The Little Russian

by Susan Sherman

  With the mention of friends she thought of her own and how, in a few weeks, everyone would know that she had been thrown out of her own home. She thought of poor Pavla, whose husband had been sent to Verkhoyansk. Soon everyone would be feeling sorry for her, giving her advice, and calling her poor Berta behind her back. It would be intolerable. “Does everyone have to know?”

  “They ’ll be a notice in the paper.”

  She closed her eyes.

  “It’s the law. But don’t worry, I’ll handle it. It won’t be nearly as bad as you think.”

  Mendel Levy was able to convince the bank to post the foreclosure notice on a Friday, in the late afternoon paper, where it wouldn’t draw much attention. After that he saw to an auction house to oversee the sale of the furniture. Of course there had to be advertising to bring in a crowd. Berta stayed home that day and received no one. Alix came by the house afterward to tell her all about it, not that Berta particularly wanted to know. This didn’t stop Alix, however. She eagerly relayed all that had happened at the auction: who was there, what they had bought, and how much they paid for it. She even admitted to buying a few things herself and hoped that Berta wouldn’t think she was being disloyal or callous.

  Berta was glad when Alix left so she could mourn the loss of her home in solitude. She spent the afternoon wandering through the empty rooms, cold as ice caves. That night she made a fire in the stove in her bedroom and spent one last night on a mattress on the floor. She lay down under the quilts and listened to the wind rattling the windows. She watched the firelight cast long shadows over the walls as she tried to remember the name of the cellist who had come to play a few years back. The Bach cello suites. A small girl from the academy with long, beautiful fingers. Berta remembered that she had trouble lugging her cello around. Anna Vasilevna, that was it. Good, now she could sleep.

  The apartment that Mendel Levy rented for her was on a tree-lined street not far from the shops on the corner of Sretensky and Kiyevs-kaya. It wasn’t what she was used to, but it was a pleasant place full of light in a respectable neighborhood and her neighbors were quiet and well-mannered. There was a professor of languages, or maybe it was literature, living in the apartment above her. He wasn’t old, but his body was bent and he walked with two canes. She talked to him on several occasions because Masha didn’t get along with his cat. The two felines even fought once or twice on the steps outside the building. They agreed over a cup of tea in Berta’s apartment that there wasn’t much they could do about it.

  During the winter of 1915 the news was encouraging. The army had achieved stunning successes against the Austrians in Galicia and in the Carpathians and even the impregnable fortress of Peremyshl had been taken. With money in her account from the sale of her furniture and the good news from the front, she and the children settled into their little apartment. Now that there were only four rooms to heat, the apartment was warm and comfortable. She even managed to save some of her furniture, two settees from the parlor and a carved oak library table that she put in the bay window in the front room and covered with masses of ferns and orchids that she had kept alive in the kitchen while the rest of the house froze.

  Samuil was enjoying spying on the tenants. Vera stayed on at a reduced salary, as well as Zina, the scullery maid, who was cheap and said she could cook. That part was a lie. But Berta gave her a cookbook and encouraged her to learn on the job. Since Zina had been born in Moscow to a pair of textile factory workers and spoke Russian, not Surzhyk like the other domestics, she had the kind of self-confidence that it took to reach beyond her station. She could read and write and thought herself too good for the boys in Cherkast. For all these reasons, Berta got the idea that she could learn how to cook. And she did. In fact she got so good at it that she began to take on airs. Vera complained that she was becoming temperamental, telling the other servants in the building that she was an artist with food.

  By early spring, speculation and the resulting inflationary prices had absorbed most of the furniture money. The war was going badly again. The Germans had swept into Russian Poland and occupied most of Lithuania and there was even talk of losing Riga and maybe even Petrograd. Berta cut back on kerosene. The house grew colder because the price of wood began to climb and now they could only afford to heat one room at a time. To save money Berta made a point of shopping for the food herself. Zina often complained about the quality and even threatened to quit on a few occasions.

