by Nora Ikstena
MEIKE ZIERVOGEL
EIRENE PRESS
At first glance this novel depicts a troubled mother–daughter relationship set in the Soviet-ruled Baltics between 1969 and 1989. Yet just beneath the surface lies something far more positive: the story of three generations of women, and the importance of a grandmother in giving her granddaughter what her daughter is unable to provide – love, and the desire for life.
Contents
Title Page
Soviet Milk
About the Author and Translator
Copyright
I don’t remember 15 October 1969. There are people who swear they remember their birth. I don’t. It’s likely that I was well positioned in my mother’s womb, because the birth was normal. Not particularly long, or particularly short, with the last contractions coming every five minutes. My mother was twenty-five, young and healthy. Her mental state, though, was not so healthy, as I learned later.
I do remember, or at least I can picture, the golden, tender calm of October, alternating with forebodings of a long period of darkness. It’s a kind of boundary month, at least in the climate of this latitude, where seasons change slowly and autumn only gradually gives way to winter.
Probably leaves were falling, and our bad-tempered concierge raked them up in the courtyard. She had come from Kyrgyzstan with her family and been allocated a flat in our building at 20 Mičurina Street. Her slant-eyed little girl sat on the windowsill, slurping borscht and cheerfully inviting everyone into their home. The pre-war grandeur of the flat had been modified to reflect the Kyrgyz woman’s idea of beauty. The previous inhabitants, a Jewish family, had abandoned the flat in 1941, when deportation to Siberia saved them from having to wear yellow stars on their backs a few months later, in Nazi-occupied Riga. Now heavy rugs covered the parquet, the porcelain dishes were filled with sunflower seeds and spittoons stood on the piano lid. Times and religions had commingled. And that’s how it was in the entire building, when I was carried up to the thirteenth flat, carefully swaddled like a chrysalis, as was the custom in those times.
Now and then I have a dream from which I awake feeling sick. I’m clinging to my mother’s breast and trying to suck on it. The breast is large, full of milk, but I can’t get any out. I don’t see my mother, she doesn’t help me, and I’m left to struggle with her breast on my own. Then suddenly I succeed and a bitter, repulsive liquid spurts into my mouth. I gag and wake with a start.
My mother was a young doctor. Perhaps she knew that her milk would have caused more harm than good to her child. How else to explain her disappearance from home immediately after giving birth? She was missing for five days. She returned with aching breasts. Her milk had stopped flowing.
In despair, my grandmother fed me camomile tea for two days. Then she went to the infant clinic. The suspicious doctor berated her in Russian and insulted my mother for abandoning me. But eventually he wrote out a note authorizing her to receive infant formula for me.
During the twenty years I lived with my mother, I wasn’t able to ask her why she had deprived me of her breast. I wasn’t able to because I didn’t yet know that she had. And it would have been an inappropriate question because, as it turned out, the role of mother was to become mine.
*
I don’t remember 22 October 1944, but I can reconstruct it. Riga has been liberated from the Nazis. Bombs have shattered the maternity ward’s windows. It is damp and cold, and the women who have just given birth helplessly wrap themselves in their bloodied sheets. Exhausted nurses and doctors are bundling up dead newborns and drinking as they work. An epidemic that everyone is calling nasal typhoid fever is raging through the hospital. Sounds of wailing, bombs whistling in the air and, through the windows, the smell of burning. My mother has sneaked me out of the ward, bound to her chest, and is squirting her milk into my nose. Pus, milk and blood together drip from my tiny nose. I gag and breathe, gag and breathe.
Then there is silence. A horse pulls a wagon on a sunny autumnal road from Riga to Babīte in the outskirts. My father stops several times to allow my mother to feed me. I no longer gag but breathe calmly and greedily suck my mother’s milk. In the Babīte Forest district we have a lovely house, barely furnished and without a cradle, but my mother makes up a bed for me in a suitcase.
