He rubbed his chin and typed in her mother’s name. Nothing. How about that grandfather she mentioned?
He typed in the name from her application, where it was listed as “next of kin.”
Nothing. He rubbed his eyes, recalling a conversation only yesterday with his partner. She said her grandfather is some sort of World War II hero. Maybe he did some time on the Eastern front.
If Kat’s Grandfather had set foot in Russia, the NKVD, the forerunner of the KGB, active during the 1930’s and ‘40’s, would have known about it. Which meant it would be in the FSB databank. The screen blinked “no data.”
Vadeem sat back in his chair and wondered what games Miss Ekaterina Moore was playing.
Kat sat at a round wooden table in the kitchen of the log home and knew she’d finally found the Russia she had dreamed about since childhood. A wood stove bullied heat into the room as Kat sat on a rough-hewn bench nursing a cup of chai. Golden-fried peroshke piled a plate at center stage, spicing the air with the smell of baked apples and sunflower oil. Faded pictures of stoic ancestors peered from the walls and on the wooden countertop, steam billowed out of a silver samovar and heated the zavarka, a spicy tea concentrate simmering in the teapot perched on the top. A very old, wrinkled babushka sat across from Kat, eyes shining and filling Kat’s ear with a story that took her to the edge of disbelief.
“Back in the ‘40s, Stalin called up everyone to join the army. Hitler had pushed all the way into Stalingrad, Stalin’s namesake. We all knew if the fascists crossed the Volga, they wouldn’t stop until they got to the Pacific Ocean.”
The old woman’s blue eyes sparkled, the lines around her eyes crinkling as she focused on her listeners. Kat glanced at the man next to her at the round table. Pyotr Dobran had the look of a work-worn pastor, wearing a slightly stained short-sleeve dress shirt and black pants. He’d reported that he spent the day visiting sick babushkas, painting the church outhouse, and meeting with the church youth leaders about the summer evangelism camp. Kat was struck by his pensive blue eyes, eyes that seemed to look right through to her soul. His smile however, won her over. He clasped her hand gently, smiled with welcome, and she knew he’d been rightly called to his profession.
Night pressed against the tiny windows, a full blackness that betrayed the late hour. The fatigue that weighed Kat’s jet-lagged body warred with her brain, the only awake portion of her body. After trekking nearly a mile from the bus stop with Olga, who hadn’t been able to find gas to fill her Lada, and clinging to the promise that Pyotr would drive them back to Yfa, Kat finally felt as if the hard knots in her back were worth the prize. Olga, obviously exhausted, had commandeered a section of sofa and made sounds of slumber in the next room. Kat, however wouldn’t have missed this evening even if she had to prop her eyes open with a couple of those finely crafted teaspoons.
As if also cherishing the moment, Pastor Pyotr sat with his chin in his hands, enraptured with his mother’s story, although Kat suspected Pyotr Dobran had grown up feeding on this rich history. His daughter had also joined them, a spunky blonde with the name Nadia. The seven-year-old snuggled into his side and played with one of her long blonde braids.
Babushka ‘Rina’ as she had insisted Kat call her, had all the makings of a farmstead grandmother despite her career as a lawyer, with her headscarf, navy polyester housedress, brown cotton tights and hands that looked like they could both lift the world and soothe a broken heart. Kat noticed how graceful the babushka’s fingers were, even at her advanced age. They reminded Kat of her mother’s hands for some reason… long fingers made for playing the piano, or the violin. She watched them now as Babushka Rina peeled an apple in one long peel for her granddaughter.
“We had a motto, back then. ‘Nothing beyond the Volga.’ It meant there was no land for Hitler to take, and we’d fight until the last man, or woman, fell.”
“Women fought in the war?”
“Oh yes, my dear, we had women bombers, women infantry, women snipers. The Russian women fought right beside their men to push Hitler back to Germany.”
“Did you fight?”
Her eyes fixed on Kat’s, an odd mix of melancholy and pride. “Yes. I was sniper in the 248th division. I fought at Stalingrad, among other places.”
Kat blinked at that, having a hard time picturing this tall, rounded, but still elegant lady holding a gun to her shoulder. “That must have been difficult.”
Silence filled the room. Babushka Rina let it soak up Kat’s question. Then she nodded slowly. “Often, in this life, we are forced to do things that might, at other times, be unthinkable.” She sighed then handed the peeled apple to her granddaughter. “We won, however. We beat the fascists, and after the war, Pavel and I came east to start a new life.” The lines around her eyes crinkled as she smiled. Her face filled with a swirl of youthful memory. “And what a wonderful life it was. Pavel was more than I ever expected.”
“Pavel?”
“He was my father.” Pyotr reached into his worn wool jacket, which hung on the chair, and pulled out a wallet photo, a small black and white photograph. He handed it over. “He was a doctor. Went on to Glory five years ago.”
Kat looked at a young man with shining eyes, a shock of dark hair, and a smile that couldn’t be anything but kind. He leaned against a tree, hands in his pockets, forever youthful, forever strong. She was instantly sad she hadn’t met him. “Pavel. That’s Paul, in English, right?”
Babushka Rina nodded. “Your Russian is amazingly good, young lady. Where did you learn it?”
“My mother was part Russian, and my grandfather, also. He taught me.”
Larissa, Pavel’s petite wife, rose from the table and began taking cups and saucers from the sideboard. “Have you been to Russia many times for adoptions?” she asked.
Kat laughed. “Oh no. This is my first actual field adoption. I work for a small international adoption agency in New York. We place babies from all over the world, but our Russia field is just beginning to develop. Thankfully, we were already registered in this territory, and our agency was able to step in to help the Watsons. ” She cast a smile at Babushka Rina, imagining for a moment the miles of red tape she must have untangled during her adoption campaign. “I hope this is the beginning of many such happy occasions.”
“I hope so too.” Babushka Rina’s eyes glowed, and Kat had the oddest feeling the older woman was looking beyond her to another place in time. Her voice sounded miles, even decades distant. “I’ve always had a special place in my heart for adoption.”
Then, in a blink, Babushka Rina returned and smiled brightly at Kat. “What was your mother’s name?”
“Hope. Hope Moore, well, that was her married name. Her maiden name was Neumann.”
Larissa poured a tablespoon of zavarka into the bottom of Kat’s teacup. She filled it with the boiling water from the samovar and handed it to Kat.
“But Neumann is a German name, isn’t it?” Larissa asked. “I thought you said your mother was Russian.”
“It is. My grandfather’s father was German, but my grandmother was from Russia. My grandfather met her in the war.”
Pyotr accepted his tea from his wife. “In Russia?” He shook his head. “Americans didn’t fight on Russian soil.”
“Yes they did.” Babushka Rina thumbed the handle of her cup, and her eyes were on Kat. Kat couldn’t shrug off the intensity of the old woman’s gaze. “They came over in the early days, helped organize the partisans.”