I hear a thumping in the entryway and listen as Chase comes in, closing the door. In a moment he’s climbing into bed, snuggling up next to me, his arm around my waist. “Hey, babe,” he says, his voice husky and tired.
I reach up and rub his cheek with my hand. It’s stubbly, and I hear him sigh.
“How was the meeting?”
He is silent for a long time. Too long. “The council has a request.”
I can’t pinpoint exactly why, but that sentence makes my jaw tighten. I say nothing.
“They want you to send the twins to detski-sod.”
Kindergarten. I try—really, I do—to school my tone. “Since when does the council get to decide what’s best for my children?”
He tenses, and I know that he’s trying to decide if he should run—metaphorically speaking, of course—or stay and fight.
“They’re not trying to decide what’s best for our children. It’s just, they think that unless we are in the culture, we can’t understand it. And all the kids attend school here by the time they’re eighteen months old.”
I think that all the time I spend building up my right-arm muscle while pumping water and hiking outside in the wind to use the biffy will help me understand this culture. I don’t need to sacrifice my children’s education, do I?
“I need to get the people here to trust me, Josey. To see that I share their values. When the Soviets took over, they dismantled centuries of tradition and destroyed the nomadic lifestyle of the Nanais by making it illegal to hunt or fish. Before, the wives partnered with their husbands to find food and take care of the family. But once they built towns, their nomadic mindset began to vanish, leaving a fractured, confused society. All they have left is their traditions, but even those seem to be unraveling.”
I understand all about feeling confused. And life unraveling.
Chase’s hand closes over mine. It’s cold and a little chapped. I interlace my fingers with his, attempting to warm his hand with my touch.
“I need to get involved in their lives and show them that I understand,” he continues. “And the first step is letting my children become a part of their society. I think it will be good for them, Jose. And maybe you could meet other mothers through the school. You’d also have more time to spend with our neighbor—she seems like she could use a friend.”
What was your first clue, Chase? The big dog with the hungry bark?
Gentle, Josey, gentle.
“But it’s your call, GI.”
I pull the covers up to my chin. I’ve finally gotten the smell of mold out of the house after cleaning every last corner. I’ve picked fresh chrysanthemums and hung them upside down over the window to dry. And the smell from dinner—a pot of potatoes with clumps of onion and dried dill (I’m learning!)—lingers in the carpeted walls.
“I know it’s a lot to ask.”
Humble. Gentle.
“But maybe it’ll make a difference.”
As a prisoner for the Lord, then, I urge you to live a life worthy of the calling you have received.
What if I had time to do something, like invite Olya over for tea?
“Half days?”
“That might work.” Chase is running his thumb over my hand and I can feel his breathing start to relax.
Patience. Peace.
“Give the cow away, and we have a deal.”
He pulls me close, molding his body to mine. The wind rattles the windows, hinting at a coming storm, but I’m warm and dry.
We’re going to make it.
I’m only here for a year. For the first time, I’m wondering if it’s long enough.
Chapter Eight
Catch Me
I’ve always been enamored of the whole homeschooling concept. Science projects in cookie-making class and reading epic tales out loud, acting them out later in homemade costumes…I think I was born to be a homeschooler.
So it takes great submission (see that word? Yes, Daphne would be proud) to dress up my children and walk them to the preschool in the middle of town. It’s the only building with playground equipment, although that is a questionable name for the rusty, twisted metal in the yard. The merry-go-round is missing all the slats, and the slide has a puddle underneath that a two-year-old could drown in. The swings are metal and I can picture bruised, pinched fingers as I hear them squeal on their rusty hinges. As for the monkey bars—why, exactly, do they have monkey bars for three-year-olds that I can walk under? Does anyone besides me think “broken neck”? The only seemingly safe play area looks to be a green and orange painted playhouse with a saggy roof and dirt floor.
However, I remind myself, the Bursk detski-sod has not only managed to keep children alive, but it has turned out the likes of Ulia and Anton, Olya and Vasilley. With regard to Vasilley, I’m not sure I find this comforting.
Okay, that was judgmental. But since seeing him, my sympathy for Olya continues to mushroom. So far, I haven’t heard yelling from their side of the house, but that bruised eye haunts me.
I have to give the teachers credit for their creativity. Just like the orphanage I worked in outside Moscow, the detski-sod is brightly painted, with yellow walls, big blue violets and orange poppies. The room for three-year-olds is spacious, with huge trundle bunks built into the wall and a giant table in the middle with adorable little chairs around it. A Cyrillic alphabet is stenciled on the wall, and an old carpet remnant marks out the play area, where I see a few children playing with dishes, a wooden truck and a naked doll.
A teacher—or should I say overstuffed babushka—sits on a tiny chair with a group of children, reading aloud.
This might work.
I stroll down the halls until I find the office marked Director: Maya Kradenski. I knock on the door.
The woman who opens it scares me. She has shorn-to-the-scalp hair and is wearing a high-necked blouse and a high-waisted wool skirt that make her look like she’s come straight from the runways in Milan. Her footwear—a pair of sleek Mary Janes—causes me to consider my hiking boots with some chagrin. (When did I sacrifice fashion for convenience? C’mon, Josey, don’t fold!) But what scares me is her eyes. Dark as night, they stare me down as cold as Siberia.
