We walked sombrely back to our home in the evening chill. Everyone squeezed into the house and Auntie cut up the paska which was baked for the Memory Eternal that would be celebrated on Sunday. We ate food that the villagers brought and the adults raised a glass in the Unravelled One’s memory.
“Let’s hope she’s happier now,” Auntie Xena said with an exhausted sigh.
“Of course she is,” one of the old babas answered. “You can’t be more fortunate than to suffer and die the same week as Our Blessed Saviour, can you?” She crossed herself three times and bowed her head in a hasty prayer.
Planting the Garden
MONDAY MORNING FINALLY arrived. Uncle Misha said that we should go back to our normal routine as soon as possible in order to escape the attention we were attracting. But, when my cousins and I came to school without Mitya, the gossip was flowing as abundantly as the river itself. Some of the Children said that a witch had come and killed The Unravelled One while others had gone to see the burned-out ruins of the hut that had been their home. Could it be that Mitya was as possessed by demons as his mother had been? Was it the devil himself that burned down their house — on Easter Week? Would Mitya become as “unravelled” as his mother was? They even kept their distance from the beloved Xenkovna.
“My cousin won’t be coming to school for now,” Xenkovna told the terrible Asimov when the class assembled. “Tahto needs him for ploughing and sowing.” She pushed back her shoulders, trying to look confident as Asimov’s snake-like eyes slithered over her from top to bottom.
“Here,” Asimov said, “is a perfect example of why the kolhosp is good for the farmers. If your father would use his brain correctly, he would see that the kolhosp would ensure that he had enough adults to help with the planting and that little pig of a cousin of yours would be able to attend class as he ought. How does your father expect that wild boy to ever become civilized? Hands up those of you whose families have joined the kolhosp. Tell the class how well the collective is working for your family.”
Half of the students in the school timidly raised their hands. The rest of us shrugged our shoulders or hid our faces. Asimov paced up and down the room in his agitation, gesturing with his metre stick. He called several members of the class to the front where he cajoled or prompted them to declare how much fun it was to be part of a large communal family and how much more they had now that their parents had a part of the collective farm— and their own garden too.
“The rest of you, go home and tell your ignorant parents to give their land to the kolhosp. We will be welcoming the Young Pioneers soon. I expect all of my eligible students to participate.” He pointed his metre stick directly at Xenkovna and me.
I wondered who the Young Pioneers were but was too afraid to ask.
“You will learn how Papa Stalin will give you a joyous childhood and new songs like ‘We will increase the harvest on the kolhosp.’ If you are good enough you will sing at the celebration on Red Army Day.” With that he burst into a chorus, in a high, clear tenor voice which we had never heard before: “Sing more merrily, sing to the harvest on the collective fields.”
If it hadn’t been Asimov singing, I would have liked his voice. How could such a man sing with such a beautiful sound? Maybe he was a demon sent by one of the witches from the forest with a sweet singing voice that would charm you so that the chort could steal your soul when you were sleeping. I couldn’t sit still after hearing him sing.
The lecture continued for at least an hour and the rest of the day dragged on even worse than the week before. I soon put aside my wondering and tried to concentrate on my mathematics. Xenkovna wouldn’t dare raise her eyes from her books and my bench felt very empty without Mitya. I caught myself making faces towards the place he used to occupy. Xenkovna nudged me back to attention quickly before my slacking could be noticed. When it was my turn to recite, I stumbled over the words and couldn’t remember my work even though I had read it at least ten times. I received a sound rap from Asimov’s metre stick for my troubles.
When school was mercifully over, I let the others walk ahead while I sulked my way home alone. I didn’t stop to catch a butterfly or look for snails as Mitya and I used to do, nor did I listen for the chirping of the nightingales which were nesting as they always did. I felt tears welling up behind my eyes, but couldn’t really say why I wanted to cry. I don’t know how or why, but I do know that it was on that day, on the way home from school, that I felt my new world had shifted forever.
