A Silver Willow by the Shore

by Kelli Stuart

  Of course, mama did not stop reading to us, nor did she quit quoting her scriptures. And despite my best efforts at tuning her out as a means of self-preservation, I found myself mumbling the forbidden words at night before drifting off to sleep. They were like a comfortable blanket that I wished I didn’t need, but somehow still wanted.

  “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.”

  I mumbled these words without even thinking about it, over and over at night because it was the darkness that I feared the most. In the dark, I couldn’t escape the memory of Commander Nikolayev’s wandering hands. The shadows of the night whispered his dirty words and reminded me of the way he smelled when he slid up close to me in the car. I’d feel the shadows closing in, and unconsciously speak mother’s words into the darkness, and somehow they seemed to work. Sometimes, when the entire world was stilled with slumber, I reached beneath the slat in the wood beneath my bed where I had buried Mama’s forbidden book of scriptures, and I would stand next to the window with the moon as my light, reading those words quietly to myself. I wanted to understand where my Mama’s power came from - how she could be so unshaken by the life we were forced to live. But the words didn’t make sense to my young mind. They were difficult to understand, and I wouldn’t dare ask Mama to explain, because then I would have to tell her how I’d come to have her book. That was the secret I knew I needed to bury.

  In the end, I would tuck Mama’s book back into the floor. I’d lay in bed and think of the book hidden beneath me, and I would wonder why my mother did it. Why did she put us in danger this way? Why did she insist on filling our minds with these dangerous messages? And why did they bring such peace? I couldn’t reconcile all the questions swirling inside my young heart.

  When Commander Nikolayev told us to come with him that morning, I knew something was different. The look in his eye and the tone of his voice made all of us stop. Tanya edged closer to Svetlana, hiding behind her skirt while I stood frozen in the corner, pencil hovering above paper. I had been working on drawing portraits. Svetlana had asked me to draw each member of my family, and I had done well. She had been especially impressed with the drawing of my mother.

  “You captured something in your mother’s eyes,” she’d told me when I showed her. “It’s very unique.” She’d held it up and stared at it for a long time before turning back to me. “You captured peace,” she’d said quietly.

  On this final day, I was staring at a blank page. The only person left in my family to draw was my father, and I had no image from which to work. It had been nearly four years since I’d last seen him, and my only memory was a shadow. My plan had been to pencil in a silhouette, but I’d never even gotten that far.

  “What’s going on, Papa?” Svetlana asked. She pulled Tanya up into her arms, my sister wrapping her thin legs around Svetlana’s waist. Tanya had grown so attached to Svetlana that she would cry out for her in the evenings before bed. And the long Sundays trapped inside the cabin were often filled with attempts to distract Tanya so that she would stop asking when she could go back to Svetlana’s house.

  “It’s time for them to leave,” the Commander said, jutting his chin toward me. “They’re being shipped back to their village.”

  “We’re going...home?” I asked. He stared at me, his eyes dark, and gave a barely discernible nod. I glanced at Svetlana, who sat down and rocked my sister gently back and forth. Tanya whimpered in her arms, somehow understanding even more than I did that this new development meant a permanent change. Svetlana pushed Tanya’s head back and looked into her eyes.

  “You get to go back to your home, little one,” she crooned. Her eyes shone brightly as well. Tanya’s whimpers turned to sobs as she shook her head back and forth, her blonde curls shaking. Svetlana looked up at her father.

  “Can’t they stay?” she asked. “They have to be safer here with us than they will be at their home. And I can make sure these girls get a proper Soviet education. They won’t get that in their village.”

  Commander Nikolayev shook his head firmly. “The orders have been sent down. The families of political prisoners who died in the camps need to leave to make room for the others coming.” His eyes shifted to me. “There are other kulaks coming to take their place.”

  I met his gaze as my body went numb. “Political prisoners who died in the camps?” I whispered. My father was a political prisoner. “My papa?”

  Commander Nikolayev turned his face away from me. “Get them dressed, Sveta,” he barked. “We leave in ten minutes.”

