The Blackbird Girls

by Anne Blankman

  Valentina expected Oksana to say that Babulya wasn’t her grandmother, but Oksana only shook her head no.

  “Eat, sleep, and play,” the doctor said. “I suspect you weren’t getting enough of any of those before, especially the third. No need to get up. I’ll see myself out,” he said to Babulya, who had started to rise from the sofa.

  After he was gone, Babulya put away her sewing for the night and read to them from one of the books they had checked out from the public library. It was about a green-eyed girl who lived in the Ural Mountains and guarded vast underground riches. As Valentina curled under the blanket beside Oksana and the late-night sunshine slanted through the open window, she wished she could hold on to this moment forever. Everything felt so cozy, her and Oksana and Babulya together.

  If only their mothers could join them.

  27

  Oksana

  BY THE LAST week of August, Oksana felt that she had to tell Valentina about her black-market work or burst. One night after supper, she asked Valentina if she wanted to go on a walk.

  “You can go, but be home by half past eight,” Babulya said.

  “Thank you!” they chorused, and hurried outside, into a street turned red and gold by the evening sunlight. Children played tag, dodging the occasional automobile, and grown-ups walked hand in hand, chatting as they headed home or to restaurants. A couple of cats slunk out of an alley, no doubt hoping for a handout. Down the street, a man had set up an ice cream cart, and little kids were flocking to him.

  “Where do you want to go?” Valentina asked.

  “Just follow me.” Oksana was so excited she bounced with each step. Valentina would be so impressed when she told her about working for Comrade Orlov. And wait until she saw the money Oksana had hidden in her winter galoshes at the back of the wardrobe. Fifty rubles—enough for a fancy dress but not for a train ticket. Soon, though.

  “Okay.” Valentina fell in step beside her. “If you were a color, which one would you be?”

  “I’d like to be green,” Oksana decided. “Green like grass or the leaves on a tree.”

  “That’s a perfect color for you,” Valentina said. “It’s pretty and calm and you can see lots and lots of it in nature and never tire of it.”

  Oksana’s face warmed. That was the nicest thing anyone had ever said about her—that you couldn’t tire of her company. “What about you?” she asked.

  “Blue,” Valentina said immediately. “Blue like the sky or the sea, so I could be many different shades and go on forever.”

  “We’re both colors from nature,” Oksana said.

  Valentina grabbed her hand, swinging it lightly as they walked. “That’s because we’re so alike.”

  “Now it’s my turn,” Oksana said. “If you could pick your own name, what would it be?”

  As they turned the corner, Valentina leaned closer to Oksana. “I’d be Rifka,” she whispered. “That’s what my mother wanted to name me. She couldn’t, because it’s a Jewish name. But if I could truly have any name I chose, then I’d want the one my mother wanted to give me. What about you?”

  Oksana blinked. She had expected Valentina would pick something glamorous or mysterious-sounding, like Natalya. “I’d be Klavdiya,” she said, feeling that her choice was inadequate compared to Valentina’s. “Because it’s pretty.”

  “It suits you.” Valentina smiled. “Let’s race to the corner.”

  “No.” Oksana gripped Valentina’s hand, holding her back. She had to do it now. “I have to tell you a secret.” She took a deep breath. “I work for a black-market supplier.”

  Valentina’s eyes went wide. She didn’t say anything.

  “I deliver goods to his clients,” Oksana said. Was Valentina upset or excited? She couldn’t tell by Valentina’s shocked expression. More words tumbled out of Oksana’s mouth, so fast she couldn’t stop them. “He’s the man from the market, the one who touches the potatoes. I’ve been working for him ever since that day I played truant and missed school. He’s paid me fifty rubles so far. It isn’t much, but I’m saving up for a ticket to Minsk. I don’t really go for walks after supper. I make deliveries instead. Why won’t you say anything?” she burst out as Valentina continued to stare at her. “I thought you’d want to join me.”

