Philipovna

by Valentina Gal

  “You promised,” I said. “I’ve made you tea. You can’t go without telling me something about her Mama. How will I know who and what to pray for?”

  Ivanovna looked hard at the doctor.

  “She’s right. You owe her that much before you go.”

  He acquiesced, brushing me off like an unwanted fly. “Quickly then. Pour your tea. Just let me alone.”

  We retreated to the benches by the stove.

  “Here it is; the simple truth,” the doctor said as he blew the steam away from his hot cup of tea.

  “Olya, the woman who died here, was my niece. A sweeter Child I have never met. She was quiet, obedient and smart. She was like a little fairy — even the cow came to her for milking without her calling to it. Snap her fingers and her work was done. Send her to the well and the water was there. Before you said the floor needed sweeping the broom was dancing with Olya, her golden curls flying behind them. I never heard a sorry word come out of her mouth. Once she was finished, she’d find a book. I’d often see her sitting in the corner or under a tree, embroidering the kalyna onto a rushnyk or shirt, lost in her own world. To see her was to love her. No wonder then, that when she grew into a fine young woman, there was no lack of suitors. Everyone called her krasawitsya as she really was a beauty.

  “Of course, the young men of the village flocked to her door. She’d welcomed them graciously as was expected of her, but showed no particular interest in any of them. Finally, my brother-in-law decided that this had gone on long enough.

  “‘It isn’t right to let a girl, even one as lovely as you, my dear Olya, to remain an unmarried old maid,’ he said. ‘I would rather you choose a husband, but if you won’t, next summer, you should expect a wedding.’

  “Since she wouldn’t choose, her father decided that the miller’s son would be the lucky man. It was truly a match made in Heaven. He was very handsome and, since everyone in the town comes to him for grinding their flour, she’d never want for anything. ‘If the two of you work hard and continued to manage the mill as your father has, you may even get rich someday,’ my brother-in-law said when we all raised a glass to the lucky couple.

  “Olya smiled but said nothing. While she didn’t complain, she didn’t seem happy either. I only came to understand what was going on the day that she and my sister, her mother came to me.

  “As she sat silent, her mother told me how Olya had come to know one of the Russian Party members. He had lured her off. Any innocent girl’s head would be turned by a handsome young man, especially one as nice as he was, despite the fact that he was a Communist.

  “Olya wouldn’t say how long this secret affair was going on, but it must have been happening for some time as she had discovered that she was pregnant. Her mother wanted me to help her get rid of the baby.

  “‘You know that having it will be the disgrace and ruin of her. After all, no one has to know,’ she said. But Olya wouldn’t have it. She wanted the baby and its Russian father, too. When my brother-in-law finally found out, he was out of his mind with rage. ‘How could you?’ he roared. ‘It’s bad enough that you’d ruined yourself but with a Russian— a filthy Communist!’

  “The girl had no peace. When her brothers found out, they beat the Russian so badly that he was sent back to his parents in Leningrad. I fixed him up the best I could, but we had to lie low for some months till it blew over. I can’t imagine how the Party didn’t figure it out. I don’t know how the poor fellow made the journey home.

  “Olya went into mourning and finally decided to leave her father’s house. She went from aunt to aunt. She stayed with me for some months till the baby came. I even helped her have Little Nina, whom you call ‘Malenka,’ baptized with my Babusya’s cross. But the shame, the disgrace would soon follow. People talked; they whispered; they pointed. She finally ran away with Nina. We looked for her, but as soon as we contacted her, she would disappear like the fairy Child that would dance away with her broom. Then we heard that she was in the sealed-off zone. Since then, I asked for her in every village I was called to, but there was no finding her. I never dreamed that she would turn up, right here practically under my own nose.”

  His shoulders shook. He sipped at his tea trying to swallow his grief.

  “I can promise you, Little Godmother, that nothing will happen to what’s left of our Little Olya. I will take her Child as my own. With all that is going on around here, people will soon forget and Nina will live well. I promise, and to prove it to you, her name will be Malenka from now on. That way, her unfortunate past will stay buried with her poor mother. You have done well. I hope that you can take care of yourself as well as you have taken care of her. God knows you deserve a Heavenly hand of your own.”