  It all happened fast after that. Svetlana took us home where Mama, grim-faced and stoic, frantically packed up a katomka for each of us to carry on our backs. We had so little that preparing to leave took hardly any time. I rushed to the bed while Mama was busy sweeping dust out the door, and I pulled out the small book of scriptures. I tucked it into my shirt, determined to keep it hidden on our return trip home.

  Dima burst through the door just as we finished bundling ourselves for the journey home. He stared at Mama, his eyes shining with grief. She reached for him, but he pulled away, shaking his head and wrapping his thin arms around his gaunt frame. I didn’t know it then, but Dima had already left us. His body remained just a little while longer, but his spirit had been crushed long before, somewhere in the frigid wasteland where our father’s body now lay lifeless and unclaimed. Without a word, we all filed out of the house behind the commander, kulaks forever branded as traitors.

  A week later, we wandered back into our village. I didn’t even really remember it, I had been so young when we left. The vague memories I had were brighter and bigger, but what we found when we returned was a dusty, barren group of faded houses. We had few possessions upon our return, only a couple of dirty bags with the toys that Svetlana gave to Tanya, two of my drawings, one book, and the limited ration of food that we’d been given when we were put on the train. Tanya had wailed the entire trip, stopping only to sleep when she wore herself out. Dima sat with his back tight against the wall of the rickety cattle car. We were pressed into the train with several other families, all returning to different parts of a land they called home. But none of us really knew what home meant anymore. We’d all forgotten, even the grown-ups.

  When we got to the house that had once been ours, we found another family living there. Behind the house was a vast field, cornstalks standing tall in the setting sunlight. It was autumn, which meant the days were warm enough to enjoy the outdoors, but cold was settling into the night. I took in the sight of the withering sunflowers against the fence behind the small house, and tried to dig up some memory of this place, but it all looked new and strange.

  “Go away,” the woman occupying what had once been our home hissed, her blackened teeth bared beneath chapped lips. “You’re not wanted here, traitors.”

  “Please,” my mother begged. “We’re tired, and it is getting dark. My children just need a place to stay out of the cold night air.” The woman slammed the door. Our door. We followed Mama out into the knotted road, the chilled September air raising small shivers on our arms and legs. Tanya whimpered softly in Dima’s arms.

  “I don’t understand, Mama,” I said. “I thought that we were countrymen. I thought that we took care of one another.”

  Mama sighed and looked down at me with tear-filled eyes. “Unfortunately, my dear, most people are only looking out for themselves. I guess we can’t really blame them, can we?” I shook my head because I knew that’s the answer she wanted, but I didn’t believe that. Of course we could blame them.

  “But we don’t have to live that way, my darling. We can be people who look out for others, and who protect one another.” She knelt down and met my gaze in the fading sunlight. “Don’t betray a fellow citizen in order to preserve your own comfort, dorogaya.” She always called me darling when she wanted me to truly learn something. “Put others before yourself always, and y
ou will see a reward.”

  She said this and I nodded, but after we visited three more houses and were turned away, I started to doubt her words. Finally, an old man gave us permission to sleep in his barn. As we buried ourselves in the hay, the stench of starving cattle searing our nostrils, it occurred to me that every single person who had turned us away was now going to sleep inside a warm cottage while we lay in the dirt. They had chosen self-preservation, and they were rewarded with warmth and the freedom from sharing their space with a strange and dangerous family freshly released from Siberia. Mama’s words felt empty on that dark night.

  They were confusing to me for many, many years, in fact. It’s only now that I am beginning to understand my mother. And now it is too late.

  Annie

  “Merry Christmas.”

  Annie jumps as a box falls into her lap. She looks up at James and smiles. “What’s this?” she asks.

  “It’s from your Secret Santa,” he replies with a grin. He slides into his seat across from her and pulls out his lunch bag. He glances at her spread and raises his eyebrows. “So you’ve finally wised up and decided to pack your own food, huh?” he asks.

