A Silver Willow by the Shore

by Kelli Stuart

  I stumble to the barn and pull open the door, stepping inside the four wooden walls. A man stands in the corner next to one small, thin cow. He turns to face me.

  “What do you want?” he asks. I try to speak, but the words are frozen at the icy gates of my lips. The man’s eyes run down my body, taking in the sight of my dirty, bloody dress, blood covered shoes, disheveled hair, and wild eyes. He sighs.

  “You can’t stay here,” he says.

  “Pozhalusta,” I whisper. It’s the only word that I can speak, so I say it again. “Please.”

  The man purses his lips and shifts his weight from one foot to the next. “I could get in a lot of trouble hiding someone like you here,” he says.

  “Please,” I whisper. My lips are dry, my mouth desperately parched. The word sounds cracked, like it’s been rolled in sawdust and blown out with the wind.

  The man sighs again. He motions with a single jerk of his chin, and I stumble to the hay piled in the corner. Collapsing onto it, I suddenly feel the weight of my fatigue. The man walks up to me and squats down.

  “What’s your name?” he asks.

  I open my mouth to answer, then pause. I can’t tell him the truth. I can’t offer the name that has been mine up until this point. I have to erase that past, to blot out the memory of the days leading up to this one. My mind races as I try to decide how to answer him. He waits, the judgement in his stare leaving me flustered.

  “Elizaveta Mishurova,” I croak. I pick the name of one of the girls who was in the labor camp with me. Elizaveta had been older, and she was pretty in the way that I wanted to be pretty when I grew up. As a child, I would stare at her and hope that someday my face could look like hers. Whenever Tanya and I played house as kids, this was the pretend name I would choose. It was the identity that I longed for, and in that moment of stress it was the only name I could dig from my memory.

  The man narrows his eyes and studies me closely. “Okay, Elizaveta,” he says. Something in his voice sets off an alarm in my head. He is not a safe man.

  I nod, crossing my arms over my chest to stop the trembling. He stands up. “I’ll send my wife out to give you some food and different clothes. You need to change.” He says the words disdainfully as he turns his face from mine.

  “Thank you,” I tremble. He waves his hand and walks out of the barn, pulling the door closed behind him. I look around in the dim, morning light. It’s surprisingly warm inside the barn, or perhaps I am simply so cold that anything is better than before. The cow in the corner chews slowly, staring at me with sorrowful eyes that seem to understand and commiserate with my situation. She’s bone thin, her ribs jutting through paper-like skin.

  “Privyet,” I say quietly. She chews a hello in return. For a long while we watch one another until she finally turns away from me, exhausted from sharing my mental anguish. In the silence, I find myself suddenly overwhelmed with sadness. I burrow down into the prickly hay and start to cry, hot tears spilling down my cheeks and off my chin. I weep for my dead child, buried on the side of the road. I weep for my lost brother, my unknown father, and my mother and sister who I left behind without a goodbye. I weep for my lost innocence, relinquished under the groping hands of Commander Nikolayev. I weep for everything I lost and all that I never really had. My sobs turn to wails as I process nineteen years of heartache.

  I don’t hear her walk in, and I don’t notice as she stands and watches me cry. I don’t know how long she witnessed my unleashing, but I jump when she finally clears her throat. Pushing to a sitting position, I wipe my face and try to calm my breathing.

  “Hello.” Her voice is gentle. She holds in her hands a tray, and over her arm hangs a garment.

  “I’ve brought you some chai,” she says. She walks to me and sets the tray at my feet. A tarnished tin cup of tea sits on the tray next to a plate of thick, black bread. I look at it, then back up at her.

  “Spasibo,” I whisper.

  She leans down and hands me the dress and undergarments that are hanging over her arm. “Here,” she says. “Take this as well. When you’ve changed, you can leave your dress by the door. I will try to wash it clean for you.”

  I don’t reply, too stunned by her gentle kindness to know how to adequately respond. She stands up and pulls one more thing from her pocket. She holds the bundle of rags in her hand. She lays them down next to me.

