The Kissing Fence

by B. A. Thomas-Peter

  Another voice came. “Please. The one about the queen.”

  The stories Pavel told filled the evening space with something. Even if he was unsure of how true his stories were or if he was getting the story right, at least it was something of who their people were.

  “Okay, just a few minutes.” Some of the children, wrapped in blankets, padded softly to his bedside. They shuffled together on the next bed and settled like squirrels in a nest. Others curled in their beds and waited for the story to bring them sleep. Pavel calculated that Matron would be seeing others to bed for about thirty minutes. It should be safe. He brought to mind the story of Queen Lukeria and remembered the gestures his father would make to add to the drama. It was dim in the memory, but his friends would not know or care if what he said was true.

  “A hundred years ago in the south of Russia,” he began, “there was a girl born who became known as Queen Lukeria. As she got older, the people, our people, thought she was more than a normal person. They thought she had special gifts to make the crops grow and people contented. They believed this because everywhere she went there were beautiful flowers growing. Some said the flowers grew in her footsteps as she walked, and when she visited a village, the harvest gave more than the village could eat. People would come to her angry with their neighbour, upset with something or even crying without reason, and she would speak with them. Always, they would leave smiling. She could help people see God’s work and what must be done to have a better life.”

  The moon bounced off the snow outside. Its light painted the dormitory and eager young faces blue grey. Marko asked, “Did she live in a palace?”

  “Oh no,” said Pavel, remembering a photo he had once seen. “She lived in a simple house: two storeys with a balcony all around the second floor.”

  “Why didn’t she live in a palace?”

  “Because it is not our way.”

  “I thought all queens lived in palaces.”

  “Many queens do, but Lukeria was not like them. She was only a queen because the people loved and looked up to her, not because she was born into a noble family with money.”

  “I’d live in a palace if I was a queen—or king.”

  A flurry of insults erupted. “Be quiet, stupid!” “Listen to the story.” The bed jostled with nudges and pushing.

  “It’s my bed!” said Marko.

  “Shh!” Pavel sighed. “We have to be quiet. Maybe we should sleep and have stories another night.”

  “No, no. Please,” said a whispering voice. “Just a little more.” The boys settled in the blue light, and Pavel struggled to conjure his enthusiasm again.

  “Well, if you really want to know …” He hesitated as his father would have done. “When people came to her village, it was not only flowers, fruit and wheat they saw, but every house was painted and cared for. The animals were fat. Every child had shoes and a shining face. They played in the fields, helped their mothers and came home to plates stacked high with food. Everyone had a place at a table, no one in Queen Lukeria’s village was poor and they were all happy.”

  Pavel was at the end of his fragmented recollection and searched for inspiration in the quiet faces of his peers. Marko’s pyjama top was opened from waist to chest, the buttons lost to tugging and roughhousing.

  “Important people from villages all around would come and ask how it could be. Queen Lukeria would ask them, ‘How many buttons have you on your shirt?’ They would be surprised, and some would reply, ‘What have my buttons to do with the hunger our villagers feel in their stomach?’” Pavel looked intently at those listening on the next bed, delaying his story until he worked out what to say. “Shall I tell you why the buttons are important?”

  “Because they could eat the buttons!” said Marko.

  There were jostles, and a chorus responded with “Idiot!” “Stupid!” and “Be quiet!”

  “Shh!” Pavel put his finger to his mouth. “Shh.” It was enough time for an idea to emerge. “Queen Lukeria would say, ‘Do you have more buttons on your shirt than your neighbour?’ But they could not answer. She would say, ‘Is the cotton of your shirt thicker than your neighbour’s?’ Then, ‘Is your house warmer? Is your barn bigger?’ The important men from the villages would begin to understand and tears would run down their faces, but she did not stop. ‘Are your animals fatter? Have you more seed for next year’s planting?’ Finally they would cry out and ask her to stop, not ask but beg her to ask no more.”

  “Why were they crying?”

  “Because Queen Lukeria helped them to see they had lost the true way.” There was confusion on their faces. “Our way is not to have more than another. If you have something, you must share it. You mustn’t own more than others, and there’s only one way to prevent this from happening, by owning nothing and sharing everything. This is the Doukhobor way. The true way.”

  “But,” said another whisper, “Queen Lukeria’s village was lucky because things grew wherever she walked. They had lots to give.”

  Pavel searched his memory for a reply his father might give. He was on his own. “That’s not what the story tells us. They had much to give because they shared.” It didn’t make the sense he wanted but it was the best he could do.

  “But—”

  “The village got stronger because—”

  At the crunch of snow and beam of light outside, everyone froze. It was the night guard patrolling. A small group of men in half-hearted uniforms took turns patrolling the outside of the buildings, as if there were a risk of one of the children making a break for home. Quietly the boys gathered their blankets around them and tiptoed across the freezing linoleum to their own beds. Pavel listened to the night patrol crunch off toward the next building.

  Pavel signalled there would be no more story tonight with “spokoynoi noch.” Whispered “Have a peaceful night” returned to him from the beds.