  “You’re working for a criminal,” Valentina said. “What you’re doing is illegal. And . . .” Her expression clouded. “Why do you want a ticket to Minsk? Aren’t you happy here?”

  This wasn’t going at all the way Oksana had expected. She looked around to see if any of the passersby were paying attention to them. Nobody spared them a glance. Good.

  “I’m very happy here,” Oksana said. “But I miss my mother. Do you want to come with me and make a delivery?”

  “I—I don’t know,” Valentina faltered.

  “Fine. I’ll go by myself.” Oksana swallowed her disappointment and hurried down the street.

  Up ahead, Comrade Orlov lounged against a shop front, smoking a cigarette and looking bored. The bulge in his suit coat pocket must be the package he had for her.

  For the first couple of weeks she had worked for him, they would transfer the package from his pocket to hers when she pretended to bump into him. Slowly, though, that had changed. First, he had begun by talking to her for a few minutes, saying it was a beautiful night or asking if she had seen the swans in the Summer Garden yet, for every newcomer to Leningrad ought to. Their conversations had grown, and she had found herself telling him about her drawings. He had told her that she shouldn’t ever stop drawing, for she had been given a gift, and gifts ought to be treated with respect.

  Now he smiled at her, as he always did, and ruffled her hair. “Have you been to the Peter and Paul Fortress yet?” he asked by way of greeting.

  She shook her head no. She wanted to visit the citadel, but it was far off, in another part of the city, and she didn’t want to spend her pocket money on a Metro ticket. Not when she was saving up to go to Minsk. “Babulya says it’s beautiful.”

  “It is. I’ll show you a photograph of it sometime, so you can sketch it.” With one hand, he patted her cheek, and with the other he slipped a package into the pocket of her skirt. “The park,” he said in a quieter voice. “Under the birch trees. And be careful.”

  She nodded and walked away. Along this street, then down another, zigzagging in case anyone was watching. She didn’t look behind her, but she heard the footsteps of many people. Slow, unhurried footsteps—not the sound of someone following her.

  When she reached the park, she walked toward the patch of birch trees. In the bright sunshine, she could see a man standing there, hands in his pockets. He must be the client.

  Suddenly, a car screeched to a stop in the street behind her. Four men rushed past her. The client standing in the birch trees turned and ran.

  “Stop him!” the men shouted at one another.

  Oksana jerked to a halt. Her heart pounded. Those men might belong to the KGB—the secret police.

  The client raced across the grass, but he was no match for the men following him. One of them threw himself at the client, knocking him to his knees. Then all of the men were on him, scuffling and swearing. Finally, they hauled him to his feet.

  Footsteps whispered in the grass behind Oksana. She whirled around. It was Valentina. Her face was pale, and she was breathing hard.

  “Quick,” she said. “Pick some wildflowers.”

  Oksana stared at her.

  “Pick wildflowers,” Valentina insisted. “Then the police will think we’re just two ordinary girls playing in the park and picking flowers.”

  Of course! Valentina was so clever.

  Oksana knelt in the grass. Her hands shook as she plucked a red flower. She kept her head down as the men marched past, but she couldn’t resist one peek once they had gone by. The men had surrounded the client and were quick-ste
pping him to the street. They pushed him inside the car, got in themselves, and roared off.

  Oksana and Valentina looked at each other. Oksana let out an unsteady breath. “Thank you,” she said. A thought occurred to her. “Did you follow me all the way here?”

  Valentina nodded. “I couldn’t let you do something dangerous by yourself.”

  Suddenly, Oksana wanted to cry. “Thanks,” she said. She wished she had the proper words to let Valentina know how much she appreciated her kindness.

  “Should we see what’s in the package?” Valentina asked.

  Oksana glanced around the park. A couple of teenagers stood together, talking and laughing, and an old couple walked hand in hand. She and Valentina were safe.

  She slipped the package from her skirt pocket. It was the shape of a rectangle and wrapped in brown paper. She ripped the paper. Inside lay a passport. A foreign passport, it had to be, for she’d never seen anything like it. This one had a blue cover and letters stamped in gold.

