Philipovna

by Valentina Gal

  “Wouldn’t you like to warm up by my fire? I don’t have much, but I’d gladly share my fire.”

  I tried to move closer to the house, but Auntie’s hand held my shoulder tight.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said. “We need to be going. A drink will be as much hospitality as we can accept. And your word that you will say that you never saw us should the Comrades come asking. God bless you for your generosity.”

  “Running from the Comrades,” he said, sighing. “That is a common problem these days. You aren’t the first wanderers who have sheltered in my poor barn. Would that we could all run from them and their cursed new order.”

  He exchanged a hard look with Auntie and he motioned us toward the well. We took a long drink as we had the night before. We waved good-bye and with tears in my eyes, I set off behind Auntie.

  The walking was difficult because the rain left a muddy trail so we had to avoid puddles and slippery places in the path. I stumbled frequently as the mud clinging to my boots made my feet heavy. We walked all day under low gray clouds and through a fine drizzle which neither turned to rain nor lifted. I was so miserable that I stopped looking where I was going. I had no idea what was around me as we trudged through the soggy countryside. I kept my eyes on Auntie’s back and simply put one foot in front of the other until I could hardly feel my toes.

  My belly cramped with hunger pains which were stronger than usual because of the energy I was expending to keep up with the relentless pace that Auntie set. I wondered where Mitya was. Was he sheltered somewhere in the woods or did he sneak in by the woodpile to warm up by the fire? Did he think of me or was I as lost to him as poor Sharik? I wished I were by our own fire in Auntie’s house with Xenkovna. I wanted to burst out screaming each time I thought of her, but I said nothing and concentrated on following Auntie. When I finally looked up, we were coming to an unfamiliar town.

  It was late afternoon and a market day. There were still things left in the stalls. The venders were busying themselves with putting away the goods that weren’t sold. I could see that this town was not in the hunger zone because the faces of the people were full with colour in their cheeks. Their eyes were bright with energy. Their clothing was clean and whole as they walked with their heads held high. They avoided looking directly at Auntie and me. They made themselves busy when we got close to their wares. If they did actually look at us, their eyes were full of disgust. We were not welcome.

  I stared shamelessly at the pears, the plums and the apples which gleamed with the brightest red and gold that I had ever seen. I was sure that there were no apples more beautiful than these. The blue plums were my favourites. I would have grabbed any of them if I thought I could have gotten away with it. I could feel the saliva coming to the corners of my lips with every inhalation of fragrance from the tangy apples and the floury smell of the fresh bread that still waited for a buyer with a coin to spend for a bite to eat on the way home. Auntie looked over the scene carefully.

  “Stay right here,” she said. “I’m going to talk to that lady for a minute. I’ll be right back.” She pointed to an old woman sitting in a corner with a couple of sacks of potatoes and a pile of onion braids at her feet.

  I wondered who the woman was, but Auntie was gone before I could ask. It wasn’t long before I lost sight of her in the crowd that was moving with last minute buyers and tired venders heading home for their supper. So I stood admiring the squash, and cabbage, the carrots and beets and the few hams and cheeses that were left for the latecomers. I was so busy eating everything with my eyes that I didn’t notice a horse and cart coming down the path until they almost ran me over. As I jumped out of the way, I bumped into a corner of a makeshift table and knocked over a nicely arranged pile of its fresh-baked goods.

  “You filthy little Zaraza,” a fat woman with a double chin shouted from behind her table. “Did you have to do that? The least you could have done is begged for some of my bread if you’re that hungry. You didn’t have to knock it over.”

  Her jowls scrunched up in rage and she began retrieving her display. A girl about my age rushed out from behind the stall to help the woman. She stared at me for a moment, then turned to rearrange the fallen bread.

  “Where do girls like that come from, Mama? And why is she so filthy?”

  “You don’t want to know,” the woman said. “Make sure that you never become one of them.”

  Fortunately, only two small loaves fell to the ground. I eyed them ravenously, but didn’t dare to move toward them.

