Get Cozy, Josey!

by Susan May Warren

  “No,” I say slowly. “We have…well, Christmas is supposed to be a religious holiday, so we have Baby Jesus, angels and shepherds and the three wise men.”

  We also have Santa, but I’m not sure what my take on Santa is yet. And I’m glad I’m not stateside where I’d fold under the pressure. Jasmine and I grew up in a Santa-filled world, but she has recently taken a stand against Santa. I realize this sounds a lot like taking a stand against Bambi, but her argument is that she wants her children to grow up without the Big Lie.

  Since my kids are only three, and in Russia, I’ve been able to do an end run around Halloween, Santa and the Easter Bunny. But that doesn’t mean I’ve made my decision.

  “Tell that story, about Baby Jesus, to our children. Please,” says Maya.

  I eye her and speak very clearly. “It’s from the Bible.”

  She stares at me.

  “It’s religious. And I happen to believe it’s true. Are you sure you want me to tell it?”

  She nods without smiling. “It’s important to understand what other cultures believe.”

  You can believe, too, honey, because Jesus isn’t American, last time I checked. But you don’t have to hit a former missionary over the head to wake her up to an opportunity.

  “Where and when?”

  Three days later I’m sitting cross-legged in front of Justin and Chloe’s class, a storybook my mother sent last year for Christmas open on my lap. The kids are cute, dressed for the occasion with bright hair bows the size of their heads on the girls, and bow ties on the boys. I’ve made frosted Christmas cookies for the event, of course. I now have their undivided attention as I tell them about Mary being visited by an angel, and Joseph, the man who wants to marry her. I tell them about Jesus being born in a manger and field a few questions about what that might look like. I keep it G-rated, although I, too, have wondered just what it might have really been like to give birth in a stable two thousand years before plumbing (although now I have the smallest of glimpses).

  And then I talk about the wise men, with their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh, riding their camels. This elicits more questions, of course.

  To my surprise, the teachers are listening intently also. And they, too, have a few questions, after story time is over, after the cookies have been eaten, and after I’ve been invited to Maya’s office for a private “tea.”

  “Why did you come to Siberia?”

  “Do your children like detski-sod?”

  “Why does your daughter think she’s a cat?” (I love that one.)

  “Do you plan on staying?”

  As I carefully answer each question, I notice Maya watching me from her perch behind her desk.

  The room finally clears out, and I stand to leave, too, but she motions me to sit. She scares me a little. So I stay put.

  “I don’t believe your story.”

  I raise an eyebrow. Well, I want to say, get in line with about half the world. But I don’t, because I think, deep down, there’s more to her statement.

  “I don’t believe that God would send His son to people who would kill him.”

  Oh, so she’s heard the rest of the story. I nod, listening.

  “If He loved him and wanted the best for him—and knew people were going to kill him—why did He do it? A smart God, a loving God, wouldn’t do that.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “I don’t think I could trust that kind of God.”

  I see the gauntlet thrown down. I lean back on the sofa. “Why do you think I sent my kids to detski-sod, Maya?”

  She says nothing.

  “I didn’t know you. For all I knew, you would hurt my children. But I believed that getting to know you and showing you that I cared was worth the risk. Which is also why Chase and I moved to Siberia.”

  Something again flickers in her eye. Hope? Curiosity?

  I notice her body language—the way she has her arms crossed—and the look on her face, and I remember Ulia’s story. Not the sordid gossip, but the part about her husband. Dying. In a fire.

  Maybe we should all give the woman a little grace.

  “God sent His son Jesus to earth because He loves you, Maya. And He wants to know you. That’s the Christmas story.”

  The flicker is gone, and she gives me a tight smile, pushes her chair away and stands up. “Thank you for your story, Josey.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Open Wide Your Mouth

  Russians have a saying: Everyone is an artist. This saying came about during the time of the communists, and communal labor. Rationalization or survival, it was their way of remembering their true identities while being forced into mind-numbing, mindless industrial jobs in the countless factories in Soviet-era Russia.

