The Russlander

by Sandra Birdsell

  “There’s room for Greta beside me,” Lydia called.

  “She can stand between us,” Dietrich said.

  Aganetha Sudermann fussed with her skirt, her smile fading and her eyes half closing as she frowned.

  “Stand wherever you want. Just stand still,” Michael Orlov said. His mock despair dissipated as he hunched over the camera.

  In the photograph Dietrich would look tentative, and even though the round face of his boyhood had given way to that of a young man, had become angular, with a strong jaw and deep-set eyes, he would look too young to be in love. Katya would come to think that most people ventured into love far too soon, her own children, their children, and she would always be a little afraid for them, afraid that they would put so much trust in another at such a young age, risk failing, risk the injury of accidents. Love hadn’t come to her until she was near to twenty-two, old for those times, almost of an age where marriage would likely not happen at all. In the photograph taken that day, Lydia had chosen to stand sideways to the camera; Justina leaned into her young husband, looking as though she would like to have his arm around her. Greta faced the camera squarely. Her white blouse, dark pinafore and vivid colouring were in high contrast to the other women, whose fairness and light-coloured clothing caused them to look faded in comparison.

  She would later see the photograph published in a historical account of Mennonites in Russia, the young man who came with his machine, asking her to tell stories, bringing it with him. Beneath the photograph the names were given, except for Greta, whose identity was stated as “unknown.” Greta’s vivid beauty returned to her across the time, and by then she had a word, vivacious, to describe her. She would tell him, regarding the unknown: That vivacious young woman was Greta Vogt, my dear sister. She would show him a photograph of Greta, Lydia, and the Sudermann sister cousins, students in their school uniforms grouped around a pedestal on which lay an open book. She’d once owned a photograph of herself at three years old sitting on that same pedestal in the photographer’s atelier in Rosenthal, taken during the time the Sudermanns had toured America. There was a blurred spot at the end of one of her chubby legs – she’d moved – and Greta had a fistful of her dress to keep her from rolling off the pedestal, she was so plump. She remembered a photograph she’d had of her parents on their wedding day, her mother wearing the traditional black dress, her father too thin, his beard spindly, his large hands splayed across his knees; remembered a group portrait of the Schroeder family where she was a child held in her father’s arms. Photographs she had brought to the new country, and which were taken from her, one by one. By offspring of her children suddenly wanting to know their heritage, wanting to be more than Canadian-born fair-skinned people, potato eaters; some of them remaining Mennonites, others, not. They wanted to be more exotic, like the people they lived alongside in their modern world, a multitude of different peoples, tongues, and cultures. The photographs she had brought to Canada were proof that they were offspring of the oasis-dwellers who had lived within the country of tsars.

  When Katya came into the orchard everyone was milling about the put-together tables, gawking and then moving away, impatient for Abram to take his place, impatient to stand with their hands folded against the chair backs and sing “Praise God, from Whom All Blessings Flow.”

  Konrad’s cake was set at the centre of the table, a two-tiered confection covered in frothed cream and dotted with candied cherries. Katya recognized the cherries with a shock, remembering the cherry Vera had shared with her earlier in the day. She recalled her own spying through a window at the Orlov house, and she wondered if Vera had gone spying, too, and if she’d been so daring as to go inside.

  She felt Greta’s eyes on her, a message she didn’t understand. Then Sara made the situation clear, as she went around the table counting, and noted in a puzzled voice that there weren’t enough plates.

  Abram seated himself at the head of the table and hungrily eyed the cake, while Dietrich mentally counted the chairs and told his mother more were needed.

  Katya saw the look which passed between Aganetha and Justina, a look that said they already knew about the lack of chairs.

  “Martha, go and get more chairs and more settings,” Dietrich ordered.

  “Yes, go and get more chairs so we can be one big happy family, as usual,” Justina said with crisp sarcasm.

