The Blackbird Girls

by Anne Blankman

  Valentina dropped onto a bench. Hopefully, Babulya would be here soon. Valentina wanted them to be far away before anyone realized Oksana was missing.

  She wasn’t certain how long she had been sitting there when a ticket collector came up to her. “You’re awfully young to be here alone late at night, aren’t you?”

  Valentina sat up straight. “I’m waiting for my grandmother.”

  The ticket collector spat on the grungy floor. “Your grandmother ought to be more careful. You never know what sort of people you’ll meet in a place like this.”

  “Thank you for your concern,” snapped a woman’s voice from behind him.

  It was Babulya. She was giving the ticket collector the look she usually gave the lady from the third floor if she got too near their locked kitchen cupboard. “I assume,” Babulya said, “your duties consist of dispensing tickets, not bothering young girls?”

  Red-faced, he muttered, “Yes.”

  “Very good. I want two tickets to Moscow.”

  They went to the ticket counter. Valentina stayed close to her grandmother’s side. Babulya must have done it! She had taken Oksana to the airport, or she wouldn’t be here.

  After Babulya had tucked the tickets into her purse, they walked to a platform to wait. Valentina leaned against her grandmother, wishing she could ask if Oksana was already on a flight and how she had seemed when Babulya had left her. But you never knew if someone was listening, so she had to settle with: “Is everything all right?”

  Babulya patted her shoulder. “Yes.”

  That told Valentina everything she needed to know. Oksana was on her way! She would be safe, and loved, and she wouldn’t have to be scared anymore. Valentina had to press her face to her grandmother’s coat so no one would see her smile and wonder why she looked so happy.

  Then she remembered she might not see Oksana again. Ever.

  She had to blink hard so the tears wouldn’t come.

  Babulya squeezed her shoulder. “Distance between true friends doesn’t matter when their friendship lives in their hearts,” she whispered. “When you-know-who and I were going to the airport, I told her about how I met Feruza and lived with her until the end of the war. And can you guess what you-know-who said?”

  Valentina shook her head no.

  Babulya squeezed her shoulder again. “She said that you are her blackbird girl.”

  Something warm and soft spread through Valentina’s chest until all of her was alive with it. “She’s mine, too,” she said.

  * * *

  - - -

  The train from Minsk to Moscow grew more crowded at each stop, and soon passengers were packed so tightly together that Valentina didn’t dare say anything to her grandmother other than, “I’m going to the washroom,” or, “May we buy something from the food cart?”

  At midday, they arrived in Moscow and had to wait at the train station until ten p.m., when they were allowed to board the night express to Leningrad. Valentina couldn’t help thinking of the other time she’d taken this train, when she and Oksana had traveled alone to meet her grandmother. Automatically, her hand went to her wrist. Her finger grazed bare skin.

  For a moment, she felt so far away from Papa that her throat ached. She reminded herself that Oksana needed the watch more than she did.

  The train pulled into Leningrad in early morning. Valentina and Babulya took the Metro’s red line to Avtovo. With her nose pressed to the glass, Valentina marveled at how the neighborhood hadn’t changed since they had left. So much had happened since they had gone to Minsk that she felt as though the city ought to look different, too.

  It was still dark; now that it was December, the sun wouldn’t rise until past nine in the morning. The streets were choked with dirty snow. In the distance, the Neva River gleamed like a black snake, and in between the buildings flashing past, Valentina caught glimpses of canals.

  As they walked from the Metro station to the apartment, Valentina’s heart lifted. They were almost home! Mama must have left for work by now, but tonight they could tell her Oksana had made it out of Minsk. If any of their neighbors saw them and asked why they weren’t home ill in bed, they could make up a story about being well enough to return to work and school. They had done it!

  They turned the corner. Up ahead was their apartment building. The street lamps were still turned on, and in their glow Valentina could see her mother, dressed in her hat and coat, standing on the front steps. Why was she waiting there? She ought to already be on the train, heading to her job.

