The Nesting Dolls

by Alina Adams

  “Close the window!” Edward’s father, catching Daria peeking, pulled her back and reached for the shutters. “You don’t want them to know we heard and didn’t say anything.”

  The final round of name-calling brought Adam out from his underground room beside the gate. Looking bored, he shoved the cursing husband toward the street, ignoring how “Fuck Stalin” and “Fuck you, gypsies,” turned into “Fuck you, you motherfucking informer.”

  At this point, one wife came flying down the stairs, tripping over the coat she’d had time only to throw on, not to button.

  “No, please, Adam Semyonovitch, let him stay. He didn’t mean it. Everything is fine now.”

  “Everything’s not fine!” her husband roared. “How much are you going to let these Red bastards keep taking from us? First our home, then our food, now our honor!”

  “Shut your drunken mouth about your goddamn honor!” She screamed at her husband while turning to plead with Adam, latching onto his forearm, which did about as much good as if she’d been trying to stop a chopped tree from falling. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He’s been ill. His fever must have returned. Please, Adam Semyonovitch, let me take him upstairs. We’ll settle it ourselves. We won’t be any trouble ever again; you have my word, please, Comrade.”

  The appeal proved unappealing. Adam kept moving, shaking the hysterical woman off like melting snow on his sleeve and dragging her husband through the tunnel and out the gate, locking it. He ignored the man’s now contrite pleas from the other side, his promises to behave, his assurance that he hadn’t meant what he said—it was a joke between dear friends; all Soviet peoples were dear friends now, even the thieving Gypsies . . .

  The Chaika limousine came three days later. In the morning, like always. Four a.m. They whispered it was because that’s when the accused were in their deepest state of sleep and would have the most difficult time launching a defense. Not that anyone was listening to what they were saying. The family was caught by surprise. It had been over seventy-two hours since the inciting incident; maybe they believed that they were safe. That the outburst, like Daria’s father-in-law wanted, hadn’t been observed by anyone. No one reported them. They’d gotten away with it.

  They hadn’t.

  They took the husband and the wife. Herding them out to the car wearing the nightclothes they’d found them in. No coats, no hats, not even a shared shawl. They would be fine for a while. It was less freezing in the car. And later, there weren’t enough wraps to keep you warm in the isolator on Marazly Street, where political prisoners were kept separate from common criminals. Unless, of course, these were important enough to be processed straight through to Kiev. Or worse, Moscow.

  They took the children, too. No one was sure where they’d end up. After all, could ten-year-old twins, a boy and a girl, be enemies of the state? Then again, they’d heard what their parents said and, unlike Pavlik Morozov, hadn’t informed. That would be counted against them.

  The rest of the tenants were spared this time. Daria suspected her father-in-law had been holding his breath throughout the entire operation, looking around their rooms, speculating about what he’d be allowed to keep with him in exile.

  Once the crisis had passed, within ten minutes of the Chaika pulling out of the courtyard, the primary communal neighbors took over the abandoned space, rifling through the departed’s things, keeping what they liked, tossing the refuse into the street for the rest of them to fight over. Through the window, Daria spied a clothesline now snaking along the length of the kitchen.

  After that, even the bravest inhabitants stopped looking Adam in the eye. Those, like Daria’s father-in-law, who, in the past, had attempted to make jokes, thinking they could josh the sullen giant into good humor through their own example, or, at least, a polite “Good morning, Adam Semyonovitch,” “Good evening, Adam Semyonovitch,” “How pleasant that the rain has stopped, Adam Semyonovitch,” now scurried by him, heads down, shoulders hunched, practically groveling along the ground in a dual attempt to court his favor and escape his notice.

  It made Daria furious. Because it reminded her of her mother. Her brave, clever mother, who’d disobeyed Daria’s father to send her to school, who’d ignored their neighbors preaching about the dangers of the city, who’d set out to make her own luck where her daughter’s marriage prospects were concerned, and who’d stuck to her guns even when it looked like all her planning might prove for naught, turning to God only as a very last resort. And then Daria was forced to recall how Mama had acted in front of Edward and his father. Like she was afraid of them, like she wasn’t good enough for them, like she owed them an apology for not having had their advantages, like she wasn’t deserving of being treated like a person.

