The Blackbird Girls

by Anne Blankman

Rifka looked at the baby in her arms. Everything about her was perfect: her soft skin, her rosebud of a mouth, her wrinkled fingers and toes. Rifka couldn’t help thinking of the day her brother Avrum had been born. The old, familiar sadness tugged at her heart. But there was something else, too: gratitude that she had at least seen him before he had been killed.

  “Galina,” she said suddenly.

  “Galina?” Yuri looked surprised. “I thought you had your heart set on Annushka.”

  “Galina means ‘light,’” she told him. “And I want no more darkness.”

  Smiling, he leaned down to kiss her forehead. “Then Galina it is. Galina Yurievna Goldman.”

  Rifka leaned back against the pillows, holding her daughter close. She didn’t want to let her go. Until the midwife had placed Galina in her arms, she hadn’t known it was possible to love so deeply. But one look at her daughter had made her fall in love forever.

  33

  LENINGRAD, RUSSIA–MINSK, BELORUSSIA, SOVIET UNION

  OCTOBER 1986

  Oksana

  OKSANA LOVED THE train ride to Minsk. Her mother had brought a deck of cards and they played p’yanitsa and Svoyi Koziri. When Oksana won two rounds of p’yanitsa in a row, her mother laughed and said Oksana had always been good at games. When Oksana got hungry, her mother didn’t fuss about the expense but bought her rolls from a tea cart. When Oksana realized that in her rush to pack her things she had forgotten the black-market money, it didn’t matter because she was with her mother at last and she hadn’t needed the money after all. And when Oksana finally felt brave enough to show her mother some of her drawings, her mother didn’t scold her and say she ought to think about a sensible career. She said the drawings were pretty.

  By the time they reached Minsk, the bubble of hope in Oksana’s chest was so big that she thought she might burst. She had been right—things would be different without Papa.

  Her mother had an apartment on Volodarkovo Street. The street was lined with crumbling apartment towers and shops, and the air stank of metal and smoke from the nearby factories. Oksana didn’t care. She knew the apartment would be wonderful because it belonged just to her and Mama.

  The apartment consisted of two rooms—a bedroom for her mother and a common space, which had a kitchen and a sofa for Oksana to sleep on. The common room felt empty. There was a table with four chairs in the middle of the kitchen, a sofa and two wooden chairs in the sitting area, but that was all. No pictures, no rugs, no decorations. Oksana understood why: they had had to leave everything behind in Pripyat. It didn’t matter—they could start over here in Minsk. Here they would hang up her drawings. Here she and Mama would laugh over supper, and she would tell Mama about her friendship with Valentina, and Mama would understand and say she and Valentina could write letters to each other. Here she wouldn’t have to be scared.

  “Put your things by the sofa,” Oksana’s mother said. An excited note hung in her voice.

  Mama was excited because Oksana was home. Oksana’s heart filled until she thought her chest couldn’t contain it.

  She put her suitcase beside the sofa, then joined her mother in the kitchen area. Mama was rummaging through the refrigerator. “We’ll have a light supper,” she said. “Sandwiches and salad. I’ll go to the market after work tomorrow.”

  “I can help,” Oksana said. “I can make the sandwiches.”

  “Good.” Her mother turned on the radio, and they hummed as they got to work. Oksana found a loaf in the bread box and a chunk of ham in the refrigerator. After she had made the sandwiches, her mother told her the plates were kept in the cabinet under the sink.

  Oksana opened the cabinet doors. Inside was a stack of plates and several empty glass bottles. She recognized the bottles’ labels. She knew what had been inside them.

  Vodka.

  Her stomach twisted. When her father had drunk vodka, he had gotten mean. On those nights, she had tried to sit on a corner of the sofa, huddled up to make herself as small as possible. She hadn’t said a word. She had stared at the floor, hoping he wouldn’t notice her.

  But he was gone. She was fine, she was safe, she was with her mother, and everything had changed. Bottles of vodka shouldn’t frighten her anymore.

  Her hands, though, still shook when she reached for the plates.