  He stared right into my eyes for a long, long time. I’ll never forget the pain in that tortured stare. He drank his tea.

  “Say your goodbye,” he said. “We have worn out our welcome. If I can ever help you again, come and find me. But wait a while, if you can. If you come too soon, it may cause some suspicion.”

  He opened his shirt. I wanted to grab Malenka and squeeze her to my heart as hard as I could, but she was floppy as a rag doll in her sleep. No doubt the doctor’s strong, warm chest was comfortable. I ran my fingers over her luscious curls. I kissed her face —her eyes, her nose and her fevering little mouth. My tears fell on her cheek. I couldn’t look at anyone else. I ran to the sickroom and threw myself onto my sleeping bench. My sobs wouldn’t stop.

  Eventually, I cried myself to sleep. But there was no relief. The dreams took over my head. My nightmares churned with memories. I shrank back in fear as Auntie Lena’s face came towards me reminding me that she would eat every crumb before she would give me one bite of bread. I saw the army trucks with all of our wheat, Uncle Misha’s bleeding wound, the pile of wheat on fire and then poor Gregory slammed against the stove.

  He wasn’t quiet in my dreams either. He called my name, screaming for me to help him. I was afraid that I would burn up with him. When I tried to run away he followed me with the stove clattering behind him, its fire roaring and smoking monstrously. He chased me for what seemed to be hours, with me just being able to stay out of the reach of his burned and boney fingers. It was so hot that I wanted to pull off my rags and run away naked.

  Then I found myself lying on the grass beside the twins’ grave and watching as the earth opened and the scrawny hand of Mitya’s mother slowly clawing towards me.

  “Come,” she called, as I lay shivering, “Viktor and the twins are waiting. They want Malenka to see the nightingales in Heaven. Come and listen. They sing so much better up here.”

  I tried to scream, but my throat was closed. I tried to wake up. I couldn’t move. Everything hurt, especially my head. It was so cold. I could almost hear my bones rattling. I thought I heard the Comrades talking. They whispered about how ill someone was.

  “Will the medicine help?” It sounded like Marina Nikolaiovna’s voice. I thought I caught a foggy glimpse of sunshine coming through the sickroom window.

  “She always wanted sunshine in here,” I heard Larysa’s voice say.

  “I guess it can’t hurt her now,” Ivanovna said. “If she makes it, I’ll go back to church and thank God myself. Come and hold her shoulders up so we can get her to swallow some of this tea. Maybe it’ll stay down this time.” I felt someone raise me by my shoulders.

  “Just a bit higher, Nikolaiovna.” It sounded like Ivanovna. “She’s going to pass out again. Let’s make it worth her trouble.”

  The tea was held to my mouth, but my throat burned so that I could only take a couple of swallows. I was very tired. Someone covered me with a blanket. Then I faded off into darkness.

  I dreamed again. But this time I was with Mama. We sat on our cloud with Viktor, the twins and Malenka. Somehow, Mama was holding us all and singing. I could smell Xenkovna’s baking bread again. Mmmmmm My mouth watered. I looked down on my little dell on the riverside where forget-me-nots and lily-of-the-va
lley were blooming. A warm wind tugged at my clean hair. I heard Auntie calling me.

  I tried to turn toward the direction of her voice.

  “Hush, Child, hush,” it said. “Xenkovna and I will take good care of you now. Drink this tea and lie still.”

  “Auntie?” I managed to croak out.

  I felt someone wrap me in a blanket before the spinning in my head made me flop backwards into a foggy limbo. I dreamed I was moving, a gentle rocking motion like that of a rolling wagon behind horses that walked at a steady pace. I saw glimpses of blue sky and puffy clouds. I couldn’t concentrate for long as when I tried to look at anything it would start spinning and I would have to close my eyes just to keep from vomiting. The gentle swaying of a wagon rocked me back into a blissful unconsciousness. It seemed like I was there for a long time.