  “There are exactly as many as there need to be,” Aganetha said.

  he equipment shed had been turned into a prayer hall, the doors standing open, a square of light framing a picture of a grooved path worn into the earth by wagon wheels, the stone fence meeting the gate posts at the avenue beyond, where Katya and Nela Siemens had set pails of flowers. This was the day of the Faith Conference, not yet noon, and already the heat inside the shed was sweltering. Katya’s father and David Sudermann sat near to the open doors. Tables had been set up for tea beside the doors, and the inevitable five-pound sacks of sunflower seeds. Katya waited at the tea table, ready to pour for those who preferred heat as a means to cool down.

  The trains were packed to overflowing with soldiers, Abram Sudermann reported on behalf of the delegation who’d gone to St. Petersburg to meet with a Mennonite member of the Duma. He gave the report standing at the front row of benches, his breath laboured and perspiration running down his face, which he kept swiping at with a balled-up handkerchief. Behind him, sitting on chairs, were six ministers from nearby villages facing the congregation. The members of the delegation had been impatient for the formal part of the service to end, what had been a time of silent and spoken prayers, hymn singing, and greetings from each of the ministers, who now looked haggard and wrung out. During the service a woman was overcome by the heat and fainted, and the other women, grateful for the opportunity to escape the stifling air, had gone with her to the shade of the canopy, where they now visited with each other.

  Earlier that morning, while a blue mist still hung in the gardens, Katya had gone to cut flowers. She had seen Nela watching from an upstairs window, and was surprised when, moments later, she joined her in the garden. As they crept among the beds in search of perfect blossoms, the cool morning air set them shivering. Nela’s teeth were chattering, her hair still wound up in rag curls. A mouthwatering smell wafted across the compound from the summer kitchen, where pans of cherry and plum plautz cooled on tables. Pitchers of coffee were being kept warm for those who had arrived the previous night. Among them was the woman who had fainted during the service, a shy woman who tried to be inconspicuous in the way she tiptoed to the summer kitchen for breakfast. But no sooner had she gone inside than she came rushing out and into the garden, clutching her stomach.

  Abram said the delegation had volunteered their first-class passage to the soldiers, and spent the entire trip in the heating compartments of two railway cars, taking turns sitting on the floor and on the stove, while the others stood back to back in a space that amounted to the width of a corridor, trying to see something of the countryside through grimy windows.

  At every station, the train was met by wagons filled with soldiers waiting to board, their women and children with them, dwarfed by huge baskets of provisions. Imperial banners were to be seen in more than the usual number, and priests holding aloft icons of Christ, St. Nicholas, and every possible saint. Bands played marches while church bells pealed incessantly. Women and children wailed whenever the train departed a station and, all together, it was almost too much for a person to bear.

  As Abram related this, Willy Krahn, the man from Arbusovka whose wife had died of poisoning when the meat grinder fell on her foot, pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and blew his nose. Katya’s mother had pointed him out during the service, a man slumped on the bench, chin on his chest as though asleep.

  “It’s the opinion of our Duma member that the possibility of war is very real,” Abram said. A silence descended in the equipment shed, all movement suspended.

  “Once war is declared, the call for our men could com
e at any time,” he continued. The call would come for alternate service. To work in the forests and on the roads, with zemstvos and institutions such as the Red Cross. They would be required to work as Sanitäters on hospital trains and ships, in administration offices in Russian cities; so many men would have to leave the colonies and the influence of their own people.

  “How many?” Willy Krahn called out.

  “In all, there are about twelve thousand between the age of twenty and forty-five,” Abram said. “The mobilization of the reserves will take most of our Russian workers. Which is going to make it difficult for the harvest. And should our own be called? Getting the harvest in will be near to impossible. We’ll have to hire women and children,” Abram said.

  “I wanted to know how many to pray for,” Willy replied.