  Babulya grabbed Valentina’s arm, yanking her to a stop. “Your mother doesn’t want us to go home,” she whispered. “She’s sending us a message. Come with me, quickly.”

  They rushed around the corner, retracing their steps. Valentina’s heart raced. What was wrong? Why couldn’t they go inside?

  “Stop here.” Babulya halted in front of a shop window. She pretended to peer at the clothes on display.

  “What happened?” Valentina couldn’t stop herself from asking, even though she knew Babulya had no answer for her.

  Her grandmother didn’t reply. Valentina’s eyes traveled over the red and blue frocks in the window.

  “Do you think Oksana’s mother found her?” she asked.

  “Maybe,” Babulya said crisply. “You’ll be fine; don’t fret. The authorities won’t charge an eleven-year-old with a crime.”

  “Babulya, you must run!”

  “There’s nowhere to run to.” Babulya adjusted her hat, the line of her jaw firming as though she were gritting her teeth. “Don’t be upset, Valyushka. Some things matter more than my safety. Making sure you and Oksana are loved is one of them.”

  In the glass, Valentina saw a couple of people straggling past. Other than them, the street was empty. It was only seven o’clock: most of their neighbors were probably finishing their breakfasts before leaving for work or school. Suddenly, her mother appeared in the window’s reflection.

  “It’s Comrade Popov,” she said breathlessly. Valentina remembered him: the man with the spectacles, who was often in the communal kitchen watching everybody else with narrowed eyes.

  “He’s been asking about you ever since you left,” Valentina’s mother went on. “Just now he cornered me in the kitchen, saying he knows you’ve disappeared and you must be up to no good and he’ll report you to the authorities.”

  Valentina clutched the satchel to her chest. It was all over. Babulya was going to prison. Mama, too, probably, for providing assistance. Oksana would be dragged back to Minsk, and she, Valentina, would be sent to an orphanage.

  Babulya paled. “Where is he now?”

  “In the kitchen. I knew you were supposed to come home today, so I went outside to watch for you. Both of you must get away from here as fast as you can!”

  But Babulya shook her head. “Go back to the kitchen. Distract him. Cook him breakfast, argue with him, do whatever you must to keep him in that room. Valentina and I will sneak inside while you’re with him.”

  “Do you think it’s safe?” Valentina’s mother asked. “He might catch you coming inside.”

  “Then you won’t have done your work.” Babulya nudged Valentina’s mother on the shoulder. “Go, Galina.”

  Her mother took to her heels. Valentina watched her leave, her hair streaming in the wind. What if Mama was right and Comrade Popov saw them entering the building?

  “Babulya, we should hide someplace.” Valentina plucked at her grandmother’s sleeve.

  “No.” Babulya grabbed Valentina’s hand. “We have to get inside our room so we can pretend we’ve been ill in bed for the past four days. This is our best chance, while your mama’s with Comrade Popov. Come.”

  She strode along the pavement. Valentina scurried alongside her. Her heart banged against her ribs.

  Together they turned the corner. Halfway down
the street, her mother stood on the front steps of their building. Comrade Popov stood beside her.

  Valentina gasped. There was no way she and Babulya could sneak into their apartment now. Comrade Popov would report them to the authorities, and the police would investigate, and soon they’d figure out the reason she and her grandmother had gone to Minsk—and what they had done there.

  39

  TASHKENT, UZBEKISTAN, SOVIET UNION

  DECEMBER 1986

  Oksana

  OKSANA CLUTCHED HER suitcase. The airport in Tashkent was bigger than she had expected, full of people chattering to one another in languages she couldn’t understand. Many of the women wore brightly colored dresses and small embroidered caps, with their dark hair either flowing down their backs or caught up in dozens of braids. Oksana saw a group of men in white tunics and loose trousers, and others dressed in the suits she was accustomed to. She couldn’t take her eyes off the women; she’d never seen such bright colors before, and her hands ached to draw them.