  “This is to help with the bleeding,” she breathes. She kneels down, her eyes shifting from side to side. “You can’t stay here long,” she whispers. “It isn’t safe.” I make eye contact and nod slowly.

  “Rest for now. My husband has to leave for the day. I will be back later to bring you your dress.”

  I nod, lips trembling. She stands up and nods her head, then turns and quickly walks out of the barn.

  The day stretches on, fading from morning, to afternoon, then evening. Finally, darkness wraps around the barn. I spend the time in and out of a fitful sleep. Whenever I fall too deeply into my dreams, they are replaced with nightmares. I see my daughter, alone and buried beneath that pile of rocks. As I stare at her, she begins to move, to kick her legs and cry a weak, pitiful cry. She’s alive, and I left her there alone in the cold. I shoot up in a wild panic, arms flailing as I gasp for air.

  The woman stands before me, and I yelp. She holds up a hand and shakes her head. “It is only me,” she says. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” I blink in the grey haze of the early morning. A new day has dawned, time already rushing on forward as though nothing had changed.

  My heart thrums against my chest, my stomach tied in a knot as I try to push the image of my tiny daughter out of my mind. The woman reaches out and hands me my dress. Somehow she has washed all the stains away. The garment lays clean and fresh, and I feel unworthy to wear it.

  “You must change quickly,” she says. “My husband will be home soon, and you cannot be here when he arrives.”

  I stand on shaky feet and take the dress. Turning my back to her, I quickly change, then hand her back the dress she let me borrow. She gives me fresh rags and some privacy as I change out my undergarments as well.

  I’m lacing up my shoes when I hear the rumble of the car outside the barn. She turns to me, eyes wide, a look of apology washing over her tired features.

  “Valya!” His voice comes out hard and angry. She ducks her head and steps from the barn. I hear them speaking in low voices and creep toward the wall to make out what they’re saying.

  “Just let her go,” Valya pleads. “She is only a girl.”

  “She’s a kulak,” the man spits in reply. “And she hid in my barn. I’m not going to take the fall for her. She can go to the local authorities and tell them who she is and why she’s running. We’ll let them decide what to do with her.”

  I pull back in horror and look around wildly for a way to escape, but there is no other door but the one. I pick up my katomka and put it on my back, then smooth out my hair with trembling hands. The door opens and the man steps into the barn.

  “Good, you’re up,” he says. His voice is gruff, but his eyes look tired. It’s the look all of us share. Self preservation has a way of wearing down the body.

  “You need to come with me,” he barks. I nod and follow him slowly from the barn. Valya stands to the side, her head down. She doesn’t look at me as I walk past.

  The man and I climb into an old, rusty truck, doors moaning as we open them. After a few turns of the key, the engine finally starts, and we pull onto the gravel road in front of the barn. We ride in silence. I stare out the window, watching the trees move slowly past, feeling suddenly as though I may be suffocated by the rolling hills and open spaces. In ten minutes, we reach town, and he rolls to a stop in front of a worn down wooden building.

  “Come,” he barks.

  I climb out of the car and follow him inside. A man sits at a table, a stack of papers in front of him. He looks up when we walk in and his eyebrows raise.

  “Yes?” he says.

 
The man who brought me juts his head in my direction. “This runaway hid in my barn. She’s given me a name, but I can’t be sure it’s her real name.” He glances at me then, a sneer contorting the features of his face. Panic wells up inside me. I need to escape.

  The man behind the desk leans back and crosses his arms. “What’s your name, girl?” he asks.

  “E...Elizaveta Mishurova,” I answer. The man narrows his eyes.

  “And where are you from?” he asks. I hang my head, unable to answer his question.

  He stands up and walks around the table, stopping in front of me. He’s drawn himself up to his full height, shoulders pushed back. He is tall and imposing. He reminds me of Commander Nikolayev. My shoulders begin to tremble.

