2
LIFE TOOK ON a kind of routine, the kind of routine that makes ample allowances for the unexpected. Galina rose early to work more hours in the toy shop, and willingly took on a larger share of household duties.
After finishing tenth grade and receiving his diploma, Filip slept late every day; he had abandoned the pretense of looking for work after a few fruitless weeks, claiming the need to prepare for the upcoming university examinations. Most days, he spent an hour or two at the library before dropping in on his mother. She would be waiting with hot tea or fresh lemonade.
“How is it you always have sugar, Mama? We see it only rarely, and then my mother-in-law hoards every grain. Even when we use it, nothing tastes sweet.”
“Every household has its own rules,” Zoya said judiciously, dipping a stale bread crust into her tea. “And your father is fortunate. Party membership still has a few benefits.”
“Hm.” Filip preferred to remain noncommittal. It was not a matter of ideology. But what if the Germans won the war? The Soviet Partisans had spread the word of the victorious Red Army defense of Moscow, the Fascists beaten back at the city gates. But Ukraine was still firmly under occupation, both major cities, Kharkov and Kiev, now under enemy control. The war could end in a truce, with parts of the Soviet Union remaining under Nazi rule. He had read enough history to know that national boundaries were moveable and arbitrary, governed by shifting allegiances, secret agreements, games of chance played by the gods.
He said none of this to his mother, or to anyone. Zoya wanted only the return of religious freedom, so she could attend church services openly without fear of compromising her husband’s position. Ksenia believed (and Ilya, too, he suspected), along with an ardent minority, in the restoration of the Romanov monarchy—a position he considered too ridiculous to warrant discussion. It was best to wait, see how things turned out.
What was it his friend Vova had said, just before running off to find a Red Army unit to join beyond the occupied territory? “Why, you’re nothing but an opportunist! You believe in nothing.”
“I believe in money in my pocket, meat for my dinner, sugar in my tea. And the right to be left alone,” Filip had replied. “That’s what I believe.”
“Have you forgotten Borya? How many of us must die so that you may be ‘left alone’? You are living a fantasy, my friend. Nothing comes without a price.”
Forgotten. Could he, would he ever forget? Not just the sight, the spectacle of their friend and classmate strung up from a lamppost, turning in the wind like so much dirty laundry. The doubt, the agonizing flashes of conscience had cast an indelible shadow over Filip’s life. Even if he was not guilty, he knew he would never again be innocent.
“I have forgotten nothing. But I can’t help feeling it was a pointless death, brave as it was. He gained the status of a folk hero here in his hometown, but what has he accomplished? Whose life has been improved by his sacrifice?”
Vova had made an impatient sound, something between a grunt and a sigh. “Borya has earned his place among the saints of the new revolution. Many have died, die every day, out of the public eye, hunted like animals in the woods, fleeing the site of one last explosion, one final act of sabotage. His sacrifice will inspire fresh generations of fighters. He stood up for something. That’s what I must do, too.”
They’d parted with a firm handshake, neither convinced of the truth of the other’s argument.
“So how is life for you with your new family, my son?” Zoya interrupted his ruminations. She pushed a small plate of baklava closer to his side of the table.
“All right. They are… hardworking, even if they lack Papa’s sophistication and your good breeding. You know Ksenia Semyonovna is of humble stock. Her mother was a peasant, her father a merchant. She is uneducated, but not illiterate or stupid.”
“And your father-in-law? He is clever with his hands, yes?”
“Well, yes, Ilya Nikolaevich is gifted,” Filip conceded. “He is what you might call a good and righteous man. But I find him dull.”
“And your bride, she is well?”
“She is the light of my life, Mama. She is so… so alive. I am happy just to look at her.”
“Can she cook?”
“Well enough, I suppose, given the limited provisions available. Her mother is more capable that way, constantly trading and foraging. We do not often go to bed hungry. Still, I miss some of your dishes—the grape leaves, and that wonderful Greek soup you make. And this lovely baklava. If you could teach my wife to make it, I think I would be completely content.” He lifted a spoonful of the confection to eye level, admiring its paper-thin layers interlaced with honey.
“It is not so difficult if you know how,” Zoya dismissed the compliment, bristling a little at the comparison with the other household. “The dough requires no yeast, but does need some butter or lard, or it will not layer properly. This is a poor imitation. It should have more honey, and nuts, too, which I do not have.”
“Let me see what I can do.” Filip swallowed the pastry, drained his cup, and rose to go. “There must be hazelnuts in the woods. Galya will know.”
“Don’t go to any trouble for me,” Zoya sighed, rising to see him to the door. “Just don’t forget me.”
“Filipok, wait,” she called down after him, stopping his rapid descent. He looked up the stairwell at her, smiling.
“You have not called me that since I was five years old.” He came back, obeying her beckoning finger.
“I forgot to ask you, how is Maksim? Any change?” Zoya whispered, pulling her son into the apartment vestibule even though the hallway was deserted, with no nosy neighbors in sight.
“Only for the worse. He used to try sweeping the yard now and then, but gave that up, saying it was too difficult with one hand. Now he does nothing. And he never goes out.”
“What does he do, then? Read, like you?”
“Not anymore. He says nothing interests him. Most of the time, he just lies on his cot, staring at the ceiling.”
“Ai-ai-ai.” Zoya shook her head, absorbing this last bit of news with the perverse pleasure only a confirmed gossip would understand. “He is a lost soul. A lost soul. His mother must be suffering so. I will pray for them to the Virgin Mary, and to Saint Nicholas, the worker of miracles.”
That will surely help, Filip wanted to say, but stifled the sarcasm just in time and bent instead to kiss his mother’s cheek.
“Go, son, go,” she insisted. “And be kind to him. A lost soul,” he heard her repeating behind the closed door.
Filip headed downtown, taking the long way through the park, stopping to buy a bag of cherries from a red-faced country woman’s pushcart. He could bring them home; Ksenia would make compote or jam or her sweet-tart kissel’ thickened with potato starch and served with rice cakes. He bit into the first one. Or he could eat them all, feel their juicy sweetness explode in his mouth, and no one would know. Well, maybe not every last one, he thought. I’ll save a few for Galya; she can enjoy them when I walk her home from work.
From the park, he walked to the seawall, strolled along the esplanade, enjoying the cool spray, watching the rocking of the waves. He knew his mother meant well. She was sentimental, but even she understood the crucial difference between sentiment and true compassion. If everything was in God’s hands, as she believed, then some of us were clearly meant to suffer more than others. Maybe it was enough to put some spare change in the poor box and say a hasty prayer. It was a facile argument, he knew. It lacked something about good works, personal responsibility, and the prospect of eternal salvation, but he had no patience with it one way or the other.