The Blackbird Girls

by Anne Blankman

  Oksana could never tell her father. Never.

  All of her body went hot, then cold. She touched her left shoulder. Through the thin fabric of her school blouse, she could feel the smoothness of a bandage.

  She made herself smile, even though her stomach felt sick. “I wasn’t really trying,” she said to Valentina. “Races are for little kids anyway.”

  Valentina’s eyes narrowed. “You certainly looked as though you were trying. Or are you always out of breath?”

  Oksana couldn’t think of anything to say. Behind them, someone shouted, “Cheating Jew!”

  The girls spun around. The forty other boys and girls in their class stood at the opposite end of the yard, watching them. Everyone looked the same, dressed in their school uniforms: the girls in brown dresses, white blouses, and black pinafores, and the boys in button-down white shirts, black trousers, and black blazers.

  Their faces were solemn. Nothing in their expressions told Oksana who had shouted. And they wouldn’t say a word to Valentina. Nobody would tattle on a classmate to a Jew.

  “I didn’t cheat,” Valentina said loudly. Her cheeks were red.

  “Everybody knows Jews are crooks.” Oksana smoothed her hair ribbons, making sure to frown at Valentina. “My papa says your family ought to go back to Israel.”

  At her sides, Valentina’s hands clenched into fists. “That shows what your father knows. We’ve never even been there.”

  “That’s where your kind belongs!”

  Valentina glared. “At least I’m not a baby who whines every time I lose.”

  “Fight, fight!” the other children chanted.

  Oksana froze. This wasn’t what she’d meant to happen. She mustn’t fight at school. If she did, at best she’d be sent to the headmaster’s office. At worst, it meant the headmaster would call her father’s supervisor at the power station and Papa would receive a black mark in his work record—for something she had done.

  “Why would I want to fight Valentina?” she said, inching away. “She’ll only cheat.”

  But her words were drowned out by the other children’s shouts. “Fight, fight!” They swarmed around her and Valentina, laughing and waving their arms.

  “Stop!” A woman’s voice cut through the commotion. It was their teacher, Svetlana Dmitrievna.

  At once a hush fell over the schoolyard. The fifth graders looked at one another. Quickly, they formed a line, as they were supposed to do every morning before entering the school. Oksana found herself and Valentina standing at the end.

  Keeping her gaze trained on the pavement, she listened to Svetlana Dmitrievna’s high heels click closer. She was going to be in so much trouble. Even worse than the time she’d accidentally left her essay at home.

  The shoes stopped in front of her. “What,” said Svetlana Dmitrievna sternly, “is the meaning of this?”

  “It’s her fault,” Oksana began just as Valentina said, “We got carried away.”

  “Quiet!” Svetlana Dmitrievna snapped. “Sniveling excuses are unacceptable. I’ll deal with the two of you inside. The rest of you—march. Not a word or you lose morning recess.”

  Oksana could scarcely breathe. What would Svetlana Dmitrievna do to her? Was she going to telephone her father?

  Maybe Svetlana Dmitrievna wouldn’t be able to reach him or his supervisor. After all, the fire was still burning—wasn’t it?

  Overhead, smoke drifted like a screen, turning the sky into a patchwork of black-blue and red. The air tasted of metal and something else she couldn’t identify, like scorched earth. Surely her father and his supervisor were too busy coping with the fire to receive a telephone call from her school. Tomorrow, Sunday, they didn’t have school, so hopefully by Monday, Svetlana Dmitrievna would have forgotten about the almost fight and Papa would never learn about it.

  The line inched up the steps into the school. In one of the big plateglass windows, Oksana glimpsed her reflection. The red tie knotted around her neck was the one bright spot. A pin, embossed with the face of Vladimir Lenin, the man who had helped their country become a Communist republic and was now long dead, was clipped to the front of her blouse.

  They were proof that Oksana belonged and Valentina never would. Oksana had received them last year, when she turned ten and was accepted as a member of the Young Pioneers.