“Da?” she asks. It’s not a nice “da,” but a why-are-you-bothering-me? “da.”
“Zhdrastvyootya. My name is Josey Anderson and I, uh, want to enroll my children in your detski-sod,” I say, rethinking my words even as they come out of my mouth.
She raises one nicely sculpted eyebrow. “Ladna,” she says after a moment, which means roughly “oh, well, I guess so.” “I’m Maya.” But she doesn’t hold out her hand. Instead, she returns to her desk and pulls out a form from her desk drawer.
Oh, yeah, I’m feeling the love.
I take a deep breath, find a smile and pull my beloved children into her office. We sit down on a plush black sofa that I know isn’t leather, because I had one just like it in Moscow. I put Chloe on my lap as Maya starts asking questions.
It’s a nice office, typically Russian, with a laminated wood desk and a file cabinet, the door of which opens from the top, along one wall. A fake plant stands in the corner and tea accoutrements are laid out on a credenza behind her with a Korean hot-water pot, a used cup and a packet of tea.
Looks like she often drinks alone.
Chloe climbs down and starts to wander around the room. She has kitty paws and is meowing nervously, eyeing me. Justin climbs up on the sofa beside me, but I pull him onto my lap before he can get his muddy feet beneath him.
“They’re twins?” Maya asks.
I nod. “Three years old.”
She writes that down. “And why do you want them here?”
Why, indeed. “My husband thinks it would be a good idea for them to get to know Russian culture.” Okay, that was passing the buck a little, but accurate.
She puts her pen down, folding her hands on top of her paper and regarding me without a smile. “And you?”
And me? I’m submitting,
but she doesn’t have to know that. In fact, it lessens the impact of the submitting if I announce it to the world, doesn’t it? What I want this woman to understand is that these are my precious children, and I’m entrusting her and her staff with their little minds—and furthermore, their lives.
I pet Chloe, who has climbed up my leg, purring.
“I’m a mother,” I say, and my smile vanishes. “Please take good care of them.”
For a split second that might have only occurred in my imagination, her steely demeanor vanishes, and I glimpse the smallest hint of curiosity. Tenderness, even.
Then it’s gone. I’m left holding my breath and praying that my words of faith spoken so long ago to Daphne are true—that when we fling ourselves out there, God catches us.
Dear Josey,
By the time you get this, it will be nearly November, I guess. Do you even get mail in Siberia? I can’t believe you moved there—you are so brave! And such a great inspiration to the rest of us. I was just getting used to you living in Moscow. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to you living in Siberia!
Guess what? Your sister has finally figured out how to use the Internet! I know you thought I would never learn, but after reading your last letter about sending you kringle, Milton had this bright idea to put my kringle up on eBay, and we’re an overnight success! Can you believe it? Go to www.kringlekompany.com. We ship overnight, and we’re already talking about buying the old pizza joint in town to turn it into a commercial Kringle Kompany store!
You should see Amelia and Clay in their little kringle aprons. (I’ve enclosed two for the twins.) Mom has postponed moving permanently to Arizona to watch them every day—in fact, she’s even teaching Amelia to read. I know it seems early, but she’s four and already is keeping up with Sesame Street and the plethora of early-learning shows. I know I shouldn’t let her watch too much television, but today’s programming is really quite educational.
Milton says that soon we’ll have enough money to add on to the house. I love the cute kitchen in our Cape Cod, but it’s getting a little cramped. I’d love to have a granite island and of course, upgrade to stainless-steel appliances. We’re also looking into a Subzero fridge—after all, I can’t neglect the family! But Milton has been so supportive. He’s even sending me and Mom to New York for the Kitchen Expo! I’ve always wanted to see the Big Apple. We’re even staying at the Waldorf!
Oh, I’ve enclosed a copy of the newspaper. Lew Suzlbach got the job at the high school after the entire town thought we’d be without a football coach this year (too bad Chase didn’t want the job). So far, the Gull Lake Gulls are undefeated! It’s so fun to watch the games—Milton and I haven’t missed one. We love snuggling up together under a blanket in the bleachers. Makes a great date night!
We all miss you. Mom, of course, was saddened by the news that you weren’t coming home for another year. I think being around the kids helps a lot, though. I miss you!
Love,
Jasmine
I have heard stories from other mothers about their children who, after being nurtured at home, suffer great anxiety when they are left at preschool for the first time. They throw themselves at their mothers’ legs, begging, pleading not to be left behind and wailing for hours after their moms leave, only to repeat the trauma the next day—for weeks.
This has not been my experience. Chloe has taken to detski-sod like a second home. In her cute pigtails, tights and dresses, she skips to class every day, yanking my arm from my socket in her excitement to get away from me.
Okay, maybe it’s not to get away from me, but let’s just say a little three-year-old angst would go a long way. Just one temper tantrum, one moment of agonizing goodbye? Justin isn’t quite as excited, but when he saw that the children get treats and play games and draw and climb things, he was all in.