  Then she remembered all over again why she was here, and she was so nervous she could barely breathe. Would Babulya’s blackbird girl be kind to her? What if she was caught with false identity papers? They had looked all right to her, but she didn’t know what the authorities might notice. Perhaps Comrade Orlov’s forger had used the wrong ink or had misspelled a word. An airport worker might realize the mistake, and then she would be sent back to Mama and Dyadya Boris, and they would be so angry—

  She pressed a hand to her roiling stomach. She had to stop. Other passengers were starting to look at her.

  Quickly, she turned away from the men and women milling about nearby. She stared at the floor, trying to make her mind blank so she wouldn’t have to think at all.

  “Excuse me,” said a lady’s voice in Russian, “are you Klavdiya Tereshchenko?”

  Oksana continued staring at the floor. What if Feruza had forgotten about her? Or had changed her mind and didn’t want her after all?

  A hand touched her arm gently. “Excuse me,” said the same lady’s voice, “are you Klavdiya Tereshchenko?”

  With a start, Oksana remembered that she was now Klavdiya. Still, she didn’t say yes. Maybe this was a trap. Somehow the authorities could have traced her here.

  Without answering, she looked up into the sweetest face she had ever seen. The woman was smiling, which made her black eyes crinkle up. Her skin was wrinkled and golden brown. She wore a red-and-yellow dress. An embroidered cap sat on top of her dozens of gray braids.

  “I’m Feruza,” she said. “I’m looking for a blackbird, Klavdiya.”

  It wasn’t a trap. Only Babulya’s friend knew about the blackbird girls.

  “That’s me,” Oksana said. “I’m Klavdiya.”

  Feruza took Oksana’s hands in hers and kissed them. “I’m so happy to meet you,” she said. “Welcome.”

  * * *

  - - -

  Feruza lived in a small house on the edge of Tashkent. It was the same house she had grown up in, she told Oksana, and the same house Babulya had lived in more than forty years ago. There were so many people in the house that Oksana didn’t know how she’d ever remember all of their names. There was Akmal, Feruza’s husband, and their grown-up daughter, Zarina, and her husband, Nurmukhammed, and their three daughters, Sharifa, Khadicha, and Maftuna. The girls had stayed home from school today, to welcome her, and they seized her hands and, giggling, led her up to the attic, where they shared a bedroom.

  “You can have the bed under the window,” Khadicha said. She spoke in Russian, not Uzbek, for which Oksana was grateful. “And we cleared a space in the wardrobe for you.”

  “Thanks.” Oksana had never seen a room like this before: the walls were painted white, the floorboards dark and varnished. Her bed was set in an elaborately carved wooden frame.

  She peered out the window. A dusting of snow covered the ground. Beyond Feruza’s yard, she could see dozens of other small houses and, far in the distance, the towers and big buildings of Tashkent. She thought of her paints and paper in her suitcase. Maybe sometime soon she could paint a picture of the city.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said, and turned to see all of the girls smiling at her. Maftuna and Sharifa were little, but Khadicha was close to her age. Maybe they would become friends. She didn’t seem to mind sharing her room with a stranger, and she had greeted Oksana by kissing her cheeks two times. Hesitantly, Oksana smiled back at the girls.

  They ate supper in a big dining room. Oksana had never seen such food: a spicy stew filled with rice, meat, carrots, and onions; and noodles; and stuffed pockets of dough. She was so hungry she ate everything on her plate.

  By then Nurmukhammed, Feruza’s son-in-law, had returned from work, and he greeted Oksana by kissing her cheeks. Something inside her cringed when he touched her. She wondered if he hit his daughters.

  But he laughed when Maftuna, the littlest at six, climbed onto his lap during dessert. He told a funny story about one of his clients, who had come to his office today but had forgotten all of his paperwork and had to go home to get it. After dinner, he sat in the parlor, and he and his wife, Zarina, played board games with their daughters.

  Part of Oksana wished she had the courage to join them, but when they asked her, she shook her head no. She sat in a corner, watching Nurmukhammed and Akmal, Feruza’s husband, who was reading a book and looked up sometimes to smile at his granddaughters. One time he smiled at her, Oksana.