  Valentina hadn’t been let in. Jews weren’t welcome. Everyone was encouraged to join, of course—all citizens were supposed to be equal, regardless of their background or religion. But, as Oksana’s father said, Jews weren’t Soviet citizens. They were intruders.

  Now Oksana followed Valentina into the classroom. Together they stood against the back wall, waiting for their punishment. Oksana didn’t care what it was, as long as it didn’t involve her parents. She could handle whatever Svetlana Dmitrievna dished out.

  Taking a deep breath, Oksana touched her Young Pioneer pin. Her father had been so proud when she had received it. He had even called her “my angel.” She must make him proud again.

  She glanced at Valentina, who was staring straight ahead, her face pale and set. Valentina knew the rules, or she ought to by now. Why couldn’t she have just let Oksana win?

  Oksana wouldn’t tell her father about the race. But if Valentina told her own father, and if Comrade Kaplan mentioned it at work, then her father would know. And then she would never forgive Valentina.

  Never.

  3

  Valentina

  VALENTINA WATCHED SVETLANA Dmitrievna take a bag of rice from her desk and pour its contents on the floor. Then she dropped her and Oksana’s workbooks onto the floor, along with two pencils.

  So it was going to be the rice punishment. That wasn’t too bad, as punishments went. Far better than the time her first-grade teacher had made her wear a pointed cap and instructed her classmates to point at her and shout, “Dunce!” At least now she wouldn’t be made to feel stupid for being a lousy speller.

  Without a word, Valentina and Oksana knelt in the rice. The granules dug into Valentina’s knees through her tights. She bit her lip so she wouldn’t make a sound. She must be quiet. Complaining or reacting would make it worse, for then Svetlana Dmitrievna would smack her hand with a ruler.

  Valentina looked around the room, certain the other children would be making faces at her, silently making fun of her for getting in trouble.

  But no one was looking at her or Oksana. Her classmates were all staring out the windows. Outside, the sky still flickered red. Far off in the distance, Valentina could see curls of blue smoke.

  Papa, she thought.

  She had to think logically about this. As an engineer would, like her father. In her mind, she wrote up a list. No contact from Papa. Red sky, blue smoke. Policemen everywhere.

  Something terrible must have happened. And no one was telling her, or anyone else, what it was.

  Suddenly, she was so frightened that she felt cold everywhere. She wrenched her gaze away from the window, back into the classroom.

  Svetlana Dmitrievna rapped a ruler on her desk. “Attention, students! Who can tell me the names of the republics in our great Soviet Union?”

  Nobody raised a hand. After a moment, a girl in the front row said timidly, “I beg your pardon, Svetlana Dmitrievna, but what happened at the nuclear power station?”

  The teacher glanced at the window, then quickly away. “Obviously, there has been a mishap. A minor accident, one that I’m sure is already being taken care of. Because, children?”

  “Because the Motherland protects us,” they recited. Valentina, too. She had had to say the words so many times they were practically embroidered on her heart.

  “That’s correct,” Svetlana Dmitrievna said. “Capitalist nations, like America, are full of greedy people who care only about themselves. Here in our great socialist nation, we are always safe. Our government protects each one
of us. Now,” she said briskly, pointing at the map on the wall, “who can tell me the names of our republics?”

  A forest of arms, held at the proper ninety-degree angle, shot up. Valentina and Oksana kept their hands at their sides. Everybody knew to stay silent during punishments.

  Valentina’s stomach churned. Why hadn’t she let Oksana win the race, as she usually did? She should have. Something about the little smile on Oksana’s face, though, when she had challenged her to run had made her want to win.

  Svetlana Dmitrievna called on one of the boys, who stood up next to his desk. “The republics are Armenia, Azerbaijan, Belorussia, Estonia, Georgia, Kazakhstan, Kirghizia, Latvia, Lithuania, Moldavia, Russia, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, Ukraine, and Uzbekistan.”

  “Correct,” Svetlana Dmitrievna said. “And recited in alphabetical order—well done!”