  Just then, she heard a key scraping in a lock. As she watched, the front door opened to reveal a middle-aged man. He wore a fur hat and a dark coat. He carried a bouquet of flowers.

  “Boris!” her mother exclaimed, hurrying over to him.

  Who was this man? And why did he have a key to their apartment? Oksana stood frozen by the sink.

  “It’s so good to see you,” the man said, kissing her mother’s cheek. Then he came into the kitchen and held out the flowers to Oksana. “I’m delighted to meet you at last,” he said. “Your mother has told me so much about you.”

  She didn’t know what to say. “Thank you,” she mumbled, burying her nose in the flowers so she didn’t have to look at him.

  “Oh, Boris, how kind!” her mother said. “They must have been frightfully expensive.”

  Oksana looked up. The man was waving away her mother’s thanks. Mama helped him out of his coat and hung it on a hook. He took off his cap. Oksana saw he had thick brown hair. He smiled at her.

  She didn’t want to smile back. She wanted to be alone with her mother, eating and giggling at the table while snow softly fell outside. She wanted this stranger to leave.

  She had to smile, though. She knew that. She mustn’t make anyone angry.

  “Thank you,” she said again. “For the flowers. They’re very pretty.”

  Her mother hurried back into the kitchen. “Oksana, this is Boris Maksimovich. My boss.”

  He frowned at her. “You didn’t tell your daughter about me?”

  Her mother’s hands twisted together. “I wanted you to be a surprise.”

  His face relaxed. “That’s all right, then.” He glanced at Oksana. “You may call me Dyadya Boris.”

  He wanted her to call him uncle. There was a stone in Oksana’s stomach now, pulling down and down. She bobbed in an awkward curtsy, murmuring, “Yes, Dyadya Boris.”

  “What’s for supper?” he asked.

  He was going to stay and eat with them? Oksana looked at her mother, hoping she would say she and Oksana hadn’t seen each other in months and needed time together, just the two of them.

  Her mother, though, looked apologetic. “I only have sandwiches and salad. I haven’t had time to go to the market yet.”

  He sat down at the table, stretching out his long legs. “I like sandwiches.”

  Oksana’s mother grabbed the plates and set them on the table. “Oksana, fix a sandwich for yourself.”

  Because this man was going to eat her sandwich.

  Silently, she made another sandwich and carried it to the table. Her mother and Dyadya Boris had already begun eating. They were talking about a film they had seen last week. Every time they laughed, Dyadya Boris touched her mother’s hand.

  Mama’s cheeks were flushed. She looked so happy. Oksana had never made her look like that.

  The sandwich tasted like dust. She had to choke it down.

  Throughout supper, she barely spoke. She watched her mother and Dyadya Boris talk and laugh, and the stone in her stomach was so heavy she felt as though she would be sick.

  After they had finished eating, Oksana washed up while her mother and Dyadya Boris sat on the sofa—her bed—with their heads close together, murmuring to each other. Sometimes her mother would laugh.

  Oksana wiped the counter over and over. She didn’t want to be near Dyadya Boris. She didn’t want to hear her mother laugh or see her flushed cheeks.

  At last, Dyadya Boris stood up and came toward her. He was smiling. “I think the counter is clean by now.”

  �
��Oh.” Oksana didn’t know what to do. “I—I like to clean.”

  “An admirable quality.” He ruffled her hair. “Eleonora, see me out.”

  “Of course.” Her mother scurried over to the door, where she held out his coat and cap for him.

  Oksana looked away. Her mother and Dyadya Boris whispered to each other. Then there was a pause. Oksana knew what they were doing. They were kissing. She didn’t have to look.

  Kissing. Her mother was kissing and laughing with this man, this stranger, who had a key to the apartment and who made her mother’s cheeks flush.

  Her mother hadn’t missed her. She hadn’t been alone in Minsk, pining for her daughter. She had been busy finding a new man.

  Tears rose to Oksana’s eyes. Hastily, she wiped them away. She mustn’t cry. She mustn’t make anyone upset with her.