Each morning my father inspects his young spruce trees. That’s what happens until Christmas, when a heavy lorry full of soldiers roars in. They shout in a language my parents don’t understand, then jump out and begin to fell the young spruce trees. My father locks my mother and me in the back room, where she hides me in the suitcase with holes pierced in it so I can breathe. My father runs out of the house, yelling, ‘Bastards, scoundrels!’ and trying to save his spruce trees. The soldiers beat him until he bleeds and throw him into the lorry with the hewn trees. Then they search the house, banging at all the doors. Holding her breath, my mother crouches in a wardrobe in the locked room, holding the suitcase with me inside it on her knees. The soldiers are ransacking the house, the noise is horrendous. Finally, all grows quiet and we listen to the sound of the engine as they drive away.
Towards morning my mother climbs out of the wardrobe. She feeds me, ties me to herself, dresses warmly and heads back to Riga on foot. It is late evening when we arrive at our flat on Tomsona Street, soon to be renamed Mičurina Street. My mother is exhausted but she still has to tape over the windows shattered by bombs during an air raid. Otherwise we would both freeze.
*
I don’t know how my mother and grandmother dealt with my mother’s disappearance at the time, but it was never mentioned. Throughout my childhood the smell of medicine and disinfectant replaced the fragrance of mother’s milk. These chemicals would hang like a cloud around my mother: there when she returned from exhausting night duty at the maternity hospital; still there when, after long hours of wakefulness, she caught up on sleep at home. Her handbag was full of pills, ampoules and various steel instruments. Later I recognized them as terrifying gynaecologists’ instruments. It was a macabre world. If my mother happened to be home at night, she would sit up smoking and drinking coffee, bent over mountains of lamplit medical books. Pinned above her desk were diagrams of wombs, ovaries, pelvises and vaginas from various angles and perspectives.
My mother knew nothing of the world beyond. She would pointedly close her door when the programme Vremya – ‘Time’ – came on television, with lisping Leonid Ilyich Brezhnev. She didn’t read the Riga’s Voice newspaper, for which a long queue formed on the corner of Gorky Street every evening. The lunchtime queue at the meat and dairy shop was equally long. You could buy the popular so-called doctor’s sausage and butter there – but she had no idea of this domestic world. Yet beside the mountains of medical textbooks lay a half-read Moby-Dick. It spoke of her longing for a life of the mind that remained beyond her grasp.
I don’t remember Mother ever hugging me much, but I remember her needle-pricked thigh, where she practised injections. I remember her in bed with blue lips the first time she overdosed, possibly as part of some medical experiment. I remember the smell of her dressing gown, the odour of the bitter tincture given before she was driven to the hospital. And I remember the corridor of the maternity hospital where I was allowed to meet her after night shifts. We would then head for an Aloja Street café and eat solyanka soup and kupati sausages, and she would add caffeine from an ampoule to her coffee. I also remember how our street seemed frozen in time, like a picture clipped from a different era and glued into today. Only the elegant types frequenting the races at the nearby hippodrome were missing. In their place, going home or to work, heads bowed, other kinds of people were hurrying towards Communism, their net bags filled with humble supplies: long loaves, bottles of kefir milk with bright green screw top
s, laundry parcels wrapped in grey paper and tied with string.
*
At least nine years had passed since the felling of the young spruce trees. I was one of the best students so I was given a part in the school’s devised montage for assembly. I had to hold a very large letter ‘M’, and together with my classmates we formed the statement: ‘Mi za mir!’ – ‘We’re for peace!’ Each morning a clean, freshly ironed apron lay ready for me, and my mother would do my hair so that it either hung in plaits down my back or was looped up and pinned behind my ears. She cherished me. One day a tall, kind-looking man appeared in our flat. My mother said, ‘This is your stepfather.’ When he left that evening, I saw my mother crying for the first time. She was sitting in our long, narrow kitchen, which looked out onto the courtyard, a simmering pan full of pumpkin scenting the air from the wood stove.