  “What are you running from?” he asks. His voice is cold, devoid of any emotion at all. I open my mouth to reply, then close it again. My whole body is now trembling. The man leans over me and his voice lowers.

  “Do you know what we do with runaways?” he asks. I squeeze my eyes shut and remember standing at the fence outside the gulag looking for my papa. I remember the people who walked on the other side of the fence—skeletal and ghostly. I open my eyes and shift my gaze to his face, and I make the choice without even thinking. Perhaps I was always destined to walk this path. Maybe it was inevitable that one day I would make this choice, that I would turn my back on Family and embrace the predictability of State.

  “I am fleeing my family,” I whisper. “My mother is a traitor. She prays and speaks of God, and she is trying to force me to believe her lies. I can’t stay with her. I want to serve my country.”

  As I speak, something inside me dies. Betraying the ones you love most will inevitably leave a scar, a mark on your soul so deep that it will take a lifetime to try to heal, but repairing such a tear isn’t really possible.

  The man stares at me, a look of amusement dancing through his eyes. “And how am I to know you’re telling the truth?” he says. “How do I know you aren’t some thief who is just trying to escape?”

  I swallow hard and pull my katomka off my back. Reaching inside, my fingers grasp the small book of scriptures. I pull it out and hand it to him.

  “This is her New Testament,” I answer. He takes it from me and flips through the pages. “I stole it from her, hoping it would make her stop speaking of God and forcing her religion on me, but she won’t stop. She’s a traitor, and she is dangerous.”

  As soon as the words escape my lips I regret them. I wish I could pull them back in and lock them up. The man’s face widens into a sick smile, but I feel no relief, no sense of protection for my actions.

  “It is a noble thing you’re doing,” he says, but the tremulous glee in his voice tells me that what I have done is the height of selfishness. He watches the color drain from my face and chuckles softly.

  “And who is your mother?” he asks. I stand mute. He leans forward, his face so close to mine that I can smell the sardines on his breath. “It’s too late to stop now,” he says.

  I whisper her name, and one hot tear escapes my eye. He shakes his head in disgust. “Stop crying,” he mutters. “No one likes a weak-willed woman.”

  Walking to the chair behind his desk, he writes my mother’s name down and the location of our home, which I whisper to him through quivering lips.

  “I have a sister,” I say. “She’s younger and is often sick. Please, don’t bring any harm to her.”

  The man shrugs his shoulders indifferently. “She’s the child of a traitorous kulak, as are you,” he glances up at me. “She’ll have to decide where her allegiance lies just as you have.” My heart sinks and my knees go weak. Time stops then, and keeps on moving all at the same time. The man gives me the chance to escape and, like a coward, I take it asking to be sent to Moscow. I long for the anonymity of the big city, to disappear inside a throng of people. I don’t want to be seen or noticed. I want only to disappear.

  One day later, I’m on a train heading north, my hands clutching new identification papers given to me “for my allegiance to our great country.” In my katomka is the small book of scriptures that bought my freedom. The man had tossed it at me just before I stepped onto the train.

  “A reminder of the price paid for your freedom,” he’d said with a sneer as I clutched it in horror. Mama was right. That book had given me protection. But the protection had come at a cost for which I was not prepared.

  I stare out the window at a land to which I know I’ll never return. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I blink them back. I won’t cry. I feel nothing. No sense of loss. No hopeful expectation. I clutch in my hands the papers that now identify me as Elizaveta Andreyevna Mishurova, and I rehearse my story over and over. I am the daughter of intelligent parents who were killed in the war. It would be years before I started to believe my own story. On this day, I merely commit it to memory.

  That was the day I tried to rewrite history—the day I decided that I would protect my story with all the strength I possessed, at whatever cost. I would never again be a kulak. Victoria was dead, buried beneath a small pile of rocks in the frozen ground where the silver willows weep. I would forget that girl, and I would forget that night, never again to mention or think of it.

  That was the day I began speaking in whispers.