  Marko stared at him from the next bed and Pavel waited.

  “I’d like to be a king or queen. A king, I guess. Kings live in palaces, don’t they?”

  “Spokoynoi noch, Marko.”

  February 28, 1957

  Pavel had been thinking all day, whenever the image of Nina escaped him, of the story he had promised to tell in the dormitory that night. They had asked for a new one and he had searched his memory of Father’s tales not yet told to the boys with whom he shared the night. Now they waited for it to begin.

  “Can you tell us another one about Queen Lukeria?” asked a boy, repeating the request of yesterday.

  “Yep,” said Pavel. The chatter stopped and the silence waited for him to begin. “This is the story of the Burning of Arms.” It was a phrase often used, and Pavel hoped he had enough of the tale.

  Marko chirped, “What’s it about?” The children looked at him like the fool he could be and Pavel continued as if he had said nothing.

  “Not very long ago, about the time our grandparents were born, there was a terrible war between Russia and a country called Turkey. They had been fighting for nearly as long as the oldest man alive. Our people were asked to fight in the army for Russia.”

  “Why were they fighting?”

  “Over land,” said Pavel. “It’s always over land.” It was a good enough answer for him to continue. “Anyway, the Doukhobors don’t fight to defend one country against a different country just because a person says we should.”

  “Canadians fight,” said a young voice.

  “My teacher says we are Canadians and we should behave like all Canadians,” said another. “She said there was no excuse not to.”

  “We came to Canada with permission to farm the land and not to fight or be like the English.” Pavel felt his father’s anger rise and fall within him.

  “Let him finish the story.”

  “I wanna know why we don’t fight and Canadians do.”

  Pavel felt the
confusion of the unexpected. He had assembled the ideas he could remember about Queen Lukeria, but why it was that Doukhobors did not fight had not been part of it.

  “Okay! Be quiet. Shh. I’ll tell you why and then we can have the story.

  “The church in Russia had mountains of gold. There were big palaces with treasure and gold and jewels. Churchmen wore beautiful clothes made of silk and the best wool. They wore tall hats with gold braid. But outside the churches, the people had no food. Children were always hungry.”

  “I’m always hungry,” said Marko.

  “Not like this.” Pavel tried to keep the momentum. “Lukeria told our grandparents that God isn’t in gold and fancy clothes. God should be inside people. We should keep God in our hearts and sing.”

  “What’s that got to do with fighting?”

  Pavel realized that he did not know where this was going. He was lost. The bridge between singing hearts, tall golden hats, Canadians fighting someone and Doukhobor grandfathers not fighting the Turks had been carried away, leaving just a vacant space in his mind.

  A voice emerged from the darkness. “If God’s inside you, you wouldn’t be able to kill anyone. You’d have to be kind to them, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Pavel. “That’s right. That’s why Doukhobors don’t fight and Canadians do.”

  “Don’t Canadians have God inside them?”

  “Not like our people do.”

  “Let him get on with the story!”

  “The czar—”

  “What’s a czar?” asked a boy across the aisle in the darkness.

  “He’s like a king. The czar told Lukeria that if she stopped the Doukhobor men from being taken into the army, he would send his best solders, frightening men on horseback known as Cossacks”—Pavel lifted both arms to emphasize the size and waved an arm over his head as if swinging a sword—“to destroy her villages and take all their land. What do you think she should do?”

  “Tell us,” said a face washed in blue light.

  “Queen Lukeria wanted to save her people and agreed to do what the czar asked. She told the Doukhobor men that they must join and be good soldiers for Russia.”

  “But they can’t fight.”

  “Yes, but later, when the czar had gone, she told them to shoot their rifles over the heads of the Turkish soldiers so they wouldn’t be hurt.”

  “Isn’t that a lie?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose so, but you can lie to people who don’t have God inside them. That’s okay.”

  “Is it? My papa said I must never lie.”

  “How do you know?” asked Marko.

  “How do you know what?” replied Pavel.

  “If God is inside someone. You could lie to the wrong person.”

  “Just be quiet. I haven’t finished the story.”

  “Yeah, let him finish.”

  Pavel took a breath. “The Doukhobor soldiers couldn’t pretend to be soldiers, so they decided to pile up their rifles and set fire to them. Then they threw in their Russian uniforms. The fires could be seen from one great ocean in the west to another in the east, and burned for two days and two nights.” Pavel stopped, hoping no one would ask which oceans they were. Nor did he want to tell his friends what happened next.

  “Go on. Then what happened?” asked Marko.

  “Well,” said Pavel, “when you see our houses burning and our people stripping off their clothes and throwing them in the fire, you will know why.” He did not know how these dots connected, or if any of it was true, but was hoping the scraps of information he had strung together were not completely misleading.

  “Why?”

  “Because the soldiers had to stop being soldiers and find the true way by burning what they had, their guns and uniforms.” It did not make complete sense to anyone, but it was getting late and Pavel was at an end with it.