  I have news for you. All the real Russian artists are in Burr, Russia. Did you know that Bursk has one of the most elaborate ice-sculpture festivals on the planet? Didn’t think so.

  This just might be my favorite Christmas in Russia yet.

  “Mommy, cream!”

  Chloe is pulling on my hand—have you ever tried to hold on to a preschooler through two layers of wool?—and my only advantage is the fact that the ground is pure ice and she has no traction. But her request has alerted Justin and Nathan to the ice-cream stand nearby. Here’s a little-known fact about Siberians: They only eat ice cream in the winter. Because eating it in the summer will cause pneumonia of the throat. Really.

  “Wait for Mommy, Justin!”

  The sun is high and golden, shining down like a spotlight on the fifty or so ice carvings that decorate the central square. Every town has a central square, and Bursk’s has come alive with ice sculptures of characters from every known Russian fairy tale: snow girls and Father Frost, prancing horses pulling a sledge, a Siberian bear with the white half-moon on its chest, and a fierce white tiger. There are also mermaids and dolphins, castles and ogres, and an ice slide. At night, the village turns on red and blue lights and the square becomes magical.

  I love Burrrrrsk.

  Nathan digs into his pocket to buy Justin an ice-cream cone. The vendor, only her eyes showing under a wool muffler, asks the flavor, and of course Nathan says, “Plumbere.” I should have guessed.

  Chloe is clapping and meowing, and Nathan feeds the hysteria by handing her a cone, also.

  “Want one?” he asks me. I’m scanning the square for Chase. It’s Christmas Eve, and he left early this morning on an errand, telling me he’d be back before our celebration tonight.

  “No thanks,” I say.

  Nathan pays the vendor, and we help Chloe and Justin down the slide. They could live in sub-zero temperatures for a week without even a shiver in the layers I’ve dressed them in. Tights, sweatpants, snowsuits and shuba—fur coats that Anton and Ulia dug out of storage—all tied with big belts. They’re wearing the requisite valenkis, and fur shopkas that tie around their chins, further secured by scarves. The only way I know they’re mine is Chloe’s constant breaks for freedom. And the meowing helps.

  Lest you think I concocted this clothing system on my own, let me disappoint you. I was instructed by Ulia, who has appointed herself Keeper of the Americans. She brought over the clothes and gave me lessons. She also keeps me stocked in home-remedy supplies. Like raspberry jam, which I gather cures any fever.

  And it’s great on blini.

  Which Nathan makes when he stays over.

  It has not escaped me that God has provided food everywhere I’ve lived. There’s a verse in the Psalms that says, “Open wide your mouth and I will fill it.” I feel like a baby bird.

  A happy baby bird.

  “Where is Chase?” Nathan asks as we stand at the bottom of the slide, watching Chloe fly down on her tummy.

  “Feet first, Chloe!”

  Justin follows her on his back. Good boy.

  “I don’t know. He said he had to do something, but he promised he’d be back tonight. I made soup—”

  Nathan looks at me, a smile on his face. He’s dressed light for the day
—a green military coat, fur boots and his black wool hat. He looks like an undercover Green Beret from a movie.

  “Stop. I can cook.” Liar, liar. “Okay, I peeled the potatoes. Chase did the rest.”

  “What kind of soup?”

  “Potato.”

  Nathan claps his hand together, blows on them. “I can’t believe it’s already Christmas.” He jams his hands in his pockets. “It sure is nice to be able to spend it with you.”

  I glance at him. I know he means us. The family. But it warms me, anyway. His friendship is starting to feel comfortable, like the one I have with my brother, Buddy.

  The kids finish sliding, and we run into Maya as we take another spin through the displays. She gives me a tight smile, but it breaks open a little when I introduce her to Nathan. Everyone smiles for Nathan.

  We finally head for home. “I got you something,”

  Nathan says as we near the house. I see the something leaning against our gate, green and bushy.

  A Christmas tree.