I looked for Mitya as I approached the birch that was in new leaf in our yard, but it was Auntie Xena who was waiting for me.
“Vera Philipovna, put your things away and have some bread. I want you to come and help me in the garden. We have lots of work to do before the sun goes down.”
In the house, Xenkovna was already peeling potatoes and chopping vegetables for the boiling pot of chicken soup that was hanging over the fire. The little ones were gathered around her as usual.
“Where’s Mitya?” I asked.
“In the field with the men,” she replied. “The folks decided that it’s best to keep him close to Tahto and the other men.”
“I want to go to the river with him. It’s so sunny and warm today.”
“You can say ‘goodbye’ to that,” Xenkovna said in a practical voice that seemed more like her mother’s than her own. “He has to earn his keep and Tahto can’t afford to take chances, especially when he hears about what the snake Asimov did at school today.”
She told me that Uncle Misha decided that it wasn’t worth going to the constable to try to find out who had beaten The Unravelled One. The constable and judge were from the city now. Uncle Misha felt that asking too many questions would bring on more trouble.
“We’ll find out in time. The truth always has a way of coming out,” she said. “At least that’s what Mama says.”
“Philipovna,” Auntie called from the yard.
I stuffed the last bite of bread into my mouth, gulped my milk and went out to join her.
“We’re planting potatoes first,” she said. She was shaking some sand off the seed potatoes that she had brought up from the root cellar. While we were at school, Auntie had dug up a section of the garden. She made a couple of clearly marked rows.
“Uncle Misha made you your own hoe.” She handed me a hoe with a shortened handle and a matching rake.
“First we’ll hoe these rows again. Then you will take these potatoes and cut them into pieces,” she said. “Make sure that you leave two or three eyes on each so that they can start growing. Then we’ll put them into the ground and hill them up. It’s best to plant things in the morning or evening with a little watering so that they can settle in before the hot sun dries them out in the middle of the day. Let’s see if things grow as well for you as they did for Babushka. It looks like you are taking after her, God rest her soul.” Auntie crossed herself with the blessing.
And so the spring days went on— lengthening into early summer. Each day we got up early, went to school, came home, planted and hoed. There were the potatoes first, then rows of beets, carrots and spring onions. As it got warmer, we planted hills of cucumbers and beans, rows of radishes and lettuce greens that seemed to pop out of the earth before our eyes. The food was fresh and meals were deliciously interesting. I learned to husk strawberries without squeezing them too hard and soon shelled peas as quickly as Auntie Xena.
Once the vegetables were established, Auntie took me to the river where we gathered a variety of herb plants and roots for the herb garden. We would collect the various parts from the kalyna as it grew through its life cycle throughout the year. She carefully showed me which plant did what and quizzed me on their properties till my head swam.
“We’ll put the poppies on the cool side of the house,” she said. “We need plenty for baking, tea and medicine, God forbid that we should need it.” She quickly crossed herself lest the sickness was lurking around the corner just waiting to pounce.
&
nbsp; “We can plant the gladioli and hollyhocks in the bed at the front of the house,” Auntie said one afternoon, “and that should do it for this year. We want it to look nice, don’t we?”
I collapsed into unconsciousness every night for the first few weeks as I had never worked so hard. It was my first year in the garden. My hands soon cracked and blistered. But Auntie washed my wounds with her herb potions and applied her creams. Before long, the protective calluses developed.
Mitya, tired and hungry, came home with Uncle Misha and the boy cousins each evening. He too, learned about planting, not the garden because that was woman’s work, but the fields of spring barley. The men who hadn’t given their land to the collective shared the village horses for ploughing. Uncle Misha taught Mitya how to sow.
“I tell you, Xena,” he said one day as the men came in when the chores were done, “this boy’s a natural. I showed him once; the seed falls so evenly from his hand. He’ll make a fine farmer someday, I swear. He’s every bit as good as Michael and Alexander.”