  Night Matron Cody came through the door. Fierce white electric light had the children squinting and covering their eyes. “You’ve had your warning. If you want someplace to talk and be up at night, I’ll give you one. Up, everyone up! Into the shower, right now!” she said, clapping her hands. “If you need help, I’ll help you or get the guards to do it.” In a single movement she peeled the bedclothes from the nearest bed, exposing a squirming boy on a white sheet.

  The boys slipped slowly from their beds to avoid the same fate and began making their way to the shower. It was a familiar routine.

  Marko said, “I don’t need a shower.” The other boys smiled or giggled, shaking their heads at him. Matron, even in this mood, knew enough of Marko to ignore it.

  “Keep your pyjamas on. You’re not having a shower, Marko. You’ll stand in the shower room until you can learn to be quiet at night. Come along,” said Matron. “You can talk all you like when you get there. Not you, Pavel. You can stay on your bed. I need to talk to you.”

  Pavel stopped by his bed and exchanged glances with the others as they filed out. They all knew the routine and what was to happen, but Pavel had not been singled out before and did not like being separated from the others. They would wonder why he was not being punished with them. It was a division that would be hard to explain.

  The shower room was large enough to have the children standing or sitting under the bright lights and showerheads. If the floor was wet, they would stand in bare feet and endure the cold of the tiles, huddling together to preserve what warmth they could generate. If the floor was dry, some of the boys would stand or sit on their pyjama tops in a tight group and hope the punishment for speaking Russian would not last until morning. It was enough to stop the numbing of toes for an hour or so.

  Karen Cody followed the children toward the shower and switched the dormitory light off as she left. Pavel listened to her admonish them one last time, then a door closed and footsteps returned to the dormitory. He expected the lights to come on, but Matron crossed the floor of the dormitory in the half-light and sat beside him on the bed.

  He asked, “Why can’t I be with them?” He was unsure whether to be indignant or frightened.

  “Because I wanted to talk with you privately.”

  “What about?”

  “You’re their leader, Pavel. They respect you. I can see that; so can you. You’re responsible for keeping your friends up at night with stories. I’ve heard you whispering in Russian to them, night after night. You know it’s not allowed, don’t you? They need rest, and you tell them stories and keep them up. They’re so tired they can’t concentrate at school, and now you’re responsible for them standing in the shower. They might be there all night, until they learn their lesson. Unless,” she paused, “you can learn to be responsible for them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are a young man and they’re still children. You could teach them to go to bed and get their sleep and how to behave, just like I could teach you things. I wouldn’t have to punish them if I could rely on you.” Pavel cocked his head as if to concentrate on a signal he was not quite hearing. Matron saw it and picked up the invitation.

  “You’re growing up. I’ve seen the changes happening in you.”

  There were no words to be found. He could not see what she meant or where this was heading.

  She put her hand on his shoulder and said, “I’ve just seen you with your new friend and thought you must be feeling confused right now. And you might need someone to talk to about it.”

  “What new friend?”

  She smiled. “I think you know. We’ve all seen you when Nina’s around. You can’t take your eyes off her. These are new feelings for a young man, exciting and confusing. It’s best if someone talks with you about it and helps you through it.”

  “I want to be with the others. What has Nina got to do with them?”

  “You don’t have to be shy. That’s what I wanted to talk with you about. These thi
ngs are normal. As normal as the hair growing where it didn’t before, or your voice breaking, getting lower, and you’re stronger.” She gripped his biceps with both hands and smiled at him. Pavel looked past her to the door leading to the showers. “Don’t worry about your friends. They can come back to bed just as soon as we finish our talk.”

  “I should go to them.”

  “But you don’t want them to stay in the cold, even with you. You’re a brave young man, Pavel. I’m impressed. They don’t have to be in the shower very much longer. Will you be able to teach them to behave?”

  There was something in her voice urging him to comply, but he could not grasp it yet. He got enough to understand the danger of not going with her.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Good. Then they can come back soon. Providing you and I can have our talks from time to time, I’ll leave you to keep your friends in order, tell them stories if you like. They won’t need me to teach them lessons, because I’ll rely on you. Is it a deal?”

  Pavel was paralyzed with confusion and said nothing, knowing that the longer he was silent, the greater confidence Matron had in their agreement—if only he understood just what the agreement was.

  Matron pushed him gently to lie down on his bed, and suddenly he knew. His friends would be standing in the cold shower room longer for every moment of his resistance, so he allowed himself to lie back on the pillow. With one hand she pulled at the string of his pyjamas, exposing him in the half-light. With the other, she brought his hand between her legs. It was strange she was not wearing stockings on such a cold night, but he now understood that she had come to do this. It had never been about speaking Russian or needing sleep. Of course, she had been thinking about how to do this, listening at the door, watching him, planning, and now the understanding crept over him like Matron’s hands in the dark. He could keep his friends safe and know they would not suffer in the showers, take the strap on their hands or much worse, if he allowed this. A choice against his friends, his people, could not be made, and he tried to resign himself to her agreement. His father would say it was what the English did. It was how the English said one thing and meant another. They could be trusted to do only whatever they wanted.