  Quickly, she flipped the booklet open. A photograph stared up at her, of a man with dark hair and brown eyes. It was the man the police had just arrested.

  Valentina gasped. “Look at the words—they’re in English. I think one of them says America.”

  America! Oksana’s heart raced. She closed the booklet and looked at Valentina. There was only one reason she could think of for a black-market supplier to deliver an American passport to a client. But it couldn’t be . . .

  “Maybe the man really is an American citizen,” she said.

  “Then why would he need to get a passport from your boss?” Valentina’s voice sounded shaky. “He must be a Soviet.” Deep down, Oksana knew Valentina had to be right. “A defector,” she whispered.

  Oksana had heard the word many times, but she had never spoken it aloud before. To be a defector was to be a traitor, because it meant you were pledging your loyalty to another country. You had escaped the Soviet Union and planned to live somewhere else forever. Comrade Orlov’s client must have ordered an American passport because he wanted to become an American. Somehow, the police had found out.

  Hastily, Oksana wrapped the brown paper around the passport again. Together, she and Valentina left the park.

  “You can’t work for your boss anymore,” Valentina said when they reached the street. “It’s too dangerous.”

  Oksana took a deep breath. Valentina was right: the work was dangerous. Supplying clients with foreign products was a minor crime; helping people defect to other countries was treason. But . . . she needed to be with Mama again. So that they could be a real family.

  “I can’t stop,” she said.

  “You could get arrested!” Valentina said in a horrified whisper.

  “I won’t,” Oksana promised. “The police didn’t even look at us. I’m too young for them to suspect me. And now I know how to act if a client gets picked up.”

  “You’re being stupid!” Valentina rushed into their apartment building, leaving Oksana behind on the pavement.

  Oksana hesitated. Was she being stupid? Reckless, probably. But being reunited with Mama was worth the risk, wasn’t it?

  Sometimes, in her dreams, she showed up unannounced at Mama’s apartment. And Mama would hug her and exclaim, “My darling Khusha! How I’ve longed to see you again!” It would be just the two of them in a new apartment. No Papa to hit her. No Papa to become angry or disappointed. Nobody to hide from. Only her and Mama, and at last Mama would treat her the way she had always hoped for, because Papa wasn’t there anymore.

  The risk had to be worth it. Slowly, she sat down on the building’s front steps. She ignored the children playing on the pavement, and the classical music pouring through someone’s open window, and the smell of linden trees and river water.

  She let herself remember the last time she had seen her father. It was the night of the explosion, before he had left for his shift. They had eaten supper together.

  “We’re running a safety drill tonight,” Papa said.

  “Who will be there?” Mama ladled lentil stew into bowls while Oksana set out the silverware.

  “Comrade Dyatlov is in charge.” Papa took his bowl, but he didn’t begin eating. He leaned back in his chair, taking a long drag on his cigarette. “The rest are men from my shift, including that Jew Kaplan. He got the promotion that should have been mine,” he said for the hundredth time.

  Oksana was listening with only half of her brain. She was wondering how artists could paint waves so that the water looked as though it was moving.

  “His daughter’s in your class,” Papa said to Oksana, waving his cigarette for emphasis. “I bet she’s as dirty and sneaky as he is.”

  It was like a sort of magic, to capture movement on a piece of paper, Oksana thought. “Oh, she’s not so bad,” she said absently.

  The room hushed. Instantly, Oksana realized her mistake. Her father stared at her. “I can’t believe a daughter of mine would say such a thing!”

  “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!” Oksana looked to her mother for help, but Mama sat stiff and silent, her eyes trained on the kitchen table.

  Oksana turned to her father. “Papa, I’m sorry! Valentina’s awful! She’s a cheat like her father!”

  Papa’s face had turned dark. She knew that look—he was going to belt her.