She looked up and said, ‘Your dear papa was taken away because he tried to save his dear spruce trees. Did he have to do that? Had he not run out, had he not tried to stop them, he would still be with us. But he loved the forest and his spruce trees, and he did run out. He was beaten up and taken away. I looked for him for three days. I found him at Šķirotava station, locked up in the carriage that would take him to Siberia. Disfigured by his wounds and very weak, he reached through the bars and gripped me tightly, until a guard saw us and whacked his hand with a rifle butt, catching mine in a glancing blow at the same time. I heard no more from your papa after that. Not a word, not a sign. Until someone from far away brought the news that he had died. That was five years ago. Dead, dear child, your dear papa.’
I don’t remember sadness. I remember my mother’s tearful voice, every word spoken with such tenderness: dear child, dear papa, dear spruce trees. I liked my handsome stepfather. I didn’t – I couldn’t – remember my father.
Then one afternoon at the kiosk not far from school – the one with the automat selling carbonated water, which I was categorically forbidden to buy, though it was what I most longed for – a tall, portly man appeared and said he was my father. I burst into tears and ran home as fast as my legs would carry me. There I found my mother as white as a sheet. He was not dead: he had returned.
*
I don’t remember any occasions when my mother took me to school or waited to pick me up after lessons. This was always done by my step-grandfather, who had adopted her. We used to walk along Gorky Street, a tribute to the legendary Russian writer, refreshed by the fragrance of hops floating over from Barbusse Street, which was named for a French writer. These brief walks spoke to me of peace and home.
I wasn’t afraid of Uncle Sam, or of nuclear war; I was afraid of my mother. Sometimes a demonic force seemed to possess her, compelling her to destroy everything around her, especially the love of those she held dearest. At these times she hated her mother, hated her stepfather even more, and hated the fact of her own birth. She would lock herself in the bathroom and howl, while I stood paralysed at the far end of the corridor, her howls shuddering through my young bones, her suffering infinite and incomprehensible, a railing against the injustice of fate, against the inexplicable wreck of a life.
Those moments of great darkness were relieved by occasional rays of light. We would sit in the living room with the windows open. Savoury cooking smells and children’s voices at play would come drifting in. My mother would be drawing with coloured pencils on a large sheet of paper: a depiction of a birth. I was sitting in her lap, and I wasn’t afraid. First she drew a smiling baby in a mother’s tummy, then she drew the baby’s head peering out between the mother’s legs – the grimace on the baby’s face reflected the suffering and horror awaiting her out here. Then she drew the mother and baby joined only by their umbilical cord, and the scissors that would cut the cord. And then she drew the mother with the infant in her arms, gazing at her with tender, frightened eyes. I followed my mother’s pencil strokes. Her hand was small and white with broken nails, her palms dry and cracked from constant washing and the talcum powder which had to be shaken into her rubber gloves. I sat in my mother’s lap; I wasn’t afraid. I leaned over and pressed my cheek against her hand.
*
My mother resolved to have no regrets. She married my stepfather, who adopted me and loved me like his own daughter. We never talked about my real father. My mother also never learned about my visits to my father, which continued for many years. Already gravely ill on his return from deportation, he lived in a communal flat in what had previously been the pantry. It was permanently damp and the floor was covered with newspapers. He was always drunk.
In his more sober moments, he would recall his years as a student at the University of Latvia, his research into forest plantations and his aversion to fraternities. He remembered his own mother used to dress him up as a young nobleman and call him Zhano. ‘You, my daughter, have blue blood,’ he would claim, for his father was not the Dobele town shoemaker whom his mother had married but a German baron. My father was one of the silent legion who could never adjust to Soviet reality. He did not live to see the deaths of Brezhnev and Andropov, nor the advent of Gorbachev or the Baltic Way to freedom.