  Annie

  Annie takes a breath and knocks on her mom’s door.

  “Come in!” Nina calls out. Annie pushes open the door and steps inside to find her mother wrapped in a towel.

  “Good morning,” she says with a smile.

  “Good morning to you,” she replies. Her mother has alternated between giddy and ecstatic since she and Viktor agreed to get married. The only time she saw the light fade from her mother’s eyes was when the topic of Babushka came up. They had moved her to a rehab facility, and she was now consistently waking up each day, but her agitation grew whenever Nina walked into the room, making it even more difficult for her to try to communicate.

  “What is it, my dear?” Nina calls from the closet. Annie stands outside the door as her mom dresses and takes a deep breath.

  “I’ve picked a family,” she says.

  “What?” Nina asks, her voice muffled as she pulls a shirt over her head.

  “I’ve picked a family,” Annie repeats. Nina steps from the closet and studies Annie closely.

  “Oh,” she says, the smile slowly fading from her eyes.

  Annie holds out a photo book. Nina takes it and slowly walks to the bed, flipping it open to look through the pages.

  “Their names are Jack and Jenny,” Annie says. “Totally American names, right?” she offers a tight-lipped smile. Nina sits down on the edge of the bed. She repeats the names over in her head. Jack and Jenny.

  “They seem really great,” Annie continues. “They have one child, a three year old girl, and they’re super active. She’s a schoolteacher, which I thought was kind of nice. And he does something in sales.”

  Nina flips through the book and takes in the sight of the smiling couple that has been chosen to raise her grandchild. Her heart constricts. There are pictures of them next to the ocean, standing on a beach in front of the Golden Gate Bridge, hiking in the Smoky Mountains. There’s a picture of their home, a cute little house with a fenced back yard, a swing set, and a little girl with bouncing, blonde curls sitting on the swing. Jenny is petite, her wide smile indicating a bubbly personality, while Jack’s smile reveals more of a serious nature.

  Annie shifts from one foot to the other, running her hand up and down her stomach as she watches her mom flip through the book. Her abdomen is tight, sticking out awkwardly at an angle that is unmistakable and impossible to hide. The whispers and snickers of her classmates trail behind her in the halls now. She is that girl—the statistic—the pregnant teen. With only four weeks left until her due date and eight weeks of school left, Annie finds herself longing to just move past this point in her life. She’s ready for this season to be over.

  Nina clears her t
hroat, willing the emotion out of the way. “So, you’re sure about this?”

  “What do you mean, sure?” Annie asks.

  “I mean you’re sure you want to let this child be raised by someone else—by people named Jack and Jenny?”

  Annie gapes at her mom. “What’s the alternative, Mom?” she asks. “I can’t raise this baby by myself. Obviously! I can barely take care of myself. And what, are you going to help me?” Annie snorts.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Nina asks softly.

  “It means, Mom, that you have plenty of other things to occupy your days. You couldn’t take care of this baby any more than I could. You have Babushka, and you’ve made it more than clear to me that she’s all you can handle. I almost feel sorry for Viktor. He has no idea that he won’t be able to compete with Babushka for your attention.”

  Nina draws in a sharp breath. She and Annie stare hard into one another’s eyes for a long time. Finally, Annie snatches the book from her and marches out of the room. She pauses at the door.

  “I’m calling the agency today and telling them I choose Jack and Jenny,” she says. She walks out and pulls the door closed behind her. For a brief moment she lingers in the hallway, regret churning in her chest at the bitterness she just unleashed on her mom. She turns to go back in, but quickly realizes she doesn’t know what she would say because she had simply told the truth.

  “Hey there.”

  Annie looks up at James and offers a half-hearted smile. He raises his eyebrows. “Well, that’s the most pitiful greeting I’ve ever seen,” he says. He slides around and falls into the seat next to her. Patting her knee, he gestures her to turn and face him.

  “What’s up?” he asks.

  Annie shrugs. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she mumbles.