  She closed her eyes and hugged her arms to her chest, waiting. She didn’t move. She knew from experience that trying to run away only made him angrier.

  She listened for the whisper of his leather belt easing out of his trouser loops. He always did this part slowly.

  But she only heard the creak of his chair as he stood up. Suddenly, he yanked down the sleeve of her school blouse, exposing the bare skin of her shoulder.

  Something pressed into her skin—red-hot, burning—and she started screaming, even though she knew he hated for her to react. Her eyes flew open. The back of her shoulder was on fire. She could smell singed flesh. Frantically, she pushed his hands away.

  He threw his cigarette onto the linoleum and ground it out with the heel of his shoe. “That’ll teach you to talk back,” he said calmly.

  She fell to the floor, clutching her shoulder and sobbing. Her skin felt hot and bumpy. “Please, please,” she said, but she didn’t know what she was asking for.

  He sat down at the table. Oksana’s mother hadn’t moved from her chair. Her eyes were shiny with tears. She didn’t say anything.

  Oksana pressed her forehead to the floor. She gritted her teeth, but she couldn’t stop whimpering. Her shoulder had turned to flame.

  From across the room, she heard the clink of silverware. Her father was eating his soup.

  She lay on the floor, crying, hoping her mother would come to her. Please, she begged silently, wishing her mama could magically hear her words.

  But her mother stayed at the table, talking quietly with Papa. As Oksana lay there, she thought of Valentina. It was all her fault. If it wasn’t for Valentina, Papa wouldn’t have hurt her. She’d do something at school tomorrow to get back at Valentina. She’d challenge her to a footrace. And then she’d win, and she’d tell Papa and he’d be happy with her.

  Now Oksana pulled her mind back to the present. She was shaking.

  She wrapped her arms around her knees, hugging them to her chest. She was in Leningrad, thousands of kilometers from where her father lay buried in the nuclear reactor. He was gone, and she was alive, and he couldn’t hurt her anymore.

  She had a best friend, a true best friend who asked her the most wonderful questions and did dangerous things with her so she wouldn’t be alone. She had an almost-grandmother who loved her. And she was smart and brave. It didn’t matter if her father hadn’t thought so. She knew she was.

  The knots in her stomach loosened. She let out a deep breath and went inside.

  In the apartment, Valen
tina was messing about with some junk she’d found in the rubbish bins in the courtyard behind their building. So far she’d assembled a ceramic teapot missing a handle, a coil of wire, several bootlaces, two cracked glass jars, and a leather glove. They lay on the floor, and she stood over them, frowning. “I can’t possibly make a robot with this,” she was saying to Babulya when Oksana came in.

  Babulya had set aside her sewing and was reading a letter. “All inventors probably say ‘I can’t’ at the start of their work,” she said. She looked up and smiled at Oksana. “Did you find something to sketch? Valyushka said you’d stayed outside to look for inspiration,” she explained when Oksana didn’t say anything.

  “Oh. Yes. I did.” Oksana moved over to Valentina. Was Valya mad about her decision to keep working for Comrade Orlov?

  To her relief, Valentina flashed her a smile. “Pitiful, isn’t it?” she asked, nodding at the odds and ends on the floor. “I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to test my ideas without the proper supplies. And I’ll never be able to afford what I need.”

  “You do earn pocket money by working at the shop,” Babulya reminded her.

  “I know.” Valentina collapsed dramatically on the sofa. “But I need riches to fund my inventions. I need to find a wealthy investor.”

  “While you’re doing that, you may pick up your things,” Babulya said as she read her letter. “And please put them on the balcony. That glove smells like garbage.”

  “Well, that is where I found it,” Valentina said cheerfully.

  “Who’s the letter from?” Oksana asked. In the four months she had lived with Babulya, she had never known her to receive a letter before.

  “A very dear, very old friend.” Smiling, Babulya tucked the envelope into her apron pocket—but not before Oksana glimpsed it. The sender had drawn a bird in black ink on it, and it was postmarked Uzbekistan.