  Daria had convinced herself to forgive Edward and Isaak for making Mama feel that way. She’d rationalized that it wasn’t their fault, that the inferiority was in Mama’s mind, that they’d been as polite as could be expected under the circumstances. But Daria would be damned before she’d give Adam the satisfaction of making her feel that way.

  So while everyone else crawled, Daria stood up straighter. While everyone else feigned a fantastic interest in their watches or making certain they didn’t slip on a patch of treacherous ice by keeping their eyes peeled to the ground at all times, Daria made sure to look Adam square in the face. She bade the girls to wish him good morning and good evening in Russian and, once, when her mother was visiting, in Yiddish. With a patronymic like Semyonovitch, Adam was no better than they were, in that respect. He was also a Jew. He couldn’t claim his ancestry was any more patriotic. Daria wanted him to know she was aware of that fact. Her mother cringed and later read Daria the riot act. How dare Daria shame her new family in such a brazen manner? Did she want them to send her packing? Did she want to end up no better than before? And after all the labor Mama did to make certain no one could accuse her Daria of being provincial trash! Speaking Yiddish, no less! Daria would be the death of them all!

  Daria apologized profusely. Then, when Mama returned home, continued right on doing what she’d been doing. After Adam came to tell Daria Alyssa was playing in front of the building with a dead rat, wrapping it in old newspapers like a baby doll in a blanket, chastising Daria for risking all of them catching the plague, she made sure to thank him and pull a protesting Alyssa away, even as she made it clear the disgust in her voice was targeted not at her daughter’s unconventional idea of a plaything, but at him.

  She knew it terrified her father-in-law, but Edward took it in stride. “She’s merely saying good morning to the dvornik, Papa. She’s not doing anything wrong. None of us is doing anything wrong, so there is nothing to be afraid of.”

  Edward believed what he was saying.

  Even on the morning when the authorities turned up for them.

  Chapter 4

  They were no longer called the OGPU, the Joint State Political Directorate. As of 1934, they were the NKVD, the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs. While the arrival time was familiar—almost four a.m. on the dot—there was no Chaika. Daria and Edward were roused by two officers wearing matching calf-length gray coats with red epaulets at the open collar and parallel golden buttons down the front, and loose pants more appropriate for Russian folk dancing. The coats were belted at the waist, a pistol in a holster over each hip. They advised Daria and Edward that they had fifteen minutes to get dressed, gather their children and whatever belongings they thought they could carry, and meet them outside. The old man was not included in the order. He was to remain inside and not cause any trouble.

  “There’s been a mistake,” Edward began. “We haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Not needing to read off the piece of paper in his hand, the lead officer droned, “Members of the nationalistic Germanic race who pose a threat to the stability and unity of the Soviet are enemies of the people and are to be removed by order of Nikita Khrushchev, Vyacheslav Molotov, and Genrikh Yagoda.”

  “The Germa
nic . . . Oh! I see! There’s your mistake.” Edward smiled, happy to help them identify and rectify this error. “We are not Germans. I’ll show you.” He hurried to the polished wooden box sitting on the shelf over their bed, where Daria and Edward kept the internal passports they’d reported to be issued as soon as that law was passed at the end of 1932. “There, you see? My passport, my wife’s. Look, right here, on the fifth line. Nationality: Jewish. We are Jews, not Germans.”

  “And loyal citizens!” Edward’s father shouted from the room to which he’d been banished. It was February; the front door was open. Isaak was wearing his robe over pajamas. Nonetheless, his frantic shivering was still out of proportion to the temperature.

  Their self-described escort barely glanced at the documents. “You have been overheard speaking German.”

  “To my mother,” Daria rushed to explain. “My mother speaks Yiddish—we are Jews.” She poked her finger at the passport. “Yiddish sounds similar to German.”