  Abram seemed startled by this thought, and then continued with his report, saying that the delegation arrived in St. Petersburg somewhat the worse for wear. Their clothing was rumpled and stained with coal dust. They were shocked by the sight of cannons, and boxes of ammunition stacked in the streets. And once again when the hotel manager came to them in the dining room and asked them to refrain from speaking German, saying he’d received complaints, and several lodgers threatened to leave. When they themselves left the hotel, a man spat at them and called them Germanzi. If there should be a war, and if that war were to go badly, then the old canard Beat the Jew and save Russia would no longer suffice to save the skins of those in power.

  “We could become the new scapegoat,” Abram said.

  “We already are,” David said softly to Katya’s father.

  “Let’s not exaggerate,” her father replied.

  In the silence that followed, birds could be heard singing from the briar hedges that grew alongside the equipment shed. The woman who had fainted was Willy Krahn’s new wife, Frieda. She’d afforded the women the opportunity not only to escape the heat but, as well, Abram’s report. Helena Sudermann had sent Sophie and Greta to the storehouse to get refreshments for the women and they were returning now, pulling wagons filled with pails of sliced watermelon and bottles of kvass. The bottles tinkled noisily as they came past the shed, drawing longing glances from the men inside. The trill of women’s laughter rose above the sound of tinkling bottles on the wagon, above the voices of small children playing in the shade of the vine arbour, entertained there by Lydia and her friends.

  “Na ja. Those who have much to lose also have much to fear,” one of the ministers said.

  “The more a person fears, the more he looks to God for help,” another man countered.

  “Yes, and he looks to his Cossacks, too,” a man sitting beside Willy said, and laughed to temper his words. But most knew he wasn’t joking, as there had been criticism levelled at Abram when he’d hired Cossacks to guard his pastures and fields.

  “We’re not German. This is our fatherland. We’re as much Russian as anyone,” Isaac Sudermann stood up to say.

  “Whichever the way the wind blows, you’re sure to find good old Isaac,” David said to Katya’s father, loud enough that others heard, and nodded in agreement.

  When Isaac sat down, David Sudermann got up, causing a stir around him.

  “Some of us think we should talk about our pacifist principle. While I may believe that it’s our duty to try and uphold that principle, others may disagree. Intolerance isn’t the Christian way. Different views should be allowed and debated, and we should begin to do so, today.” David’s voice was strong and confident, the voice of a man accustomed to speaking in public.

  “Why today?” a man asked.

  “Well, that should be apparent,” David replied.

  “This is not the time, nor will there ever be a time for such talk. As Christians we will not depart from the belief of pacifism. It was the practice of Christ, and it’s what Christ demands of his followers.” When the Ältester spoke, his voice quavered with emotion.

  “I’m speaking about self-protection,” David said. “There’s a callous disregard for the law everywhere. Just recently six of my brother’s cows were butchered on the pasture, and in broad daylight. If there’s a war, and if, as my brother says, it goes badly, we could find ourselves without protection. We should begin to talk about what to do if that should happen.”

  “The tsar is our protector,” the man sitting beside Willy Krahn replied. “We have his word. We’re Russian citizens and entitled to protection against our enemies.”

  “How can we expect the tsar to protect us when we’re not willing to protect the tsar?” David asked.

  “This talk must stop,” a minister said.

  The shed erupted with voices, men rising to argue all at once.

  Late in the afternoon the Wiebe sisters came with baskets of food, and Katya helped load the baskets onto the wagon. Then she and Mary noticed at the same time the hunting guns lying on sacks. There was a crate holding brandy and schnapps already on the wagon. Faith Conference, Mary said wryly. When Michael Orlov rode in moments later with a greyhound tethered to his saddle and three more dogs running behind, it became clear what Abram had in store.