I got a tour from Maya and discovered that the detski-sod contains a music room, a nap room and, of course, a potty room complete with a long bench with little bowls attached underneath. I guess it’s a group event. There are three different classes—Chloe and Justin’s is the middle group, with eight adorable kids who are already wearing their snowsuits.
My children are woefully underdressed in wool hats and coats, tights and valenki—molded wool boots that Anton sent home with Chase. They resemble a stiff, brown stocking.
I pick the twins up every day at noon, right before naptime, which leaves me three empty hours every morning to do…I’m not sure what.
Maybe it’s because my life has been replete with washing dishes and running after Chloe and doing laundry and running after Chloe and grocery shopping and running after Chloe and cleaning the house and running after Chloe that the deafening silence in the house after the kids are gone paralyzes me.
Who thought I’d be the kind of mother who has made her children her entire life?
Then again, isn’t that sort of the definition of a mother? Don’t ask me! I’ve never done this before!
I filled up the silences this week by reading a book. Writing a letter home. Actually purchasing everything on my grocery list.
Wow, I miss my kids.
I am seeing now that I gave birth so that I would have little people to keep me company.
I’m sitting outside in the detski-sod yard, on the lead-painted railing, watching as the kids climb on the monkey bars and dig in the sand. Justin is chasing a little boy, playing tag. Chloe has joined a group of girls who have morphed into kitties and they are climbing in and out of the playhouse windows. She probably taught them everything they know.
It’s nippy out. The last of the leaves have fallen, a blanket of gold and yellow on the ground. The sun sinks lower earlier each day. I fold Jasmine’s letter and shove it into my coat pocket, turning up the collar on my jacket. It smells like Thanksgiving.
I wonder where I can track down a turkey in this town.
And I don’t need any wisecracks about looking in the mirror.
The novelty of moving to Siberia has worn off. I look down at my chapped hands and wonder if I can do one more load of laundry in that metal tub. With the cold bite of the fall wind, each item of laundry freezes into a stiff carcass as it dries. I especially love prying myself into a pair of frozen jeans every day.
Chase has interviewed nearly all the men in town. He has chopped wood, hauled water and even fixed a few roofs with them, trying to unearth the layers of their lives. He keeps asking to go out to check the traplines and visit a nearby mink farm (yes, I said mink), but so far, he hasn’t earned the right to witness these sacred rituals. He has, however, earned the right to attend every council meeting and spend long hours at Anton’s house eating fish.
How nice for him.
I’m trying not to be negative, but as my hands become more chapped and cracked and as I trot out with a flashlight to use the biffy and I fight my battle against the roaches, I’m feeling like a forgotten soldier.
But we’re going to be fine. He’s just busy.
And to add to my feelings of defeat, I can’t seem to muster the courage to face Olya. What happened to the desire to change lives? The compassion for my neighbor?
I suppose it died when Vasilley about glared at Chase after we offered him the cow. Although he took it, I had to wonder if perhaps we’d offended him.
Then again, had I liked being given a cow? We all know how that turned out.
“Mommy!” Justin says, spotting me on the railing. He runs toward me and dives into my arms. I hug him tight, smelling his curly blond hair and smooching him good on his pudgy cheeks.
“Nilzya!” one of the teachers yells. It’s the Russian equivalent of “You must never do that again! Never, never, never!” (The Russians can get all that conveniently in one word.) I see that Justin’s group is lining up to go inside. She’s not smiling at me.
Apparently, picking up my children every day at noon has shaken the status quo. So much for being accepted.
“Go with your group, Justin. Mommy will be inside in a
few minutes to collect you.” I’m not sure why they demand that I come inside to get him, other than wanting to make a spectacle of his leaving.
Justin makes a face and runs off to join his group.
“Josey?”
I turn, startled by the English, and a streak of warmth goes through me. “Nathan?”
Our American missionary friend is exactly as I remember him—warm brown eyes and a nice smile, although now, he’s clean-shaven and wearing a black stocking cap and leather jacket that makes him look more Mafia than missionary. “I thought that was you.” He climbs over the fence and sits beside me. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for my children to finish with detski-sod for the day.”
Nathan nods in what looks like approval. “How’s that working out?”
I shrug. “The kids seem to like it.” Do I like it? I don’t know. I’m just trying not to need therapy.
“And Chase? How’s he doing?”
“Busy. He’s trying to get the council to let him go out with the fur trappers, but I guess there’s some sort of rule against outsiders, so we’re trying to become insiders.”
“When in Rome…Sounds like something a missionary might do.” Nathan picks up a seed pod and begins to strip it. “So, I suppose you’re keeping busy?”
“Uh, let’s see. Hauling water. Doing laundry.” I look at him. “I got out of milking the cow today.”
His eyes are huge, and I laugh when he sees I’m joking. “Please tell me that you aren’t milking cows.”
“There is nothing wrong with milking a cow, Nathan.”
“No, there’s not. But you can buy milk at the market.”
I watch as he peels open the pod. “Chase gave the cow to the neighbors.”
Get Cozy, Josey! Page 9