  When I woke up, everything was very quiet. It was so strange to hear no coughing or breathing around me. I wasn’t cold either. It felt as if someone had wrapped me in my Mama’s feather bed. I slowly opened my eyes.

  I was wrapped in a feather bed. The room was oddly familiar. The walls that looked like they were once whitewashed were patched and broken. I could see an icon of the Last Supper hanging in the corner. A hearth with its few cooking implements occupied one of the walls. A table was pushed under an open east window and I could smell the scent of cherry blossoms. In the corner, with the pale pink blush of the dawning morning lighting her face, sat a woman.

  Strange, I thought. She looks like Auntie. I shut my eyes.

  You’re dreaming, I told myself. Wake up. It can’t be her.

  I opened my eyes again. I tried to sit but I couldn’t. I could just manage to prop myself half up on one elbow. I lay staring at the woman. She did look like Auntie—well, maybe more like her mother. Her skin hung in loose wrinkles below her chin. Her dark eyebrows, which once must have been beautiful, were going gray and her hair was gray, but the rest of her thin face could pass for an older version of Auntie. She sat sleeping upright with an open Bible resting in her lap. I closed my eyes again.

  “What kind of tricks are my eyes playing on me, God?” I asked of no one in particular. When I rubbed them open, my hand smelled like carbolic soap.

  “No tricks, my darling,” a voice that sounded like Auntie said.

  I looked again. The woman got up from the chair and came to me. She wrapped her arms around me and held me close to her thin shoulder. It was Auntie Xena!

  We wept.

  As she sat on my sleeping bench motionless with her arms around me and me clinging to her, our tears mingling on each other’s cheeks, the door opened with a rush of warm spring air.

  “Oh my God, Philipovna!” Xenkovna almost dropped her full water bucket. She rushed to Auntie and joined in the embrace. “I wasn’t sure if you would ever come back to us.”

  “Hush, Child,” Auntie said. “You must never speak like that. I knew that if we gave her back to God he’d let her come home someday. I just didn’t think she’d suffer so. Look at her.”

  Xenkovna looked.

  “God have mercy on us! If it wasn’t for those eyes that are so much like Auntie Barbara’s, I’m not sure we’d recognize our Little Philipovna.”

  I stared at Xenkovna for the same could have been said of her. She was gaunt. The hair that was so beautiful just two years ago lay thin and limp around her face. Her eyes were still hazel but the twinkle in them was gone. While her face was full of love and concern, it was old so that she looked more like I remembered Auntie did before the hunger. I wondered what I really did look like myself.

  “Am I really here?” I asked. “How did I get home?”

  “Doctor Bondarenko,” Xenkovna said. “He told us how you saved Malenka. So did the Comrades.”

  “The Comrades?”

  “Yes, the Comrades. The Comrade doctor was very sorry to lose you. She told us about how you tried to help Gregory and how brave you were to throw the water all over the nasty schoolmaster.”

  “You mean you were at the ...” I couldn’t say the word.

  “Yes,” Xenkovna said, pushing the hair out of my eyes. “Doctor Bondarenko sent Slavko to take us to you. He figured that if you could risk your life in order to save his niece while the zone was closed, the least he could do is to make sure you could be returned to us as soon as it was open again.”

  “You mean it’s over?” I asked.

  “I guess they realized that if all of us died there would be no one left to run the kolhosp,” Auntie said.

  The New Order

  AS THE SPRING of 1933 swelled into summer, I convalesced. The pneumonia I contracted at the orphanage slowly went away. I grew into my new life of keeping the house and tending the garden plot which every member of the kolhosp was allotted. Although there was never the abundance of food we had enjoyed before the hunger, there was enough for the three women that remained in our household to get by. Thanks to the blessing of a healthy ancestry, I regained most of my physical strength.

  The matters of the heart are another story. Xenkovna warned me not to discuss things with Auntie. She told me that Uncle Misha was the first to die—on Christmas Day, God rest his soul. Michael lasted one more week and Alexander died a few days later. They had lived through a bleak winter indeed.