  Valentina leaned forward so she could write the date—April 26, 1986—in her workbook, which was lying on the floor in front of her. Today was a Saturday, so Svetlana Dmitrievna would collect their workbooks at the dismissal at noon and mark them tonight.

  Valentina knew her workbook grade had better be a perfect five-plus this week to balance the black mark she was sure to receive for arguing with Oksana. She couldn’t afford to do poorly. So few Jews were accepted into universities or good professions. Since she wanted to be a scientist, she needed to be better than good. Today’s fight might have damaged her future chances.

  She swallowed hard. There was nothing she could do to help herself now. Besides, it was hard to care when she was so worried about her father.

  The grains of rice felt as sharp as needles. Shifting uncomfortably, she held her breath so she didn’t let out a moan of pain.

  She had to distract herself or it wouldn’t be long before she was begging Svetlana Dmitrievna to let her get up.

  She studied the map, where each of the republics was a different color. Russia, the largest, was red, and Ukraine, the second largest and where they lived, was white. The section of the map where she had been born, Siberia, was red, too, for it lay within Russia. When she had first come to Ukraine, she had missed Siberia so much. She had loved the way the steppe seemed to go on forever, and the forests of towering pine trees, and the realization that spring was coming because it was finally warm enough to carry metal coins in your pocket.

  “Girls, that’s enough.” Svetlana Dmitrievna’s voice interrupted Valentina’s thoughts. “You may return to your seats.”

  Thank the stars! Valentina staggered to her desk. Her best friend, Larisa, gave her an encouraging smile as she passed. Valentina smiled back.

  As soon as they were settled, Svetlana Dmitrievna asked, “Valentina, what’s the birth date of our nation?”

  She had to stand to answer. Prickles stabbed up and down her legs, forcing her to grip the edge of her desk so she didn’t sway. Somebody giggled.

  This time, Valentina paid no attention. She mustn’t risk getting in trouble again.

  “Valentina?” Svetlana Dmitrievna prompted. “The birth date of our nation?”

  “Nineteen seventeen,” Valentina said quickly. The year wasn’t exactly correct, but everybody knew that was the answer the teachers wanted. Their country was centuries old. Only sixty-nine years ago, it had been ruled by a tsar. Then the Bolsheviks—now called the Communists—had revolted, and the country had plunged into civil war. Eventually, the Communists had emerged victorious, and their country had become a republic. Now it was called the USSR, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, and it had only one political group: the Communist Party.

  “Very good,” Svetlana Dmitrievna said. “Valentina, you may sit.”

  Valentina eased into her seat. She sneaked a hand under her desk to rub her knees. Grains of rice had stuck to her tights, and she brushed them off.

  As the teacher droned on, Valentina gazed at the numerals 1917 on the chalkboard. Before then, her parents said, their countrymen had been allowed to follow different religions.

  Not anymore. The government didn’t approve of any religion, not Christianity, not Islam, not Judaism. Valentina’s teachers said religion was a trick that drugged people’s minds. The highest power was the Motherland—not faith.

  Svetlana Dmitrievna wrote another answer on the board. Once her back was turned, Valentina felt a finger poke her in the back. Oksana.

  She ignored her.

  Oksana’s wooden desk creaked as she leaned forward. “Did your father come home this morning?” Oksana whispered.

  That got Valentina’s attention. Oksana’s father worked the night shift with Papa. Maybe Oksana knew what had happened at the power station.

  Valentina shook her head no.

  “Mine didn’t, either,” Oksana whispered. Wood creaked again as she settled back into her chair.

  They didn’t speak to each other again all morning. When the dismissal bell rang at noon, Valentina joined the throngs of children spilling into the schoolyard.

  Smoke wafted across the red sky. The air still tasted of metal and earth. The back of Valentina’s throat tickled. She wondered if her father was home yet. She needed to run back to their apartment as fast as she could, to see if he was there.