Mitya grinned at Uncle, but wouldn’t look at me. He attacked his meal in silence.
“Did you see any nightingale nests in the field today?” I asked.
He waved me off like an unwanted mosquito.
“We’re too busy for nightingale nests,” he said, reaching for another boiled potato. “Uncle, did you tell Auntie about Uncle Paulo?”
“Uncle Paulo?”
Everyone stopped eating.
“What about Uncle Paulo?” she asked.
“Rumour has it that he’s given his cherry orchard to the kolhosp,” Uncle Misha said.
“He can’t do that.” Auntie almost choked on her bite of bread. “His orchard is right next to our land.”
“He does talk about working with the Party,” Uncle Misha said. “But I don’t think he’s that far gone. Anyway, he’s always been a good neighbour so I’m sure he’d tell us. You know how rumours fly these days. Don’t fret till you have to, woman. We’ve got our hands full as it is.”
“But what’ll we do if he gives in? The Comrades will never give us any peace. They’ll want our land next. Oh dear God, how will we ever survive?”
Everyone was quiet for the rest of the meal. The supper things were put away under an invisible cloud and we all went to bed early.
To make matters worse, the distance that started between Mitya and me the week of the Unravelled One’s death was growing. Auntie said that he would get over it, but I could see that the Mitya I knew was gone. On the rare occasions that he looked at me, he did not do so as an equal any longer. He treated me more like the little ones. He looked down his nose at me and, rather than getting more comfortable with us, he grew more and more sullen. If I asked to go to the river, he was too busy — always doing something for Uncle Misha. If I found him, as I sometimes did, sitting under our favourite tree, he snapped at me or simply didn’t answer.
One day, when he came home with Uncle, Mitya carried a little black and white puppy in his arms.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Can’t you see? It’s a dog.”
“Sure,” I said. “Whose dog?”
“Mine. His name is Sharik.”
“Where did you get him?”
“One of the farmers’ bitches had babies and he had too many dogs.”
“Does Uncle Misha know?”
“Yeah, he said I could have him.”
“Can I play with him too?”
“Only when I say so. He’s my dog — my own dog.”
I stepped back from them and stared.
“He’s going to live in the barn with me and Uncle Misha says that he’s my responsibility.”
“You’re so mean,” I screamed at him. “I always share with you and was your best friend. Now that you live in Uncle’s barn and think you’re a man you’re mean and ugly ... just like Asimov says ... a pig. You’ll never be like Uncle Misha.”
He reached out to slap me, but I was quicker. I didn’t stop running till I was in the house, safely crying behind Auntie’s skirts.
“What on earth is going on with you two?” she asked. “He won’t let me play with his dog.”
“I’m a man now,” Mitya yelled. “I don’t have time for little girls. I work like Uncle Misha and the other cousins. I’m not a kid anymore.”
Uncle took Mitya out to the barn while Auntie dried my tears.
“Be patient,” she said. “I know he loves you. Give him time.”
“I hate him now,” I said. “I’m never talking to him again.”
But I didn’t hate him. I watched as he walked, the dog following him. He talked to Sharik the way he used to talk to his mother. They went to the pasture for the cow together; they did the chores together and, one day, I even followed them to the Unravelled One’s grave. He sat on the grass, stroking the puppy and talking—talking to the dog — maybe it was to his mother. I didn’t get too close. The Unravelled One might come and pull me in with her if she thought I might be disturbing the visit with her son. What if Mitya really did become unravelled like she had? I remembered the nasty things that the Children said in the schoolyard. I shivered in spite of the warm sunshine.