  “Take the bread and disappear.” A small man with woolly gray hair and a kind smile who had been standing with the woman behind the table was motioning to me.

  “She won’t notice if you hurry,” he said in a voice which was barely audible in the commotion. “And God be with you. You look like you could use ten of those.”

  “Thank you,” I said, mouthing silently. I scurried under the table and grabbed the loaves out of the dirt. I shoved them into my coat and then ran in Auntie’s direction.

  “Good grief,” she exclaimed as I met her in the aisle between the stalls. “Look at the dirt all over you. What happened?”

  “I got us some bread for supper,” I answered.

  “Good,” Auntie said. “The dear Babushka is the woman who gave me bread and refuge last winter. She gave me a small hunk of cheese. We’ll find a quiet place to eat and then we’ll follow her directions and get you ...” Auntie didn’t finish her sentence. We walked off the main path of the market and found a woodpile in a corner of an empty garden.

  “No one should notice us here,” she said. We ate the bread and cheese in the pale light of the sun that had broken through the clouds of the late afternoon. Then Auntie got down onto her knees and insisted that I do the same.

  “I don’t want to! I won’t go. I won’t stay. I don’t know anyone there. They won’t like me either.” My stomach did so many flip-flops that I thought that my precious bread and cheese would come right back up.

  “You see how God has provided us this nourishing supper?” I nodded.

  “If you remember to be faithful and pray every morning and every night, I know that He will see to it that you live and that we’ll be together again.”

  “When?” I said, sobbing.

  “I don’t know, Child. I wish I did.” She hugged me close to her boney breast. I could feel her breathing hard and her heart thumping — or was it mine? I didn’t know.

  “I promised God and your mother,” she said. “I’ve done all that I know to do. It’s time to give you back to God and beg Him to keep you safe. It’s the only way. And when you get tired of praying to God, don’t forget to ask the Holy Mother for her blessing. She lost her son on the cross so she knows what it’s like. Now, let’s dry our tears. We have to go.”

  Auntie Xena forced me to repeat every line of the Lord’s Prayer after her. My knees ached from the damp ground and my teeth shivered as I repeated those blessed lines mechanically:

  “Our Father, Who art in Heaven. Hallowed be Thy Name ...”

  Auntie jumped up abruptly. She walked so quickly that I had to run to keep up. As the candles started to light the windows of the townspeople’s homes, we marched through the darkening streets of that town whose name I either never learned or have forgotten. I made myself forget many things that happened to me there.

  We passed the square with its now empty market. We went by the government buildings. We passed by the smaller clusters of the farmers’ cottages at the edge of town and finally turned up the path of one that was not much different from Auntie’s own home, though it was in worse repair. As we got to the door, Auntie Xena hugged me hard, one last time. She pounded on the door and waited. When it opened, she gave me a gentle push towards the stranger who stood there. Then she was gone.

  A sour smell of sick and unfamiliar humanity greeted me as I looked up into the severe face of Svetlana Ivanovna. She was a spare woman with mousey hair and a gray streak over one temple. Her eyes were
hard and small and her voice was as sharp as her features.

  “Don’t stand there, girl,” she said. “I’m not keeping a fire to warm the street. You may as well come in. Did you come alone?”

  I was too stunned to speak.

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Philipovna,” I whispered.

  “Nikolaiovna,” she said over her shoulder, “if there’s any porridge left in the bottom of that pot, scoop it up for this new street urchin. We’ll find out more about her when she warms up and the food loosens her tongue. Try to clean her up a bit if you can, especially that mud on her feet. She must have been walking for a while by the looks of it.”

  Ivanovna turned back into the dimly-lit room which corresponded to the main room of Auntie’s house and was full of Children, most of whom were younger than me. Their cheeks were gaunt like I imagined mine were and their appearance was just as bedraggled as I knew I was. Some of them were still licking their porridge bowls like little dogs. They weren’t going to leave one drop of the porridge in their tin bowls. Others were just sitting quietly on the benches at a long table that stretched from the hearth almost down to the door that had opened to let me in. Not one of them would look at me directly, yet I could feel their eyes looking right through me, straight into my broken soul.