  The door opened and closed; Dyadya Boris was gone. Oksana’s mother came into the kitchen, smiling and rosy-cheeked.

  “Isn’t he marvelous?” She touched the bouquet of flowers lying on the counter. Humming, she took a pitcher out of a cupboard and filled it with water.

  Oksana watched her arrange the flowers in the pitcher. She had to say something. She had to or she couldn’t bear it. “I . . . I thought it was going to be just the two of us,” she said at last.

  Her mother looked up. “Boris is a wonderful person.” Her voice was pleading. “You’ll see. I’m his secretary at the law firm.” She smiled, her eyes going soft. “He’s such a gentleman. And clever and kind and handsome. You should see how he treats me! Like a queen. And he’ll treat you the same. You’ll come to care for him, too.”

  Maybe her mother was right. Maybe things could still be different, even with Dyadya Boris in their lives. She forced herself to smile. “Okay,” she said.

  “Good girl.” Her mother kissed her on the cheek. “Now, into pajamas and then to bed. It’s been a long day, and you have school in the morning.”

  But after her mother had gone into her bedroom and closed the door, Oksana went to the sofa, where she had left her things. She took a notebook out of her school satchel and wrote a letter to Valentina. She told Valentina how much she missed her and Babulya and how her mother had already found a new—what was he, anyway? A companion? A suitor? She didn’t know what to call him. A new man, she decided on. She told Valentina how badly she had wanted for it to be just her and her mother. When she was done, she felt a little better.

  In the morning, she asked her mother if she could mail a letter to Valentina. “I want her to know that we arrived safely and to thank them for hosting me,” she said quickly, hoping her mother wouldn’t look closely at her. Maybe someday she could tell Mama that she and Valentina were friends. But not yet.

  “Fine.” Her mother sounded distracted. She was pouring buckwheat cereal into a bowl with one hand and combing her hair with the other. “There are envelopes in that drawer. I’ll post it during my lunch break. Finish your breakfast. I have to register you at school, and I promised Boris I wouldn’t be late.”

  “Thank you.” Oksana slid the paper into an envelope, sealing it carefully. She wondered how long it would take the letter to reach Leningrad. Maybe two or three days. Then Valentina would write back to her. She’d check their mailbox in the front hall downstairs every day; she’d get home from school before her mother left work, so she would intercept any letters from Valentina. Maybe she and Valentina could write secretly to each other.

  “Oksana!” Her mother snapped her fingers in front of Oksana’s face. “Stop dreaming!”

  “Sorry.” Oksana rinsed out her bowl in the sink, then rushed to the bathroom to finish getting ready.

  * * *

  - - -

  Oksana thought she would like her new school. Several of her classmates smiled when she entered the room, and the teacher lent her a fountain pen because she hadn’t brought one. She discovered they were learning mostly the same topics as she had in Leningrad, so she wasn’t behind, except in history. Then again, she was always behind in history, so she supposed she ought to grow accustomed to it.

  At lunch, the girl who sat in front of her in class set her tray down beside hers and said, “Hello, I’m Dominika,” with a grin. That was when Oksana knew school would be all right. She grinned back.

  After dismissal, she milled about in the play yard with some of the girls. They told her which teachers were the worst (the music teacher smelled of cabbage and couldn’t carry a tune) and which were the best (the red-haired cafeteria lady sometimes sneaked them extra helpings, if the head cook wasn’t looking). They told her which boys were annoying teases and which were handsome and therefore unattainable. They told her about the sweet shop they went to whenever they had pocket money, and later, as she walked home, she felt full and warm, even though the October wind blew through her coat.

  By the time her mother came home from work, she had done most of her schoolwork.

  “Hello!” Oksana called from the table, where she was finishing her mathematics assignment.

  “Hello.” Her mother’s voice was quiet.

  It was probably time to make supper. Oksana started to stand up just as Dyadya Boris strode into the kitchen. He must have come in with her mother. His face was dark.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” he shouted. He slammed a piece of paper onto the table, on top of Oksana’s mathematics sheet.

