Betrayal. Not only Filip’s. She already knew he did not have the strength to defend himself, let alone anyone else. In his hapless self-absorption, he was not remotely aware of the threat that had brushed so close to her, and she would never tell him. She had naively expected Franz to simply accept her refusal and fade gracefully into the past, becoming a nostalgic anecdote she might share with a granddaughter, perhaps, in the unimaginable future. Visiting her in the toy shop, listening to her performances, he had been sweet, almost tender, boyish and attentive.
Now, she had seen him at work, carrying out the duties delegated by his superiors. Which was the real Franz? How could a person change so completely, living like a chameleon, blending in with this twig, that leaf? She understood that the overarching issue for everyone, at every level, was survival. But even a chameleon has an essential nature, a basic chameleon-ness that defines its true state. With Franz, she saw that she knew nothing of what that true state might be.
But how dare he? How dare he play with her like that? Flaunting his power, choosing not to choose her, holding the threat over her like a blade arrested in midair, taunting her with his discretionary authority. She let the rage wash over her, burning away the last vestiges of sentimentality.
“What did you say?” Ksenia faced her daughter, her wide hands continuing to work the ball of dough as if of their own accord.
“I said, guess what we did today.” Galina pulled Filip forward so they stood side by side. “We got married.”
“Really? Hand me that towel. No, the clean one, over there. Is this a joke?” Ksenia stopped kneading. “I have enough to worry about without your schemes and pranks, like how to make bread with only half the yeast it needs to rise properly.” She placed the dough gently into her favorite cracked bowl, covered it with the towel, and moved the bowl to the back of the stove.
“Mama,” Galina said, blushing deeply and releasing Filip’s hand. “We got married.”
Ksenia brushed a floury hand over her thin graying hair, sat down slowly at the kitchen table. “Ilya? Come here. I need you,” she called into the inner courtyard, from where they could hear the rhythmic sound of careful sawing.
“Minutku. One moment,” he called back. After a few more whiny strokes, and the sharp ping of wood hitting the tabletop, he appeared at the door, brushing sawdust off his shirt before entering the room. “Galya, shto s toboi? What’s wrong?” He stood behind Ksenia’s chair. “Hello, Filip,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
“Tell your father,” Ksenia commanded.
“We… Filip turns eighteen today. He could be sent away, to work in Germany. So…” Galina hesitated, overcome with sudden shyness in the face of this cold questioning.
Filip moved forward. She felt his hand on her waist. “We are married, Ilya Nikolaevich,” he said, looking at the older man directly, without fear.
Galina stiffened. She had been unprepared for that touch, that hand on her waist. It was so light she could barely feel it, but it was unmistakably intimate and proprietary. What have I done? How much have I given away, no, lost? She advanced into the room, moving out of the circle of Filip’s arm. “It’s just a formality, Papa,” she said. “Nothing will change. I will still live here, and Filip with his parents, right? We just wanted him to be safe.”
“Nothing, no one is safe in wartime,” Ksenia said, her voice dull. “But this idea of yours, this living apart, it is childish. It will not do. The Germans are not fools. Do you think you are the first to try this ruse?” She looked squarely from one to the other, her gray eyes holding the question until both young people faltered and lowered their heads.
“No,” Ksenia continued. “It will not do. If you are married, you must live as man and wife. But for me and for your father, Galina”—she gestured toward Ilya, who stood in stunned silence at her back—“there is no union until you receive the Church’s blessing. So go home, Filip, and tell your parents. I will arrange things with Father Gennady.” She stood up and moved toward the stove, lifting a corner of the towel to check the bread dough’s progress. Filip turned to go, but Ilya’s voice stopped him.
“Wait.” Ilya grasped the back of the chair with both hands. “Wait a moment. What about love? This piece of paper means nothing, less than nothing, to me. It can be annulled. This is a fine gesture, Galya, a selfless, generous act. But marriage, as your mother says, is not a game. So tell me, is there enough love between you to understand each other, to live in harmony, and to forgive the mistakes you will both inevitably make? Is there enough love?”
Galina and Filip glanced at each other; each caught the same surprised expression on the other’s face. “We never… that is, well… yes,” she faltered, blushing fiercely. Then, regaining some composure, she spoke more firmly. “Yes, Papa, we are friends. Of course we love each other.”
“Those are not the same thing, friendship and love, as you will see,” Ilya replied kindly. “But it is a good beginning. And you?” he addressed his new son-in-law.
“Of course. Of course I love her, Ilya Nikolaevich. Since first grade, at school.” He said it quietly, with confidence, but not without a trace of derision, as if stating something obvious to everyone that only Ilya could not see. Ilya caught the inference, raised his head, but let the challenge pass unanswered.
“All right. Horosho. I will make the arrangements,” Ksenia said.
“But where…,” Galina began, sweeping her hand in an arc that included the kitchen, the front room, the tiny bedrooms, and the sheltered yard. She felt everything spinning away, the sense of control rapidly becoming an illusion, an imaginary exercise made real, to which she and Filip had come entirely unprepared.
“Here. You two can take your brother’s room. Maksim is not likely to return from university before this occupation ends.”
Urgent knocking at their door interrupted their conversation. “Sosed! Neighbor! Come quickly.” Ilya went to answer the summons. In a moment, he returned with an older man who lived across the common yard on the other side of the compound.
“Such a tragedy,” the man wailed, shaking his head in disbelief. “Such a tragedy.”
“Tell us what you know,” Ilya prompted.
“The bastards—excuse me, sosedka.” He nodded to Ksenia.
“What has happened?” She waved away his apology with an impatient gesture.
“They are cutting down the trees. I saw it with my own eyes.” The man swayed from foot to foot, kneading his cap in his hands.
“Who?” “What trees?” “Where?” The choir of questions assaulted the distraught messenger from all sides, making him stop in maddening silence.
Galina was the first to react. “Here, Gavril Gavrilovich, sit down.” She offered the man a chair and poured water into a glass from the ceramic pitcher they filled daily from the pump in the yard. He declined the chair but drank the water. “Thank you, my dear,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Now please tell us, what trees?” Galina asked gently.
“The palms, along the seawall,” he replied, his eyes filling with tears. “The pride of our beautiful city.”
“Who?” Filip cut in. But they already knew the answer.
“The Germans,” Gavril Gavrilovich whispered. “That is, our people are doing the work, but the Germans are giving the orders.”
“But why?” Filip persisted. “Do they think we will climb the trees like monkeys and send distress signals to the Caucasus? Or pelt them with stones from above while they stroll on the beach?”