  Since the Great Deforestation, Chase hasn’t wanted to think about—let alone purchase—a tree. And frankly, there are none available in Bursk, anyway. Since Russians don’t celebrate Christmas on December 25, trees don’t go on sale before New Year’s Eve. Except, of course, this year, the trees are on sale early—in Khabarovsk, at least.

  “Where did you get a tree?”

  “I probably shouldn’t tell you. I bought it from—”

  “Nathan, you didn’t—”

  “Shh. Let’s take it inside.” He grabs it and follows Justin and Chloe into the yard. They’re jumping up and down, screaming and laughing.

  Nathan sets the tree up in the family room and produces a string of lights from his coat pocket. We put them on the tree, relishing the smell of pine.

  “Let’s make ornaments,” Nathan says. We find some white scratch paper and he proceeds to cut out beautiful snowflakes.

  Darkness has blanketed the land, but inside we’re warm and the light is bright, giving off a magical glow as we sit and eat the potato soup.

  “Do you think Chase will be back soon?” Nathan asks. Justin is bouncing on his knee.

  I look at the clock. “I really don’t know.”

  Justin climbs down and races into his room.

  “Is he gone a lot?”

  Is Chase gone a lot?

  “Our first year in Russia he was working on an NGO project and practically slept at his office. He’s sort of a one-horse guy. When he gets something in his mind, it consumes him. So, when he’s here, he’s here. But when someone else needs him…”

  Nathan smiles. “What if you need him?”

  “I don’t want to burden Chase. He’s busy.” I get up and retrieve the tea from the stove to pour him a cup. “Chase loves God, and this is his way of making a difference, I think.”

  I sit back down. “Once upon a time, he mentioned wanting to use his skills as a missionary. But that was years ago.”

  “Before a wife and kids?”

  I look at him, and just like that, it hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest. Paul and his singleness. Have I been holding Chase back? Would he be doing great things for God if I wasn’t here? Am I slowing him down?

  Wait. Wait. I’m in Siberia. I’m hardly holding the guy back.

  The thought, however, has lodged in my mind.

  Chase could do so much more if he didn’t have me and the kids to worry about. I rub my raw hands together. He could do what Nathan does, going from village to village, spreading hope. “Chase is exceptionally good at what he does,” I say softly.

  “I don’t think he should leave you alone so much, though.” I watch as Nathan pours a tablespoon of tea onto his saucer, dips a sugar cube in it and sucks on it.

  “Something my landlady taught me,” he says when he sees me watching him. “Try it.”

  So I do. It’s tangy and sweet. An unexpected delight.

  “Good, huh? Some things just belong together.” Nathan picks up the saucer and pours the tea into his mouth. He puts it down. “Have you ever thought about being a pastor’s wife?”

  I laugh. “I don’t think Chase will ever want to be a pastor. He loves helping people, but he’s not real comfortable sharing his faith. Besides, I don’t think I’d make a good pastor’s wife at all.” I take another taste of the sugar. “I can’t even get my neighbor to talk to me.”

  Nathan is looking at me strangely, a sort of sadness in his eyes. “But you’re willing to try, aren’t you?”

  I’m picking up my saucer, unsure how to respond, when I hear a thump at the door.

  I am in the entryway, all set to open the door, when Nathan stops me with a grip on my arm. “Who is it?” he hollers.

  “It’s me! Chase! Open the door—my hands are full!”

  Nathan opens the door and a snowy, ice-crusted man who resembles Chase stumbles inside. A trickle of red is frozen in a line down his nose, and his day-old whiskers are covered in frost. He’s fashioned a backpack of sorts from twine encircling a box about half the size of our coal furnace. He leans back and lets the box thump to the ground.

  “What are you—”

  “Ho, ho, ho!” he says, and grabs my face in his snowy hands, giving me a quick kiss.

  “What?”

  “Merry Christmas, GI.” He starts to peel off his layers.

  “You’re bleeding!”