  “Well, I hate mooching off you all the time, so I asked my mom to buy some real food for lunches. This was the best she could come up with.” Annie gestures to her container of tomato and cucumber salad smothered in Italian dressing. Next to it is a chunk of black bread, an apple, and bag of dried fruit. James shakes his head.

  “Here,” he says. “Please, just take part of my sandwich. I can’t watch you eat that stuff in good conscience.”

  Annie laughs and shakes her head. “It’s actually fine. I like this food. It’s...comfortable.”

  James shrugs and takes a large bite of his chicken salad sandwich. “So,” he says, his mouth full, “you gonna open that or not?”

  Annie tears the wrapping paper off the package and pulls out the most beautiful book she’s ever seen. It’s pale blue with green and red swirls splattered across the cover, surrounding an embossed image of a young girl with long, red braids.

  “Anne of Green Gables!” she exclaims. She flips open the book and runs her hands over the words, then closes it again and takes in the sight of the cover. “It’s so pretty,” she breathes.

  “I know you already have a copy,” James says. “But this one just looked like it belonged in your hands, and really, we can’t have enough copies of our favorite book, can we?” Annie looks up at him with a shy smile and shakes her head.

  “I guess we can’t,” she says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t get you anything,” she continues with an embarrassed smile. James shrugs.

  “I didn’t expect it. I just saw that and thought of you. Don’t feel bad. Promise?”

  Annie smiles again. She hugs the book to her chest and nods. “Promise.”

  James clears his throat. “So, you asked your mom for better food, and she got it, huh? Does that mean you and your mom are talking more?”

  Annie nods. “Yeah, I guess we are. It’s still kind of weird and strained. My mom is totally dating that Viktor guy. She mentions him casually, like they’re just friends or something, but she talks to him all the time and has at least three “business” dinners a week. I know she’s serious about him, but she isn’t saying anything to me, so clearly we haven’t crossed some magical barrier where we tell each other everything. But maybe we’re not supposed to, you know?”

  “What do you mean?” James asks. He takes another bite of his sandwich.

  “I mean, she’s my mom. Are we even supposed to be close? She’s certainly not close to her mom. The two of them hardly talk at all except to pick on one another. Maybe this is just normal mother-daughter stuff.”

  Even as she says the words, Annie knows she doesn’t believe it. Something broke between her and her mother the day her grandmother landed on American soil. The distance between them extends beyond this one strained moment in time.

  “I dunno,” James says with a shrug. “You’re talking to the wrong guy. My dad and I don’t even know how to talk these days. He’s wrapped up in work, which lets him escape the upcoming reminder of how life has completely changed. And I absorb myself in novels, or ‘storybooks’ as my dad so lovingly calls them, apparently to the severe detriment of all my other grades,” he says with a grimace. “I’m not doing so well in Biology.”

  Annie puts her fork down and looks at James. It’s December 20, the last day of school before they’re released for Christmas break. In five days, James and his dad will mark the first anniversary of the car accident.

  “Oh, James,” she murmurs. “I’m sorry. This must be such a hard time for both of you,” she says.

  James stares down at his sandwich. “Neither one of us feels much like celebrating,” he mumbles. They sit silently for a moment, James brooding and Annie working up the courage to make a huge offer.

  “Why don’t you guys come to our house for Christmas lunch?” she asks. As soon as the words escape her mouth she regrets them. She hasn’t invited anyone over since her disastrous twelfth birthday all those years ago.

  James looks at her through narrowed eyes. “Are you sure?” he asks. “Don’t you think you should run it by your mom first? She might not want to celebrate under the cloud of sadness that my dad and I are dragging around.”

  “Oh, we don’t actually celebrate Christmas at all,” Annie says. “At least we don’t celebrate it on December 25. We used to, but when my grandmother moved in she insisted we start celebrating the Slavic New Year and Christmas. It was just one more way she came in and changed everything.”