  Feruza sat next to her, reading a newspaper. Every so often, she smoothed Oksana’s hair. “Are you tired, Klavdiya?” she asked.

  She was, but she didn’t want to leave the warm room filled with happy people. “No,” she said, swallowing a yawn.

  At last, it was time to go to bed. The girls washed their faces and brushed their teeth and changed into white nightgowns. They had a spare nightdress for Oksana, for she had forgotten hers at the apartment in Minsk.

  Lying in bed was like floating on clouds. The grown-ups, all four of them, went from one bed to the next, tucking in each girl and giving her a good-night kiss.

  Oksana had thought they wouldn’t come to her, but they did. “Good night,” Zarina and Nurmukhammed said, and they each kissed her on the cheek. Akmal said good night, too, and after he kissed her, he said gently, “We are so happy you have joined our family, Klavdiya.”

  Tears pricked her eyes. “Thank you,” she managed to say.

  Feruza kissed her last. She brushed Oksana’s hair away from her face and drew the blankets up to her chin. “Good night. May you have sweet dreams.”

  To Oksana’s surprise, she did. At least, she must have, for she woke up the next morning smiling.

  After breakfast, the other girls left for school and their parents went to work. Feruza said Oksana needn’t attend school until next week, so she could have a chance to get settled.

  At first, Oksana didn’t know what to do with herself. She went from room to room, marveling at the dark carved wooden furniture and the white walls, so different from the concrete and steel she was used to. At last, she went up to the attic bedroom and got out her paints.

  She had planned on sketching the view from the window, then painting it, but instead she found her thoughts turning to Valentina. She hated knowing she might never see her again.

  But Babulya and Feruza hadn’t seen each other for forty-one years, and they had still found a way to be friends. They had written each other letters. Feruza said Oksana couldn’t do that, as the police were looking for her and might be monitoring Babulya’s mail, just in case they suspected Babulya had helped her get away.

  There had to be something Oksana could do, though, some way to tell Valentina thank you and to let her know that she was going to be all right in this new home.

  An idea struck her, and soon she was lost in drawing. When she was finally done, she came back to herself and realiz
ed she was starving. Maybe it was time for lunch.

  She looked for Feruza downstairs, but couldn’t find her anywhere. At last, she took her coat off a hook by the back door and went into the backyard. Yesterday’s snow had already melted. Several chickens were pecking at the ground, searching for feed.

  Oksana approached a wooden shed. From outside she could hear someone moving about. Was it Feruza?

  She peeked inside and saw Feruza standing at a table. Parts of a toaster lay scattered across its surface.

  “Come along, now,” Feruza muttered. She was tightening two metal pieces with a screwdriver. She must have heard Oksana, for she turned around and grinned at her. “You look surprised.”

  Oksana couldn’t help thinking, with a pang, of her own mother in her elegant dresses and painted fingernails. “I’m not accustomed to seeing ladies use tools.”

  “I learned how to fix just about anything on the farm during the war when my father was away fighting.” Feruza finished tightening the screw and set the pieces down. “Come inside, out of the cold.” She hesitated, then said, “I saw the way you looked when Akmal and Nurmukhammed kissed you. I understand why you’re afraid of men. Goodness, I would be, too, if I’d gone through what you have.”

  She looked into Oksana’s eyes. “I don’t hold with hitting or violence of any sort. In this house, if we’re angry, we talk.”

  Oksana fiddled with the buttons on her coat. She wanted to believe Feruza, but . . . she thought of her father, how red-faced he had gotten when he was mad at her, and how it had felt when he had pressed the tip of his cigarette into her skin. And Dyadya Boris, how quickly his smile turned to fury. And Mama, pale and trembling, taking the belt from Dyadya Boris’s hand.

  Oksana couldn’t speak. She hitched a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug.

  Feruza turned back to the table and picked up her screwdriver. “You’ll believe me someday. Change takes time, Klavdiya. You won’t always be afraid.”