  I vowed that I’d never talk to them and that I would never become a part of this place. No matter how much food they gave me, I’d never let them loosen my tongue. A petite woman with dark hair neatly braided and fashioned into a big bun at the nape of her neck came towards me, a bowl of something in her hands. She was much younger than the Comrade who opened the door and had the heaviest eyebrows and biggest brown eyes I had ever seen.

  “Sit down, girl,” she said briskly. Her voice was firm but not as unfriendly as Comrade Svetlana’s. Although her face was stern, I could see that she was pretty.

  “Here’s the last of the porridge,” she said. “My name is Marina Nikolaiovna. We’ll find a place for you once supper is cleaned up.” She gestured to a tall girl with straw-coloured hair and an angular face at the far end of the table.

  “Larysa, get started on these dishes. Gregory, get some more wood for the fire. Mind that you don’t make it too big, Father Stalin doesn’t like us to waste any precious wood with a fire that’s too hot.”

  A thin boy with lifeless brown hair got up and did her bidding.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Although I had not long ago eaten bread and cheese with Auntie, I ate every spoonful of that tasteless porridge and licked my bowl in the manner of a little dog, just like the other Children had. I hoped that I didn’t eat it too fast as the memory of Auntie’s words about my tummy being too small and getting sick whispered in my mind.

  “What’s your name?” Marina Nikolaiovna asked.

  “Philipovna,” I said again.

  “I heard that one. I mean your whole name.”

  “That’s my whole name,” I said.

  “What’s your mother’s name?”

  “Mama,” I whispered.

  “I mean her real name,” she said, sighing. “Wasn’t that your mother who brought you?”

  “No, that was a woman who found me in her barn.”

  Although Auntie never said that I shouldn’t tell anyone who I really was, her secretive behaviour towards everyone we met on our way frightened me so that I didn’t want to tell these Comrades anything either.

  “So what’s her name then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Nikolaiovna shook her head and left me sitting while she went on with her work.

  I watched Larysa and another girl gather the bowls and spoons up from the bare wooden table. As they washed, Svetlana Ivanovna moved back and forth carrying trays of various bottles and bowls between the main room of the house and the room that was like the one where my Mama’s sewing machine was kept.

  “They never send me enough medicine,” she said. “How am I supposed to nurse these brats with so little to work with and more of them knocking at our door every day?”

  Other Children were lying on piles of old blankets in that room, some on sleeping benches by the walls and others on the floor. Since only one candle lit that room, I couldn’t see what Ivanovna or the Children were doing. In time, I learned that this was the infirmary and that most of the Children who went into it never walked out.

  While the dishes were being washed, Nikolaiovna and two of the other older girls, who were not much bigger than me, spread out blankets on sleeping benches by the fire that wasn’t warm enough to heat the whole room properly. They laid the smaller Children on the benches, like cobs of corn on a table at the market, boys on one side and girls on the other. I squinted hard as the picture of my three little cousins sleeping by Auntie’s hearth pushed its way into my brain. Did Xenkovna miss me? Was she happy to have my Mama’s feather bed or would Auntie keep it for me the way she had promised? A tear popped out of the corner of my eye.

  “Don’t cry, Child,” Marina Nikolaiovna said softly as she walked past with a scrawny little boy to put by the fire. “You will get used to us.”

  “I’m not crying.”

  She shook her head sympathetically and kept going.

  Once the smaller Children were settled, the bigger ones were given sleeping places and ragged blankets according to size till I was assigned a place by the draughty door through which Auntie had pushed me earlier in the evening.

  “You can share a blanket with Larysa,” Nikolaiovna said. “She’ll show you how things go here. Maybe you can be friends.”

  But I didn’t want to be friends. I didn’t want to lie down under a strange-smelling blanket with a girl I didn’t know or want for a friend. My friend was Mitya and the only blanket I wanted was my Mama’s feather bed.