  Larisa came up to her. “I felt so awful when Svetlana Dmitrievna caught you fighting! Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Valentina said. “The rice punishment isn’t too bad.”

  “You ought to know.” Larisa giggled.

  Ordinarily, Valentina would have made a face, for Larisa was right: Valentina had been ordered to kneel in rice several times before, when she was caught whispering in class. She had such a difficult time not talking because she had so many big ideas crowding her head all the time, waiting to be let out.

  Now, though, she didn’t care about getting in trouble. “I need to go home,” she said to Larisa. “I have to see my father. He might be hurt.”

  “You heard Svetlana Dmitrievna,” Larisa said. “There was only a little accident at the power station.”

  The words “How does she know that?” almost leapt out of Valentina’s mouth. She swallowed them barely in time. She mustn’t say bad things about the teacher, in case someone overheard and reported her.

  “I have to go home,” she said again.

  “All right,” Larisa said.

  Together they weaved through the crowd. All around them, classmates were making plans for the afternoon. None of them seemed scared anymore; Svetlana Dmitrievna’s reassurances must have done the trick. Some of the children said they would play in the schoolyard; others would go to the parks or fish on the banks of the river. Several boys were going to get their bicycles after lunch and ride over to the nuclear station to look at the fire. Oksana and her friends were going to the amusement park, where they would ride the Ferris wheel and drive the bumper cars.

  “Do you want to meet in the park after lunch?” Larisa asked. “I’ll borrow my sister’s jump rope so we don’t have to share yours.”

  “Maybe,” Valentina said. All she wanted was to see her father.

  She and Larisa reached the pavement. Military vehicles rumbled down the road toward them. Truck after truck after truck.

  All of the drivers were wearing gas masks.

  The trucks rolled closer. The gas masks made the soldiers look like massive bugs or creatures from a nightmare. Where were the soldiers going? To the power station?

  Papa, Valentina thought.

  “I’ve got to go,” she said to Larisa.

  Understanding flashed across Larisa’s face. “Go,” she said, and Valentina took to her heels, running as fast as she could, with only one word echoing in her head.

  Papa.

  4

  Oksana

  AS OKSANA WALKED home from school, she saw policemen everywhere. They slouched against walls, smoking, or stood with their hands in their pockets, wat
ching everyone with wary eyes. The sight sent a chill down Oksana’s spine. What were all these policemen doing here? It must have to do with the fire, but she couldn’t imagine why: extra firemen ought to be here, putting out the flames, not police officers.

  She half listened to her friends chattering about going to the amusement park after lunch. When they reached the block of apartment towers where they lived, she said goodbye and hurried to her building. Maybe her father was home and he could tell her and Mama what was wrong.

  The back of her shoulder throbbed. Gritting her teeth, she slipped into the lobby. It was a box of a room, made of dirty plaster walls and chipped linoleum. She trudged across it, making for the stairwell. Along the back wall, a woman was talking on the communal telephone. “Oleg and I are going to Sochi on holiday . . .”

  Her voice faded as Oksana climbed the stairs. It was deserted now; all of the building’s little kids must be in their apartments, eating lunch or napping, or at the nurseries provided by their mothers’ employers.

  Above her, she heard someone talking. “Something’s happened at the power station,” a girl said.

  She recognized the voice. Valentina. Why did it have to be her? Oksana would have to walk past her in order to get to her floor.

  Sighing, Oksana kept climbing. There was someone else talking now, a man. “Naturally something’s wrong at the power station,” he said. “It’s the biggest fire this city has ever seen. Something to tell your grandchildren about, eh?”

  Oksana rounded the curve in the stairwell. On the landing above stood Valentina and one of the men who lived on the second floor, Dyadya Sergei. He wore only trousers. He must have been sunbathing on the roof. Lots of the building’s residents went up there to sunbathe or to tend to their garden. Oksana’s mother kept several pots of herbs on the roof, and she had told Oksana at breakfast that she planned to pick rosemary and sage today.

  “You were white as milk this morning,” Valentina said to Dyadya Sergei.