There were circumstances of travellers being robbed by bandits and so they had accompanied three other families in a convoy of carriages and a wagon. They left the convoy at the junction of the Colony and Chortitza roads to embark on the two-hour trip to Privol’noye on their own. She would write to her sister, Opa and Uncle Bernhard had a moment of prayer for our safety. I said a prayer of thanks, because I knew we would be safe.
She looked down the road towards Privol’noye, hoping to see the orchard in flower, to see what always looked like a pink fog, but it was still too early for the blooming of Sheep’s Nose and Snow Whites, damsons and morellos. How sad, she thought, that Tante Anna wasn’t here to see the waves of wild poppies, crimson and shining as her satin bed-curtains had been. She supposed that Tante Anna, in all her seventy-nine years, hadn’t witnessed spring on the steppe. The spinster’s dream about Katya’s father had come true. Her father had obtained his release and returned home. He, her mother, Peter, and the new baby, Ann, were already at Privol’noye, and no doubt watching for them. The woman had left an impression on Katya’s skin which she would feel now and then. It was the feeling of a house cat that had gone missing, but whose presence remained an imperceptible settling at the foot of a bed, paws kneading a lap. The poor dear Tante Anna, whose travels had only taken her as far as one house to another, to care for other people’s children, until she became too feeble to even care for herself. A woman alone, whose cherished keepsake was an empty ring box. Oh, if only Tante Anna could see this, she thought, with the arrogance the living possessed when they assumed the departed were somehow deprived because they were unable to experience what had just given them pleasure. Assumed that the dead might be longing for another glimpse of the tricks nature played with colours and light; a bead of rain magnifying pores on a sister’s wrist, veins on a leaf.
ODESSA March 28, 1917
My dear friend Peter Vogt,
I was overjoyed to learn that your medical leave was granted and that Privol’noye is once again in your care. I hope you didn’t find the two weeks’ bed rest in Kiev too onerous. Being confined to bed and being poked and prodded seems a small price to pay for freedom. I’m hoping when it’s my turn, everything will proceed as smoothly. I cannot, however, claim to have a specific ailment such as headaches, but rather a general malaise. Welcome home. I’m certain my dear brother is grateful for your return.
The following is yet another instalment of a Mennonite Teacher’s Adventures in the big, wide world.
Lately there hasn’t been much for us to do in the office, and so I often go walking on Ekateriniskaia Ploshchad’ and say hello to Catherine as I go by, and then down all one hundred and ninety-eight steps of the Richelieu Esplanades to the harbour. Often there are sailors marching off into the city in their formations.
The last time I went down to the harbour, several naval ships were coming in. They were signalling the news of the tsar’s abdication to one another with their flags. Within moments the news reached the streets, and people began singing the “Marseillaise,” or the “Marsiliuza,” as some pronounce it. You hear it being sung everywhere now. The words depend on who’s doing the singing, soldiers or workers. I hear that where you are, they’re singing, “Who formerly was a nobody shall become the most important.” Paradise on earth, yet. Oh well, let them dream. It may come to something. In any case, people need to dream, don’t you think? The exuberance and joy in the faces of the people reminds me of the early days of the war. Life has become one long and exhausting party. Neverending band music, speeches of the kind that are so familiar these days, and which I’m sure you get your fill of, even there. Da zdravst’vooiet svoboda, long live this and that. Up with and down with about everything under the sun.
Everyone is anxious to learn all they can about the French revolution. The bookstores and stalls are crowded with people hungry to read about the French. You hear the language being spoken on the street, and in the cafés.
Because of a lack of spit and polish in our office, tea time has become almost like faspa at home. My co-religionists are very popular with the Russians during tea time, as often one or two of them will have a special tin of goodies from home, and how quickly are they relieved of their contents. There is no place to hide a tin of homemade sausages that a nose won’t eventually sniff out. Auguste continues to send me generous amounts of halvah, which unfortunately isn’t in demand and can’t be bartered with the Russians for an eclair, or even a lowly raisin tart. And all because I made such a fuss when she served halvah when I was courting her, when really, I don’t care for halvah all that much. Heat makes a fool of a man sometimes.