  Franz Pauls and Dietrich went to meet Michael, Franz wearing leather riding breeches which revealed his spindly legs. Although this was the first time he’d seen Abram’s refurbished study, he’d offered to show it to several men, acting as though he were one of the hosts and not an unexpected guest. They should see the fine craftsmanship of the lacquered cabinet which had been built around the Wells Fargo safe, or the new painting Aganetha had purchased, a painting of hounds and red-coated horsemen. He had surprised the Sudermanns with his presence, arriving in time for the noon meal – which was convenient, Helena had said, but one more person wouldn’t matter, given the platters heaped with lamb and slabs of ham, the pots filled to brimming with varenyky in sour-cream gravy. He’d been in Ekaterinoslav, and thought, why not drop in before returning to Rosenthal, he’d told Helena, his eyes roaming among the young women, flickering with hurt as he glanced at Justina on the arm of her new husband.

  Katya’s father and David Sudermann decided against going hunting and rounded up those who wanted to go for a walk, and although Greta was kept busy helping Sophie in the kitchen, Katya was free to go with them. As they crossed the meadow, Lydia and her friends hurried to catch up. When it became apparent that another man would ride Abram’s prized red stallion, Franz Pauls decided against going hunting and called from the road that they should wait for him too. Lydia groaned and went off in a huff, and except for Nela Siemens, those with her turned back. Nela’s father was one of the ministers from Rosenthal attending the gathering, a stout elderly man who hadn’t joined in the noisy discussion which broke out following Abram’s report. Katya had seen him ambling in the west garden as though deep in thought.

  Now as they went walking in the forest, Franz Pauls, who had received news that he’d passed entrance examinations to a teachers’ college, gave Katya’s father and David an account of the exam questions. He walked in front of Katya and her father, alongside David, his hands clasped at his back as though already a learned teacher, and not a prospective and awkward-looking student stumbling over tree roots. They were followed by a squirrel that leapt from tree to tree, and stopped to peer at them with its beady eyes. During the time he’d been in Ekaterinoslav writing the exams, there had been a students’ strike at the Institute of Geology, Franz went on to say. However, it had been quickly brought under control by the police.

  “A few students have made it bad for everyone, and now a person can be arrested just for going for a walk,” Franz said. “I didn’t dare speak German, My Mennonite colleagues and I spoke Russian, even while travelling between our lodgings and the college,” he said, sounding suddenly world-wise, although everyone knew that this had been his first trip to the city. “We’d be smart to stop speaking German in public.”

  Just then the squirrel leapt to a tree beyond the path and came halfway down its trunk to chatter at them.

  “
And who will you report us to, eh?” David said to the squirrel. “Look, Franz. Already there are language spies behind every tree. You’d better speak Russian here and now, or that little fellow will see to it that you enjoy the enchanting sights of Siberia.

  “Come now, surely a man as well travelled as you can endure a little teasing,” David said, when it was apparent Franz took offence.

  “Did you hear anything in your travels about the proposed law to liquidate land owned by Germans?” her father asked, and Katya knew he had done so to steer the conversation away from Franz’s discomfort.

  David’s young daughters and Sara had run on ahead, Sara anxious to show them the mausoleum. Franz and David were walking abreast, and Katya at her father’s side. Nela and Gerhard came behind them, and Katya was amused to see that Nela had taken Gerhard by the hand. Although his ears had turned red over being treated like a child, he was politely attentive while Nela pointed out the various wildflowers growing in the dense vegetation along the way.

  “Yes,” Franz said, eagerly taking up the topic. There were two laws proposed, apparently, one to prevent ownership of land by certain categories of Russian subjects, including German, and another to confiscate land presently owned and tenured by Germans.

  “Don’t you agree that the point should be made to the authorities that we’re Russian, and not German?” Franz asked, phrasing his opinion in a question to avoid appearing disrespectful of the older men.

  “Perhaps we should make the point that we’re Dutch,” David said. “Because it would be difficult to convince them we’re Russian when we don’t want to be treated as Russians.”

  “But we are, in every way,” Franz said.

  “Not so. For example, only recently I came upon the brother of one of my Russian university companions. He looked rather downhearted when he told me of having to leave his engineering studies a year before completion. He was wearing the uniform of an ordinary foot soldier and earning a ruble a month.”