  Annie remembers the first few Christmases after her grandmother moved in when her mom would sneak into her room early in the morning on December 25, and the two of them would exchange presents through giggles because they were ignoring Babushka’s rants against the “consumerist” American holiday. And then two years ago, they both just...forgot. They slept in and missed their secret gift exchange, awkwardly presenting the small treasures to one another that night before bed. Last year they didn’t even try.

  “What’s the Slavic tradition?” James asks.

  “Well in Russia, Christmas just isn’t a very big deal, and it’s not even celebrated on December 25. I don’t know the whole history behind it. I think it was changed by Lenin or something since Christmas was too ‘Christian.’ Or maybe I’m wrong.” Annie waves her hand, and James finds himself smiling at the way her face changes and moves as she speaks, her eyes dancing and hands fluttering.

  “So we make a big deal of New Year’s Eve. That’s when Russian families put up their trees and decorate them. They tell stories of Dyed Moroz—that’s Father Frost, the Russian version of Santa Claus—and his daughter Snegurochka. She’s basically like this snowflake fairy. And there are all these stories of her and Dyed Moroz saving the Christmas tree from the clutches of Baba Yaga, the evil witch of the forest who likes to steal children and boil them for supper.”

  James’ eyes widen. “Geez!” he exclaims. “You Russians have really spiced up the Christmas story, haven’t you?”

  Annie laughs. “It’s a pretty big deal,” she says. “Even though I grew up in America, I’ve always been kind of fascinated with my mom’s Russian traditions. Of course, I’m not going to tell her that,” Annie says. She offers him a sly grin.

  “So that’s New Year. What’s the Slavic Christmas about?” James asks.

  “Well, technically that’s the day Russian’s celebrate Christmas, but it’s much more understated after the New Year’s celebrations. We celebrate it on January 6, and we might exchange one more, small gift. And we’ll have another big meal. Like, a huge meal.” Annie says, holding her hands out wide to illustrate her point. “My mama calls it the ‘Holy supper’, and she and Babushka will make twelve different dishes.”

  James eyes widen again.

  “Apparently the idea is that because Christ had twelve disciples, we should eat twelve different foods, and the foods are completely R
ussian. Vereniki, kutia, herring, vinegret, pampushki, compote.”

  James shakes his head. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about right now, but I’m completely fascinated.”

  Annie smiles. “Christmas dinner is the one time a year that my mom and grandmother seem to completely embrace their heritage. It’s like they have to do these things...although the last couple of years things have tapered off a little. It hasn’t been quite as big an affair.” Her voice trails off.

  Annie takes another bite of her salad and chews quietly before continuing. “Anyways, all that to say, we don’t do anything on Christmas Day. So maybe you guys would want to come over? I promise not to let my mom cook too Russian of a meal.”

  James laughs. “I think it sounds great, even the Russian food. But I think you should ask your mom first.” He raises his eyebrows. “She and I didn’t exactly get off on the right foot the first time we met, you know?”

  Annie blushes and nods. “Yeah,” she mumbles. “This might be a terrible idea. My grandmother is crazy. Like, I think she legitimately might be crazy.”

  “Well, crazy doesn’t scare me,” James says. “But your mom makes me a little nervous. I mean, she does know that you and I aren’t...um...” James glances at Annie’s stomach, concealed by an oversize sweatshirt.

  “Oh. Yeah,” Annie clears her throat nervously. “She knows. I cleared up the confusion between you and Toby. And she’s been supportive since I decided to, um, well I guess I haven’t really told you, yet.” Annie puts her fork down and looks at her hands. She glances up at James, her cheeks burning.

  “Well, I’m placing the baby for adoption,” she says quietly. “I’ve been reading files of prospective families, and the plan is to choose a family who can give the baby what I can’t. Stability.”

  James puts his sandwich down and leans his elbows on the table, clasping his hands together. Annie can’t look up at him.

  “Annie,” he says. His voice is soft. Annie glances up at him and takes in the sight of his eyes searching her face. “I think that’s really cool,” he says.