Tea time may soon change, however. We have received word from a Revolutionary Committee that we’re to elect representatives to a staff soviet who will then collectively determine office procedures, duties, and disciplinary measures when the need for them arises. Ah, democracy rears its head, and will soon touch all of our lives. My own life has already been touched by certain aspects of freedom and equality. I’m frequently being relieved of the burden of my personal belongings. My room has been rifled through, and in the spirit of the day, items such as hair-, shoe- and clothing-brushes are being liberated. Such is the notion of democracy in action. I’m sure this is bound to get worse before it gets better.
Pray that my medical discharge will go smoothly. A fellow co-worker recently appeared before a medical board which consisted of three excellent doctors, and representatives from the Revolutionary Committee, a sailor, and a nineteen-year-old store clerk. Everyone but the clerk agreed that he should be given a discharge, and so it was not granted.
Recently there have been many articles in the newspapers praising the stalwart service of Mennonites on the hospital ships and trains, young men I suspect, unmarried, wanting to prove a Mennonite’s worth. Which, I also suspect, will quickly be forgotten by whoever winds up being in power.
I must confess, I felt much admiration and pride for them, when I read the glowing reports.
Until we meet again, your friend as always,
David Sudermann
PRIVOL’NOYE April 7, 1917
Dear Greta,
Our little attic room remains the same dear room. But other things have changed. You wouldn’t appreciate how the fountain looks. It’s become so pitted and grey and stained with rust that it’s hard to tell that it was once white. I tried to clean it with lava stone, but I’m afraid I didn’t improve it, only added a few more scratches. Also, the rim of the bowl is broken. According to Martha Wiebe it was damaged the night the Baptists were chased off. Helena noticed it the following morning.
When Opa drove onto the estate I also saw that the wall was broken, too. There was a hole in it near to the south entrance large enough for a wagon to pass through. As we came onto the yard it was being repaired. As usual, four men were doing what one could easily have done. They were patching the wall with red bricks, and not stone. More than likely, they were too lazy to go out to the rock pile and get them.
There I go, being Miss Critical. I haven’t lived their lives and so I shouldn’t pass judgment. It hurts to think of the names I used to have for Helena. I’m not without my blemishes, as you know, one of them being my critical nature.
Mary was quick to tell me about the Baptists, which you already must know about, judging from your last letter to Mama and Papa. Mary said she watched from an upstairs window, where she and Martha had gone to hide in one of the storage rooms. She said she saw sabres and sickles flashing as the men came onto the yard. Somehow they knew what building the Baptists were staying in. The marauders weren’t making a point against the gospel being preached, but were showing off what they could do, Mary said. It’s more that they were against Abram putting a stop to Helena’s soup kettle. That is Martha’s opinion. She and Mary had been taking bread and a kettle of soup to the front gate every other day for the beggars and worn-out soldiers.
According to Martha, Helena acted poorly for a Christian when Abram put a stop
to their soup kettle. She got hot under the skin and said he should be ashamed of himself. She said that God might have sent angels among the hungry men to see if we were practising what we professed to believe. She was entertaining bandits and hoodlums, not angels, Abram said. While he paid Cossacks to keep them out, his own sister was inviting them in the front gate.
Why wasn’t I told that Sophie and Kolya had married? Did you know? I would have made something for her. I hardly recognized our Sophie. She’s become so terribly wide. About as wide as the old oak tree. Well, not really. I shouldn’t exaggerate. Papa says that Kolya has become a good worker, and has done his best to look after things while Papa was away.
Sara was happy to discover that Mama had already planted the bowls with barley and oats for Easter. The grain is almost a foot tall already. Sara also pointed out that this year the number of eggs for our family has reached fifty-five. Add another eighteen if you were here, then as many eggs as years for Mama and Papa, which would make a grand total of one hundred and forty-two eggs. However, I told her she was not to get her hopes up. We’ll colour the usual three dozen. The store in Nikolaifeld didn’t have any dye, and so I will have to see what I can do. Beets, Mama says. Onion skins, walnut shells. What else? Lilacs, and leaves, perhaps.