  He frowns at me, and I point to his nose. He touches it and looks at his hand. “I didn’t even feel it. Must have been the wind, cracking my skin. It was a long walk from Petrogorsk.”

  Nathan is helping him off with his snow-encrusted jacket. “Petrogorsk is eight kilometers from here. And you walked it? What were you doing?”

  “It’s only six through the fields. I didn’t know you were going to be here or I would have borrowed your snowmobile. I had to pick up something I ordered from Khabarovsk from the Petrogorsk post office.” Chase gestures to the package. “Open it, babe.”

  I look at the package and then back at Santa. He’s all grins.

  Justin and Chloe have heard the commotion and barrel out of their bedroom. “Daddy!”

  He gathers them in his arms as I attack the package, ripping it open at seams where the staples hold it together.

  For a moment, a long moment, I can say nothing. Everything drains out of me, and I reach out to grab Chase’s arm. “You carried this home? For six miles?”

  “Kilometers,” Chase corrects.

  “Same thing,” I say as my eyes fill.

  “What is it, Mommy?” Justin asks, wriggling out of Chase’s arms. “Who brought it?”

  “Santa, honey,” I say, scooping him up, holding him close, smiling at Chase through my watery eyes. “Santa brought me a washing machine.”

  Merry Christmas from the Kringle Kompany!

  Enjoy your specially prepared Almond Crème Kringle.

  Now serving eight new flavors to make every day a celebration!

  www.kringlekompany.com

  Dear Josey,

  I’m not sure if this will reach you before Christmas, but I wanted you to have a taste of home for the holidays. I know you’re probably making your own kringle, but I wasn’t sure if you could get almond flavoring in Siberia, so here’s mine, just in case.

  Mom and Dad say hello, and so does your friend H. I saw her working at the Red Rooster Grocery Store.

  Only six months until I see you again! By then, maybe our new storefront in Minneapolis will be open! Milton just acquired a warehouse with a commercial kitchen. I can’t wait to move to the big city! Don’t worry, Mom and Dad have agreed to stay on running Berglund Acres until you and Chase come home. I can’t believe we’ll be selling the Cape Cod. But with prices skyrocketing in Gull Lake over the past four years, we hope to find a place twice the size in the city. I think Clay and Amelia need their own playroom, and Milton would love to have an office. I’ll make sure we get one with at least four bedrooms so you and Chase can have a guest room when you visit.r />
  You’re still planning on moving home, right? I know you’re doing amazing work in Siberia and all, but maybe it’s time, you know?

  Sorry there’s not more room on the card. I’ll send you an e-mail one of these days!

  Merry Christmas!

  Love, Jasmine

  Chase and I are sitting at the table eating kringle, drinking tea and enjoying the smell of pine wafting through our home. Our New Year’s Eve dinner—chicken soup—is simmering on the stove. Chloe is on the floor playing with her new herd of stuffed animals (the only gifts we could find in Bursk). She’s in the center, speaking in tongues.

  Justin is watching Nu Pagadee through fuzzy reception on the black-and-white television Anton gave us for Christmas. Evidently, he gave Ulia a new one so she could keep up her Santa Barbara habit.

  “I can’t believe that Jasmine has an online business,” I say to Chase, who looks amazing in the red flannel shirt I found in the market. He spent the day hooking up the washing machine while I chopped potatoes for soup.

  “Why? It’s easy. Set up an eBay account and sell the right merchandise. It’s all about having a unique, quality product and decent advertising.” He holds up the kringle. “Yum.”

  I narrow my eyes at him.

  “Well, it is good.” Chase takes a sip of tea. “But I’d take your cookies over it any day.”

  I’m glad he would, because my confidence took a header when I brought a batch of thank-you sugar cookies to Olya. All she did was stand there silently, not meeting my eyes, as I smiled and handed her the cookies. She took them and again she closed the door in my face.

  I thought we were past all that. I’m so confused.

  I get up and put our cups in the sink. I stand there a moment, thinking about the cookies and the way the women from the Bible study packed my tiny kitchen. At least they seemed to like them.