes brought from Yugoslavia when we first came. At that time, Mama and Papa had heard from friends that American ladies valued things made by hand. They bought lovely embroidered voile blouses, pretty hand-stitched dresses for little girls, and embroidered tablecloths and napkins. We didn’t know that this had all gone out of style while we waited in the camp. Not a single piece ever got sold. After we got to America my mother realized this and decided I could wear those little dresses, but I was too embarrassed to do so.

  But as we left Trieste, those articles were carefully stowed and the train pulled away into the night. All four of us leaned out the window and waved wildly. In those pictures, too, I think you could see the traces of tears on my face even though I was beaming.

  We had been to Genoa once before, when my Aunt Galya and Uncle Shura left for America on the same ship, and we went to resubmit our paperwork and prove our identities. The beautiful park on the hillside and the docks were familiar to me, and I knew what the ship would look like. Once we were there, I could hardly bear to wait any longer. Finally, it was time to board.