  “Fifteen minutes,” the officer repeated, and stepped outside with his colleague to wait for them.

  By this point, the girls had awoken and were sitting in their beds. Well, not beds, exactly. None had been available for purchase over the past several years—a production shortage, they were informed by Pravda, caused by saboteurs slowing down their factory work to deprive the Soviet people of basic necessities. So Alyssa and Anya slept on a pair of chairs turned toward each other and covered with a sheet, pillow, and blanket. Edward and Daria agreed it was for the best. Not only did the furniture now serve two purposes—they were being good citizens by not promoting waste or diverting resources from where they were more needed—but it gave them extra room during the day. Beds would have taken up precious space.

  “Get up,” Daria urged her daughters. Knowing, though she couldn’t say how, that the time for appeals had passed. She felt her mother inhabiting her senses, directing her actions, telling Daria their one chance of getting back home was to do what they were told, to deal with each new aspect of the situation as it happened. Anything else would make it worse. Survive now. Figure everything else out later.

  Daria hurried to dress her girls in as many layers as she could, the same way she and Mama had first come to Odessa, so they wouldn’t have as much to carry. Underpants and undershirts, woolen tights, then their thickest trousers. A long-sleeved turtleneck sweater, warm dresses over that, followed by winter coats she could barely button. She told the children to hold them closed with both hands. Daria pulled heavy socks on over their tights, then stuffed their feet into boots, happy that, on the one day kids’ shoes became available in Odessa, she’d been able to get her hands only on pairs two sizes too big. She’d intended for them to grow into the footwear, but this was even better. Alyssa and Anya complained, crying that they were hot, that their toes were squished, that they couldn’t move.

  “Papa and I will carry you,” Daria dismissed, then proceeded to dress herself in the same manner.

  Edward stood in the center of the room, looking from her to the girls to his sobbing father, who’d come out to watch them, unsure of what he should be doing to either help or stop the frenzy.

  “Here.” Daria shoved long underwear, pants, a shirt, a sweater, and a coat at him, along with two pairs of socks and gloves. “Hurry!”

  “We should bring money,” Edward said as if his metabolism had stalled and it was taking all his concentration just to form a thought, then turn it into words. “Money for bribes. That’s always helpful when I travel.”

  Daria decided now was not the time to advise him that they weren’t going traveling. She doubted the accommodations would be up to his usual standards. Why frighten either him or the girls before she had to? Daria could agonize enough for the both of them. And prepare, too.

  “Jewelry is better.” She went back into the box that once held their passports, grabbing the pearl necklace that had been her late mother-in-law’s, the ruby pin in the shape of a rose Edward had brought back from his trip to France the year they were married, and the golden hoop earrings he said made her look like an exotic Gypsy. Whenever Daria wore them, Edward rushed to the piano to sing a rousing chorus of “Ochi Chernye,” or “Dark Eyes.” There were also their wedding rings, their watches. “Jewelry is easier to barter.”

  Daria looked around, mindful of the ticking clock, trying to think of what else might come in handy wherever they were going, for however long. Medicine? Food? Water? A toy to keep the children entertained? Daria glanced at Edward, hoping he, with his broader experience, might have ideas. She followed his gaze to the object he was staring at with the greatest reluctance to leave.

  They were not bringing the piano.

  “Let’s go,” she ordered, lest they exceed their fifteen-minute allotment. Who knew what penalties that could bring? “Goodbye, Isaak Israelevitch. We’ll be back as soon as we can. Say goodbye to your grandfather, girls. Say dosvedanya.” Until our next meeting.

  “Dosvedanya, Deda,” they sang, sleepy and befuddled, but also excited by the unexpected adventure.

  “Proschai,” her father-in-law replied, peering at his granddaughters, at Daria, and finally at Edward. Proschai meant farewell. And forgive. It was what people said at funerals.

  They were the sole family taken out of their building that night. No one else was seen, although Daria knew their neighbors were all awake. None would dare turn on a light and be caught looking. She wondered which ones would attempt to claim their best belongings first, and whether Isaak would have the strength—or if he would feel too cowed—to keep them from robbing him. As a relative of the enemies of the people, anything Isaak owned, by definition, became contraband, and thus fair game for looting.