Papa has already hung the swing and after supper Sara is on it until bedtime. I can hear her singing a song she learned in Rosenthal: Swing, swing, Easter, we eat eggs. Pentecost we eat white bread, and if we don’t die, we’ll all grow tall.
Mama says there are lots of memories for her in that song. She says I am to say hello on her behalf, she thinks of you often. Greetings also to Willy and Frieda and a kiss for their sweet little Erika who, from the sounds of it, more than fills your time.
With love,
your sister, Katya
P.S. The sister cousins, Barbara and Mariechen Sudermann, are coming to stay at Easter. Lydia says she wishes you could be here too. So do I.
PRIVOL’NOYE May 15, 1917
Greetings, my dear friend David Sudermann,
I so much appreciate your long and informative letters. I am indeed glad to be restored to my family, and to be back at Privol’noye. There is much to be done to get the place back where it was.
When I read your letters I can’t help but wonder if the changes that are taking place so rapidly will brighten our future and the future of all people in this country, as you seem to think they will. I agree that, unlike the Americans and French, little blood has been shed, and it seems a miracle. For a feat of such magnitude to be accomplished and, so far, with little loss of life, is a wonder. We have God to thank for that.
I am hopeful that, now that the laws regarding proselytizing have been lifted, others will risk setting up tents as the Baptists already have. Even if only to prove your prediction wrong, my dear friend, that the status quo will prevail. Business as usual, was what you said. Above all, business. But I do agree that it will be difficult for us to go back to being turtles living in our shells and to remain die Stillen im Lande.
I wish that time would allow me to return an equally long and interesting letter, but my poor body is still not used to so much activity, and bedtime comes early. My Marie sends her regards, and we both hope and pray that in due time you will also be restored to your dear family.
With God’s grace,
Peter Vogt
he land unfurled beyond the stone fence, viridescent, and the gardens were alive with birdsong. A man working on the roof of the horse barn suddenly broke into singing, and then the shrill call of a falcon hunting near Ox Lake rose above the song. Although Katya’s brothers had been to the lake, she hadn’t the time to join them. They’d returned hours later caked in mud, but bringing home two small trout. Later, when she was frying the fish for supper, her father came into the kitchen rubbing his hands in anticipation, which redeemed her brothers for the work they’d caused. She’d scraped the clay from their trousers with a knife, hung them near the stove to dry, then brushed them clean.
There were other things now that required her attention. The season brought an abundance of eggs and fresh milk. A bowl of clabbered milk congealed on a shelf in the pantry, and she would use it to make schmaunstsupp for tomorrow’s supper, ladle the soup over hard-boiled eggs. Scrambled eggs with onions for Wednesday, fried potatoes with eggs for Thursday, beggar’s soup with egg noodles and cream on Friday. Her father couldn’t get his fill of eggs in spring.
She was fifteen years old and her appearance had changed, her light-brown hair thick and heavy, a sun-streaked coil of braids at the nape of her neck. She preferred dark colours, blue and aubergine skirts and blouses topped by an unadorned white apron that was often longer than her skirt, and skimmed the tops of her shoes. She knew that men, when looking for a wife, judged a woman by the evenness of stitches on an apron patch. That strength and honour were her clothing. A wife looked well to the ways of her household and did not eat the bread of idleness. A young woman’s modesty and purity was of equal value to the wisdom of Solomon. She hoped she would one day attain such value, and attract a man who wanted such a woman. Unlike Greta, she had no desire for anything other than that.
Years later she would reread the letters she had sent to Greta and be put off by her own effusive froth of description, and then understand that the letters had been her only means of self-expression. Strong emotions, such as anger, were being contained, and sexual feelings, too. After she married she would hear from women that a woman’s desire for sex increased with each child she bore, which she doubted, as much as she doubted there was no passion until the first child came. She’d seen it in her own girls, as young as eight and ten, wanting to touch themselves, being puzzled about what they were feeling down there. And so she, too, must have been of the age for those desires, which, if anyone had noticed, they likely ignored, just as she had tried to ignore what was going on in her own daughters, nursed them with an aspirin, warm milk, a story, because there was nothing else that could be done. And there was nothing her parents could do either, which was why her parents and others still called her a girl, even though at fifteen she’d been of age to marry.