  It was her letter to Valentina.

  “Nothing,” she said quickly. “It’s nothing. Only a letter to a friend.”

  “You wish I weren’t around?”he demanded, taking a step toward her. She backed up, bumping into the cupboards. There was nowhere to go. “You wish it was just you and your mother?”

  “I didn’t mean it!” Oksana cried. “I’m sorry! I was wrong.”

  Behind Dyadya Boris, Oksana saw her mother come into the kitchen and stand by the doorway on the opposite side of the room. Her face was anxious.

  “Mama, please, believe me!” Oksana cried. “I didn’t mean it. I shouldn’t have written those things. I’m glad Dyadya Boris is here. Truly, I promise I am!”

  Her mother looked down.

  “Your mother is as disappointed in you as I am,” Dyadya Boris snapped. “You ungrateful child!”

  He slapped her face.

  Oksana gasped. Her hand flew up to touch her burning cheek. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

  He crumpled up the letter. “No, you won’t.”

  He turned on his heel and left the room. Standing still, her hand on her cheek, Oksana watched him leave. He didn’t say anything to her mother as he passed her. The door banged shut behind him.

  Oksana’s mother jumped, as if she’d been startled awake. She scurried across the room.

  “How bad is it?” she asked, taking Oksana’s hand away from her face and inspecting her closely. “Not bad at all. A wet washcloth should make you feel better.”

  “You didn’t stop him,” Oksana said.

  Her mother didn’t reply. She fetched a washcloth from the bathroom, ran it under the faucet, and pressed it to Oksana’s cheek. “There, that’s nice and cool, isn’t it?”

  “You didn’t stop him,” Oksana said again.

  “He didn’t mean to hurt you.” Her mother didn’t look at Oksana. “You mustn’t make him angry. He can’t help himself when he’s upset. He’s always sorry afterward.”

  Oksana realized what her mother wasn’t saying. “He’s hit you.”

  “It isn’t his fault!” Her mother sounded impatient. “You know how it is with men. They can’t stop themselves. They don’t have self-control, like we do. That’s why it’s up to you and me to prevent this sort of thing from happening again.”

  “What do you mean?” Oksana took the washcloth from her mother’s hands and held it to her throbbing cheek.

  “Oh, you know very well!” Her mother looked an
noyed. “We know better than to make them angry, or to talk back to them, or to laugh at them, or hurt their feelings. We know what not to do, and when we do the wrong thing, we have no one to blame but ourselves.”

  Oksana couldn’t believe her ears. “You mean it’s my fault that Dyadya Boris hit me?”

  “Well, you wrote nasty things about him. Mean, unwelcoming things. He had every right to be angry with you.”

  “So when Papa hit me, when he burned me with the cigarette . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “You were to blame,” her mother said calmly, then clucked her tongue. “Come now, Oksana, don’t look so upset! Men have tempers, and we women must do everything we can to soothe them and make them happy.”

  Oksana staggered to her feet. She had to get away from her mother. Now.

  “What is it?” Her mother stood up. “Is your cheek getting worse? I’ll get some ice.”

  “No,” Oksana managed to say. “No ice.”

  Then she rushed across the room into the bathroom, where she shut the door, then shoved the clothing hamper against it.

  Her mother thought all of this was her fault. Every time Papa had hit her, every time he had yelled and cursed. She was to blame.

  “Oksana,” her mother called through the door, “do you want an aspirin?”

  “Go away!” she shouted. “Don’t talk to me!”

  There was a pause. Then her mother’s footsteps retreated.

  Tears flooded Oksana’s eyes. Babulya had said hurting someone else was unacceptable, no matter the reason.

  And Babulya had said Oksana was good. Valentina had said she was a talented artist. They had lived together for six months and they had never hit her.

  Because they loved her.

  She burst into tears. Babulya and Valentina loved her. They thought she was good and clever and strong and lovable.

  And she was. She knew it with her whole heart.

  34

  LENINGRAD, RUSSIA, SOVIET UNION

  OCTOBER–NOVEMBER 1986