On Sundays, we prayed and read the Bible in the morning. It was the one day of the week that the men weren’t in the field. Church services were only held on holy days now. We ate our big meal at noon and rested or visited the neighbours afterwards. Uncle Paulo still brought his chessboard for a game with Uncle Misha, but Uncle Simon had not come since Easter Sunday. Sometimes, Taras came alone and took Xenkovna for a walk. Other times, all of the older cousins joined the rest of the young people in the village square or on a crossroad and sang the songs they knew. Xenkovna liked the singing very much because Taras would often bring his accordion.
I wandered down the path which skirted the orchard or picked wild flowers to bring home for Auntie. I went to the river to the places that Mitya had shown me in the spring, but it wasn’t as much fun without him. Once, I went to the little place by the pussy willows, but the memory of the Unravelled One’s face wouldn’t let me stay to enjoy it. I wandered further up the river, hoping to find a new spot— a spot of my very own.
As I made my way up the riverbank, it widened into a meadow of sorts, full of vibrant blue forget-me-nots and white lily-of-the-valley whose fragrance filled the air with the sweetest scent I have ever smelled. The kalyna was budding with the promise of summer flowers and bitter berries in the fall. The sun was warm and the fast flowing water beckoned. I stuck my bare toes in. Auntie had warned us to stay away from the river in spring. I could see why. The water was as cold as ice.
I’m not really going in, I thought. But the pebbles were so interesting and there were places where there were little pools that were made by rocks and plants that didn’t look dangerous. Some of the pools had insects floating on their surface. I moved closer. Maybe, I could find some crayfish to bring home. Maybe then,
Mitya and I could be friends again. I don’t know how long I was there. I remember being fascinated by the stones in the bottom of the clear water and my fingers clutching at a particularly silver looking pebble before I found myself falling into the river.
I called Mitya’s name out of habit but no one answered. The water grabbed at my skirt and the current would have pulled me all of the way in had I not been fortunate enough to hang on to the trunk of a little willow tree which had rooted itself onto the river bank. My feet were numb with the cold water. I dug in with my toes and slowly worked my way out and, to my surprise, I found myself still clutching the silver thing. It wasn’t a pebble; it was the rounded bowl of a silver spoon that had caught my attention. I had never seen anything like it before. On its handle were carved initials and a beautiful scrolled design. I sat looking at it till my clothes dried and, after picking some of those beautiful flowers, I went home.
“For Mercy’s sake, what have you gotten yourself into now?” Auntie Xena said when she saw me with my muddy skirts. “You’ll
wear your clothes out from washing before you can grow out of them.” She crossed herself as if she were offering a prayer of thanks.
I held out the spoon.
“Where did you find that?” She dropped her bread knife onto the wooden table.
“In the river.”
“You mean you went in after it?”
“No, I saw something shining. I thought it was a pretty stone till I almost fell in.”
She looked it at carefully for a long time. Then I noticed her eyes glistening with tears.
“Do you know who it belongs to?” I asked.
“You see these initials?” She wiped the spoon with her apron. “A.K. They belong to Anastasia Kalynowich, the mistress I used to work for, the one who gave me my blue wool skirt, the one I wear to church. She was a distant relative of ours. Look at the pattern on the handle. I used to polish it when I was her servant. Where did you find it?”
I told her about the spot I found on the riverbank.
“Yes, I know the spot. We used to have picnics there in the old days.” She took the spoon and wrapped it in a tea towel. “We’ll put this away and not say anything to anyone. We could get into trouble for having such an extravagant thing in our house.”
“What? A spoon?”
“No, this particular spoon. It’s made of real silver and has the special design that only the old families used to have. If the Comrades find it here, they’ll accuse us of all kinds of things, just like they did in the war.”
I watched her put the little package into her decorated trunk in the spare room. Life was confusing. What kind of trouble could a little spoon bring? Why should the Comrades know anything about her spoons? Her stern face told me not to ask. She went back to cutting her bread.
The following Sunday I returned to the spot by the river. I looked and looked, but there were no more spoons to find. As I walked back towards Auntie’s house, I met Mitya. He was unusually cheerful.
Philipovna Page 9