  On this particular night Berta had taken a candle to her room and was sitting at the ebony Chinese table, the one she salvaged from the telephone alcove. She ran a finger over the spot where she had scraped the paint away and for a moment she took time away from her account book to remember that night when the pianist had canceled at the last minute and she had to hire Madame Gorbunova to take her place. It was hard to imagine that there had ever been a time in her life when her greatest worry was finding someone to play at her salon. Now everything had changed. Hershel had been gone for nearly a year and a half, and she doubted whether she would ever see him again. She was trapped in Little Russia and running out of money and no amount of cutting back was going to change that fact. If they were going to make it through the war, she would have to earn more.

  The next day she got up early, and after a cup of tea and a stale bun in the kitchen she went off to the House of Baranov to sell her jewelry. She had all her pieces in her just-in-case bag tucked into the pocket of her coat. She didn’t feel safe carrying it around with her. To make sure that it wasn’t stolen by the many pickpockets and thieves who were roaming the streets, she kept her hand in her pocket firmly clasped around the purse as she hurried down Sretensky Street to Davidkovo Square, past the old men playing skittles on the little patch of grass in the center, to the great brass and glass door of the House of Baranov.

  The shop smelled of almonds because there was a little alcove off the main gallery where customers sat on damask sofas and sipped almond tea while they looked over the jewelry set out on velvet-lined trays. Today the shop was empty except for a pretty saleswoman who stood behind a bank of glass cases at the back of the shop. Berta had never seen a woman behind the counter before and guessed she was only there because her male counterparts had been slaughtered on the battlefields.

  “May I help you?” she asked, with an inquiring look. She had black hair that was swept back off her face and thick eyebrows that had been plucked into submission.

  “Is Monsieur Baranov here?”

  “Which one?”

  Berta thought for a moment. “Either one.”

  “May I say what this is about?”

  “I have jewelry to sell,” she said, trying to sound offhand. She could feel her cheeks flushing and was grateful when the girl turned to the back room.

  Both brothers came out and greeted her in a friendly fashion, for she and Hershel had long been good customers. These two brothers looked remarkably similar. They both had long faces, bald except for a swath of hair at the back of their heads, and they both wore jeweler’s loupes hanging by a cord around their necks. Not much time was spent on pleasantries and soon she had her jewelry displayed on a velvet tray. The brothers examined the pieces through their loupes, exchanging them back and forth until they had examined every one. Then Vladimir P. Baranov, the spokesman of the two, looked up and said, “I remember these.”

  “You sold them to us.”

  “I know. Fine pieces, every one. But I’m afraid we can’t give you even close to what they ’re worth.”

  “How much?”

  The two brothers looked over the lot quickly and then after exchanging a look, Vladimir P. Baranov said, “Five hundred.”

  Her eyebrows flared. “For all of them?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “But they ’re worth three times that amount.”

  “Probably more. Problem is the war. Times are uncertain. There isn’t a lot of demand for fine jewelry these days.”

  “You can’t do any better than t
hat?”

  “Afraid not. You can try the other houses, but I expect you won’t get much more. And there is the danger of walking around with them in your pocket.”

  After a brief hesitation Berta parted with everything except for the diamond and pearl bracelet that Hershel had given her when Samuil was born. That she would keep forever. Folding the rubles into her just-in-case bag she left the shop, muttering to herself as she walked back up to Sretensky Street. She kept going over the figures in her head. When she became aware that she had been talking to herself, she colored and looked around to see if anybody had noticed. A soldier leaning up against the edge of a bank building looked over at her and said, “No matter, Madame. I do it all the time myself.”

  Berta found that no matter how careful she was with money there was always something unexpected that came up. Samuil needed school supplies and a new uniform. Sura got sick and needed a doctor. The rent was raised. There were shortages and everything went sky high: kerosene, bread, vegetables when she could find them, and eggs and butter, which generally she could not. All these extras devastated her budget, so much so that by a year later in the winter of 1916, she found herself worse off than before and nearly three months behind on the rent.

  One night she and the children were at the little table in the front room having supper by the light of only one kerosene lamp. Now kerosene was only available to those who got up before dawn and stood in line for most of the morning. The dining room was cold and they were bundled up in coats and hats and holding their hands over the bowls of hot soup for warmth. Berta had set the wick too high on the lamp and smoke curled out of the chimney and rose up to the ceiling in lazy circles.