  “Suit yourself,” Nikolaiovna said. “The cold will teach you how to get by.”

  I lay down as the fire went out. Larysa tried to cuddle close to me but I pushed her away. I felt cold and alone. I hadn’t learned yet that sleeping cuddled up to one or more of my fellow orphans was the only way to keep from freezing to death, especially in the depths of the winter that was on its way. The room was full of strange sounds — sounds of breathing, clearing throats and soft sighs as several dozen hungry Children settled for the night. From the smaller room I could hear coughing and rasping and the occasional cry from the sick ones. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

  This forlorn house smelled bad — not like the house I had grown to love. Auntie’s house smelled nice, sweet and spicy from the herbs and onions that had hung in its rafters for years. The fire smelled pungent and welcoming with the residual smell of tea and cooking food even when we had nothing to eat. My feather bed held the essence of Xenkovna whose presence was always comforting no matter what I dreamed or how frightened I was. And though it wasn’t always warm enough, I never felt as cold and desolate as I did in this strange place that was brimming with desperate Children who smelled of human filth and vomit.

  I tossed and turned under my half of the stinking blanket trying not to touch Larysa who was oblivious in sleep and didn’t seem to notice any of my troubles. When the morning broke into another gray gloom, I was fitfully miserable and in no condition to cooperate with anyone or anything that my new home had to offer.

  Larysa still lay sleeping, her face down in her blanket. I tried not to disturb her but some rustling movements at the far end of the room caught my attention. I sat up to look around. Nikolaiovna was measuring some wheat into the bottom of a large pot and Ivanovna was moving toward the sick room with her tray of bowls and potions. It’s funny how your first impressions of a person lodge themselves in your consciousness. No matter what else Svetlana Ivanovna did after I met her, I always picture her in my mind with a tray of potions and a preoccupied scowl on her face.

  I watched her disappear into the sick room. Neither of the women saw that I was awake. I didn’t want to lie down again because I felt so stiff and uncomfortable, but I didn’
t know if I should get up either. As the damp morning oozed itself in, I studied my surroundings more carefully.

  The Children’s Home, as I found out it was called, resembled Comrade Asimov’s classroom. The holy icons were gone, along with anything that made it look like a home except that the stove for cooking still had its accoutrements for food preparations. The walls were covered with tattered posters and banners with New Order slogans and the benches that the Children had used to sit on from around the long table in the middle were now makeshift beds.

  I wondered where Auntie spent the night. I wondered if her house felt as empty as this one felt full. I wondered how long it would take for Uncle and the boys to forget that I was ever in their house waking up with them each morning. Then I remembered to pray.

  Where would I be able to do that? I looked from corner to corner and realized that I’d never have a centimetre to myself. Everywhere I looked there was someone taking up space. How did Auntie expect me to keep that promise when there was not a spot to call my own and all of the propaganda on the walls to remind me that this was not a place where I would be allowed to pray?

  Maybe, I didn’t want to pray. If I was a Child of God, why did I have to be here? But the words that Godfather said when I was standing on Mama’s sewing machine came back to me. Then there were the words of Uncle Paulo at Auntie’s house before we left and the thought of all of those people that had left me to go to Heaven, right from Mama to Cousin Viktor. If I didn’t pray, maybe they wouldn’t let me into Heaven when it was my turn to go.

  I better find a way, I thought. I will find a way — I must.

  “Larysa, Philipovna, wake up.” Nikolaiovna called softly from the stove.

  I jumped up. There was no need to dress as I had slept with all of my clothes on. I smoothed my skirt the best I could and made my way toward the fire. Gregory had already brought some wood and was poking at the coals.

  “Take the spoon and stir the porridge,” Nikolaiovna said.

  “But I want to stir the porridge,” Larysa said from behind my shoulder. “She can get the water. I’m tired of being the one who always has to bring it. She might as well earn her place the way we all have to around here.”