Having witnessed my father’s physical suffering, I decided to become a doctor. I’m not sure I loved him. Sometimes I felt sorry for him. Sometimes I hated him because I suspected that his self-destructive gene was deeply implanted in me and that with time it would grow and strengthen, no matter how hard I fought it.
I remember the day my father died very well. Another tenant answered the door: the warm-hearted Jewish woman, who had often treated me to sticky glazed pretzels. Sobbing, she held me close against her soft, crocheted shawl. Then she led me to my father’s room.
There he was – emaciated, gaping. Two days after his death, the others in the flat had broken through his door.
Beneath him, on the stained day bed and all over the floor, newspapers displayed the faces of smiling workers and stern Politburo members. He was lying among words that promised five-year growth in a single year and extolled the superior morality of the people who were building Communism. It was they who had demanded the construction of new cities in distant Siberia, where thousands of innocents were sent to die without learning the nature of their crimes. He was lying among words advocating the diversion of rivers, the conversion of churches into storehouses for mineral fertilizers, and the destruction of the literature, art and sculpture of our Latvian heritage.
Thus he lay: one of the many who had surrendered quietly, dying in an obscure corner because he could not adjust and swallow humiliation, shame, dishonour and disillusionment. Discarded on the waste heap of our times. Most likely he was buried in a common grave for the homeless on the outskirts of the city. My mother showed no interest in him and never learned of his death. She protected her new life and in doing so did her best to protect me.
*
My grandmother and step-grandfather were the closest thing I had to parents. My mother stood somewhere outside the family. Our lives revolved around her; we depended on her – but not for maternal nurturing. Now and then, her struggles with her demons and angels would spill over into our daily routine, forcing us to acknowledge the fragile boundary between life and death. Worried, we would stay up, waiting for her to return home. And every time she came in we would sigh with relief, despite not knowing what the next day or night would bring. Not one of us knew much about my father. My grandmother thought it likely that they’d met at a country dance, which she had forced my mother to attend. Her pregnancy had come after that. This was all we knew. But I fantasized about that meeting.
Preparing an instant coffee in her aunt’s small kitchen, my mother hears a reminder on the crackly battery-powered radio that it’s January 1969. One of those youthful January mornings when she would hurry to finish memorizing the idiocies of science under Communism, and devote the rest of her time to questions of medicine and the origins of life, and to reading photocopies of smuggled books by Pasternak and Sartre. She would be a doctor and a sc
ientist, come what may. For the moment she easily manages to regurgitate the official programme, while simultaneously acquiring a totally different, prohibited education. Her mother and aunt are worried about her. My mother can spend days in her room, just reading books. She’s already nearly twenty-five, but has never been seen with a young man. Is she attractive? She has delicate bones, small hands and firm round breasts, light hair which she occasionally bleaches, and freckles. She’s not concerned about what she wears. She even goes to university in wide, comfortable trousers, although she can feel the shocked stares of her instructors and fellow students. Trousers are only acceptable on Saturdays or when working at the kolkhoz. At all other times one has to wear skirts reaching to mid-knee or, of course, conservative minis, when they’re in fashion.
While her aunt fries potatoes for her husband’s breakfast, my mother drinks bitter coffee, gazes out of the window and thinks about the great whale with which the captain is obsessed in Moby-Dick.
In the evening her mother and aunt make her put on a dress that their brother has sent from England. She must go to the village dance and stop burrowing among those books. The local band will be playing, there will be refreshments and, crucially, dancing. May the city bookworm dance up a storm with the country boys. The two sisters drive her right to the door.
What she sees inside doesn’t compare to anything she’s experienced before. On the stage a singer is gesturing stiffly. Several couples are moving around the dance floor, some freestyle, others waltzing. At the side of the room hefty country girls with self-fashioned beehives crowd around the buffet tables. Young men fidget on the other side.
What is she doing here? She doesn’t understand; it is a kind of bitiye and nichto – a Sartrean being and nothingness. But the English dress soon attracts stares. As does her smooth, blonde boy’s haircut.