  There was a crash in the kitchen, the sound of a smashing plate and a string of swear words in Russian. A few minutes later Zina appeared in the dining room with her suitcase in her hand and a hat on her head. She was flushed with frustration and her lips were quivering with emotion.

  “I am a cook,” she cried. “That’s what I do. I am an artist. But how am I supposed to do my work when there is nothing to cook? No vegetables, no meat, no chicken, nothing, nothing but green potatoes and bad fish and long lines. And it stinks here. The whole town stinks and I am sick of it. I am going back to Kiev.”

  Berta didn’t try to stop her. She couldn’t afford her anyway. She apologized for not having the money to pay her but told her to be patient and she would send her the money soon.

  “Why? What will be different?” asked Zina, not bothering to hide her irritation at not being paid what was owed her.

  “I’m going to find work.”

  Zina barked a laugh. “You? You working?” The proper deference a servant paid a mistress had all but eroded away after several empty paydays.

  “Yes, and why not? I thought I’d find some work in a dress salon, provided the clientele is of my class . . . my former class, that is,” Berta said, her voice trailing off.

  Her honesty had an effect on Zina. She gazed at the smoking lamp and then back to Berta. Softening, she said, “Da, I can see that. You would do good in something like that. You know how to dress. You have beautiful things.”

  It was true. She did have excellent taste and an eye for fashion. She could put together ensembles and had done it for Alix and a few of her closest friends. And she could bring in the customers. She knew them all personally. They had been her friends.

  THE FIRST dress salon Berta tried was S. A. Konovalova Dress and Costume Company. The shop was empty, except for a few shop assistants and a live model who sat in a gilt chair by the door, reading a magazine and waiting for customers to request her. The girl looked up when she saw Berta come in, straightened quickly, and put down her magazine. A shop assistant came over and asked her if she needed help. Berta thanked her and said she was there to see Madame Konovalova. The girl went off to find the proprietress and left her standing at the window, watching a religious procession in the street. The crowd was led by a priest in a black robe carrying a cross. Directly behind him were several women holding up icons, more people, more icons, and then a surprisingly large crowd.

  After Madame Konovalova heard Berta’s request for work she said, “I’m not surprised, Madame Alshonsky. I heard about your misfortune, about your house and your things being sold off. I was sorry to hear of it.”

  “Yes, well, I’m sure there are those who are worse off. But now you can see why I need the work.”

  “I would like to hire you, I really would. But orders are down and yard goods are hard to come by. If I wanted to make gowns out of wool and cotton I wouldn’t have a problem. But try finding voile or crepe de Chine these days. The truth is, Madame Alshonsky . . .” and here she let her voice drop to a whisper, “I’ve even been thinking of letting some of the girls go.”

  A short while later Berta was back on the street, grateful that her first interview was over. She hadn’t found work, but at least she hadn’t been humiliated. She tried three more salons without luck before she came to the S. I. Brodsky Dress and Fur Company, located across from the opera house in the best part of town. Monsieur Brodsky was very particular about his girls and dressed them all in black skirts and white shirtwaists with a coat of arms, a B intertwined with vines and tiny birds, over the breast pocket. There were several girls waiting for customers in the elaborate shop that day and a live model in the window wearing a fur coat. There weren’t many customers though—the war had weeded out the pretenders. But there was always money among the kupechestvo, and there would always be a season and dresses that went with it.

  Monsieur Brodsky brightened when he saw Berta at the door. She had been a valued customer once and they had enjoyed something of a friendship. She knew all about his mother, whom he doted on, and who had recently lost her foot to diabetes. She thought if anybody would give her work it would be S. I. Brodsky.

  “Madame Alshonsky, we were so worried about you. We haven’t seen you in such a long time, and now here you are again and looking more beautiful than ever.” Monsieur Brodsky was a small man, very correct in a stiff collar and dark suit with his coat of arms embroidered over the pocket. She happened to know that his father was a Jew. Although he didn’t consider himself a coreligionist, it still brought a certain ease to their dealings. “Fortune has smiled on you. This is good news. So tell me what can I do for you.”