Her shadow travelled with her as she went across the compound, arms swinging, body leaning into the task of visiting Helena Sudermann, as she’d arranged. It’s not necessary for you to go, her mother had said. It was enough that she had confessed to Lydia and been forgiven. If you like I’ll ask Helena what the cup was worth on your behalf. You don’t owe Helena Sudermann an apology.
As she went past the summer kitchen, a tall, thin woman came striding towards her on the path. At least judging from the skirt, Katya believed it to be a woman. The person’s features were blunt, a square jaw and heavy brow that hooded deep-set eyes. Her cropped dark hair looked like a tight-fitting cap, a crow’s wing hanging across her forehead. Katya saw her coming, and stood still. The air between them seemed to quiver, and Katya knew this was Vera. Let her come, Katya thought. Please let me greet her with true friendliness. She felt her heartbeat quicken as Vera came towards her, a full pail of water knocking against a knee, her stride as long as a man’s. And then she stepped from the path and went off towards the cow barns, and Katya was relieved that her desire for true friendliness had not been put to the test.
Someone called, and she turned to see Helena coming out of the greenhouse, carrying potted plants. Helena was going to be a few minutes, Katya should wait for her in the kitchen. She saw Vera join up with two other women at the women’s quarters, saw a puff of smoke as the women passed a pipe of tobacco between them.
When she entered the kitchen she didn’t at first recognize Sophie for her broad shoulders and the breadth of hips beneath her skirt. She was standing at a table chopping onions, and at the same time staring out the window. Her hands worked by rote as she chopped, cleared the onions aside with the blade of the knife, and reached for another while she looked out across the yard. Vera and the two women came into view, and as they went on their way to the bathhouse
, Sophie’s shoulders dropped. “God, God,” she muttered, and only then did Katya realize who she was.
When Katya spoke Sophie’s name, the woman turned, and her face lit with pleasure.
“Oy, stand back so I can see you. You’re almost as tall as I am, but not nearly as wide. Too bad for you. Only when you’re as wide as I am can you find true happiness. Now turn around. Let me see everything,” Sophie said.
When Katya finished turning, Sophie crossed her arms over her hen’s bosom. “So, you’re married and have ten children, I guess. For all I know. I know what I hear, and what I don’t hear, I have to make up for myself. I imagined, she must be married and have ten children, because she doesn’t write to me. I can read, you know. As much as you can write, I can read. Or someone would have read it to me. Two letters. Ten children already, and I get two letters saying, Hello Sophie. Life is fine. The roads go east and west and north and south. The sun comes up and goes down. End of story, your friend, Lady-of-the-Town-Who’s-Too-Busy-to-Write,” Sophie said.
“Five children,” Katya said, returning the teasing, wanting Sophie to stop going on about not having written. Sophie’s replies, the childlike awkwardness of her large writing, the misspelled words, the simple sentences that made her sound so much less than what she was, were painful to read, and so Katya had stopped writing.
“Five children? Who’s the papa?” Sophie asked.
She thought of Bull-Headed Heinrichs. Kornelius Heinrichs was his real name. She thought of his shining eyes as he looked at her. She remembered his smile beginning to grow, just before he saw Trifon about to strike Nela. The memory of his smile hadn’t been diluted by what followed. He had come to the house on her grandfather’s say-so. Her grandparents had wanted to thank him for his quick thinking and swiftness. She was in the summer room, listening. God put you in the right place at the right time, her grandfather said. Luck, Kornelius countered. In the silence that followed, she’d heard the man cracking open sunflower seeds, the scrape of chair legs as her grandfather got up and came for her. Business, Kornelius called after him. He had gone to the train station on business, that’s what had put him in the right place at the right time. Well, no matter what, it’s all the same, God put you there, her grandfather said. Thank you, was all she had managed to say to Kornelius, her eyes on the litter of sunflower-seed shells on the floor between his boots, which, she noticed, were freshly blackened, and shone.
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