  Only a shell was left of the Auntie that I used to know. She was always tired. I would often catch a glimpse of The Unravelled One’s expression in her dull eyes as she sat by the hearth staring at the icon with its dusty rushnyk. I even saw an occasional tear drop from the corner of her eye when she thought that nobody was watching. I longed for the warmth of the Auntie I remembered. She brightened a little on Wednesday evenings when her friends came to read the Bible and pray.

  “Aren’t you going to get into trouble?” I asked as I watched her prepare tea for one of these gatherings.

  “Oh no, Child. There are only worn-out old men and poor women left. The young people are working at the kolhosp. What other choice do they have? The Party has all it wants. They won’t care about us few believers because we really can’t do anything to them anymore. They can have the little I have left if they want it.”

  “Then why should you pray? Everyone is gone.”

  “Memory Eternal. We can’t bring them back, but we can pray for their souls. May they rest in peace.” Her jaw quivered as she crossed herself. She was overwhelmed with guilt for surviving.

  I found some comfort in the old prayers and the readings from the Bible, many of which I had memorized by the fire with Uncle Misha and the boys. I listened to the gossip over tea under the birch tree when they finished their devotions. I learned that Uncle Simon had moved up through the ranks of the Party and was now a big official in Kiev. I heard about the time that Uncle Ivan was accused of cooking children in order to survive and was shot for it though there was no evidence or trial. And I must admit, I wasn’t sad about that— though when I said so to Auntie, she chided me for my unchristian attitude. I heard their pity for Katerina who went mad when she found out that her daughter had suffocated herself by closing the damper in her chimney after all of her five children died.

  “What choice did she have after her little children were gone?” one of the Babushkas asked, wiping the tears from her eyes. “They were bathed and dressed in their finest embroidered clothes too.”

  “It’s best not to talk about these things,” another said.

  And that is how it was. We stopped talking about it. It was as if the famine had never happened. Folks would look at Xenkovna or me, cross themselves and go on their way.

  In the fall, a nine form school was organized in the same house where Asimov had taught us when the Comrades arrived. All of the children of school age were obliged to attend. The teachers taught the same way as Asimov had, but none of them were ever as mean. There was a good deal of catching up to do in order to make up for the months I spent at the orphanage. I studied hard and paid attention. I didn’t want to be left behind my form or be humiliated the way Asimov had
humiliated me ever again. I stayed in that school until I graduated.

  I didn’t have many friends. I was the orphan, the stigmatized, untouchable one. Father Stalin’s decree that all of the orphans were his children didn’t help me. Ivanovna was right. “Stalin’s bastard,” they would say among themselves when they thought I couldn’t hear. When one of my classmates came to school in a newly-knit sweater or a pair of new shoes, I felt painfully left out. So I went home directly after school to do my chores where I didn’t have to see the children who still had mothers or fathers.

  Since I had the run of the house after school, I rooted around in the spare rooms. I found some old cloth and thread in one of these forays and, by taking apart some old embroidery, I taught myself how to make some simple cross stitch designs.

  “What a clever little pigeon,” Xenkovna said when she discovered me working on them one evening. “You’ve always been full of surprises. I never know what you’ll come up with next.”

  We took to sitting in the colder small room and, over the coming winter, she taught me the stitches that Auntie taught her when she was a little girl. We decided that I could learn to make a simple little square.

  “If you work hard at this,” Xenkovna said, “you can present it to Mama at Easter. We’ll need a smaller cloth for a smaller basket anyway. She’ll be so surprised. If you keep at it, you will embroider your own red and black table cloth someday. Remember, the red is for love and the black is for sorrow.”

  “We’ve sure had enough of sorrow.”

  “Hush, Little Sister. There’s no point to talk about it. We can’t help anything now.” She brushed a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand and reached for the black embroidery thread.

  “I’m going to use as little black as I can,” I said. “The red is prettier anyway.”

  “That may be true, but you must learn our village’s special design. Did you know that the women in each village in Ukraine have their own way of embroidering?”