  “Actually, I’m not here to buy anything.”

  “Oh, you say that, but I bet we could entice you. We have such delicious new designs. Have you seen this one yet?” he said, pulling out a black satin decorated with braiding and jet beads.

  “Monsieur, you don’t understand, I’ve come looking for work.”

  “Here? You want to work here?”

  “I have a fashion sense. You said so yourself. And I know everyone. I’d be valuable. And I don’t think I’d be wrong in saying that we were friends once.”

  Monsieur Brodsky waved to a well-dressed woman who had stopped to look at the model in the window. She waved back and motioned to him that she liked the coat. He put his fingers together and gave her a little bow. “That’s Tatiana Tikhonova, do you know her? A lovely person. Her husband fell off a mountain before the war and died. Lucky for her, I hear he was impossible.”

  Then he took Berta’s arm and led her to a secluded spot in the back of the store. “I want you to know that we’re still friends, Madame Alshonsky. And that’s why I’m not going to make an excuse and send you on your way. I’m going to tell you exactly why I can’t hire you. Why you would ruin my business in a week if I did.”

  “But, Monsieur—”

  “No, let me finish. You need to hear this. You need to know how things are. It’s very simple. You’re a Jew and nobody wants to buy from a Jew, especially not now, not with the war and the talk of spies. A peddler maybe, a window washer, but not a shopgirl in a fine salon. Nobody wants a Jew getting that close to them, seeing them in their underwear and touching them. It wouldn’t do. Wouldn’t do at all. I wish I could help you, and if it
were a different time, you’re right, I would hire you.”

  She nodded slowly, thanked him in a small worried voice that she hardly recognized, and left the shop. She knew he was telling her the truth. He would have no reason to lie; he was just trying to help her. But she couldn’t let him frighten her. She had to keep going. Something would come up. She would meet someone who knew someone who was looking to hire and she would hurry over and get there before anyone else. That’s how it would happen. All she needed was a bit of luck and so far, up until now, she had been very lucky in life.

  She spent the rest of the afternoon trying every shop on Davidkovo Street, big and small, dress shops, milliners, a department store, even the green grocer on the corner. No one would hire her. Eventually the shops began to close, the wind came up, a light dusting of snow began to fall, and still she wouldn’t go home. So she walked down to the river. It was frozen solid and even though it was nearly dark, there were still ice fisherman hunched over their holes in the ice. Several of them were following the footpath up the bluffs with a catch of silvery fish dangling from a line.

  When it got too cold to stand out on the bluffs, she turned back to the city and followed one of the main streets back into town. She walked through what was left of the German neighborhood and on past the Cherkast Agricultural Academy on Skakovaya Street. Slowly the reality of her situation began to sink in: She was alone with two children in a country at war. She had no money and no skill that could earn her a living, nothing of value left to sell, and there was no end to the war in sight. If her children were to grow up, it would be because she found a way to keep them from starving. If they received an education, she would have to pay for it. It was all up to her now, no one else, just her.

  She kept going, not wanting to turn back and face the responsibilities that waited for her at home. The snow fell harder driven by the wind. It was wet and it ruined her hat, soaked through her clothes, and crimped her hair into frizzy ringlets about her face. She was shivering and her hands were starting to cramp despite her gloves. She kept thinking of the beggar woman on Podkolokony Street in the Lugovaya Market begging for kopecks with a rented infant. A phrase began to circle through her thoughts like the tail of a kite. Beg, borrow, or steal. Beg, borrow, or steal. It became like a tune in her head that wouldn’t leave. Beg, borrow, or steal. Beg, borrow, or steal. But she would not beg and she could not steal, so what did that leave her? Borrow. She would borrow the money. She stood in front of a burned-out shop that had once been a German bakery and looked up into the black sky, letting the snow fall on her cheeks and lips while she thought it over. She opened her mouth and the flakes landed on her tongue and melted instantly. She thought about where she would go, whom she would ask, and the more she thought, the more it began to look like a simple solution to a dreadful problem.