  They were not, however, the sole ones being rounded up as darkness turned into dawn. Which explained the lack of car and the forced march toward the railway station. As they drew closer to their destination, soldiers walking on either side like a perverse honor guard, Daria spied other men, women, and children huddled in uneven groups, whether for warmth, protection, or familiarity. Some German was, in fact, being spoken, but it was mostly Russian, along with a spattering of Yiddish.

  Moments after they arrived, the family huddles were broken up, some by a pair of hands and a barked command, others by the long, narrow barrels of rifles wielded by soldiers stationed at key spots along the station to keep the prisoners from escaping. Daria wondered where they thought any runaways could go. The same passports that listed their nationalities as Jewish—though a lot of help that had been—also included Edward and Daria’s stamp of marriage and their legally approved residence. Attempting to settle in a different part of town or leave Odessa and blend in elsewhere would lead to criminal charges of relocation without permission.

  Lined up side by side, they were ordered to kneel beside the tracks, hands behind their heads, bent at the waist, chins down. Daria was so busy trying to help the overdressed, hard-to-configure Alyssa and Anya into the required positions between her and Edward that she didn’t notice the shadowy figure on the other side of her husband, until a quick sweep of a flashlight illuminated his face.

  Adam.

  “What are you . . .” she blurted out, starting in her normal voice, dropping to a whisper at Adam’s murderous expression. This made no sense. “You’re the one who turned us in!” Who else had the means and the motive?

  “I was turned in,” Adam corrected, “for not turning you in. How could there be German nationals living under my own nose, and I not be aware of it?”

  Between them, Edward, emboldened by Adam’s confirmation that they were here under false pretenses, straightened up and, once again, attempted to get a guard’s attention. “Excuse me, Comrade, I believe a mistake has been made—”

  Adam’s arm swung down from his head like dead weight as he rammed his fist into Edward’s stomach. Daria’s husband doubled over, gagging. She caught him with both hands beneath his chest before Edward’s face hit the ground, struggling to keep him on hi
s knees.

  A split second later, a guard came down their row, oscillating the narrow barrel of his Mosin rifle to ensure everyone’s head was at the same level. If Adam hadn’t knocked Edward down, Daria’s husband would have been struck. Instead, the weapon passed over Adam, over Edward, over Daria and the girls, and smashed the skull of a man a few spaces down. Blood streamed from the spot where his eye had been, pooling around his head as it cracked open atop the railroad track. When the rest of them were ordered to stand and commence marching in an orderly fashion toward the waiting cattle cars, he didn’t budge. They made a point of pretending not to notice, gingerly stepping over his twitching form, as if he were an inconvenient puddle.

  Adam jerked Edward to his feet by the back of his coat and shoved him in the appropriate direction, followed by Daria.

  “The wheat that grows tallest,” Adam advised them, “gets cut first.”

  Chapter 5

  The children played. As their multiday—multiweek? With so little light, it was impossible to keep track of time passing—journey from the shores of the Black Sea into the depths of Siberia faded into a single, jostling, nauseating ache, the one fact that never failed to startle Daria anew was that the children had played.

  There were a handful of them in their cattle car, in addition to Alyssa and Anya. Twenty-five families or more packed in, jostling for a space to sit or, at least, to lean against a wall farthest from the hole cut in the floor that was to serve as a latrine. Frigid air, as well as a sliver of sunlight scraped its way in through slits at the top. Edward, standing on his toes, was able to strain and scrape off a few handfuls of snow that they melted in their hands, then gave to Alyssa and Anya when the girls’ polite requests for a drink of water turned into tears. Other parents made do by breaking off the icicles that formed inside and offering them to their children to suck. When the cries of thirst turned to hunger, Daria slipped off Edward’s leather belt, soaked it for as long as she could by filling one of her shoes with water, and told Alyssa and Anya to suck on it, along with the ration of bread every passenger received once a day.