And Maksim, poor devil, what grievous sin had he committed to deserve his fate?
He had been arrogant, Maksim. So what? Filip could see no wrong in knowing your own worth, staying on the path to your chosen future. If anything, Maksim’s mistake had been in caving in, accepting the patriotic rhetoric, losing sight of his own carefully laid out plans. He had been blinded by the illusion of the importance of service to others. “See where that gets you,” Filip said, spitting the last cherry pit into the Black Sea.
Galina came out smiling, holding something half-concealed in her left hand. She locked up the shop, then opened her hand. “Look,” she said brightly, “Zinaida Grigoryevna gave me this, for Maksim. What do you think?”
Filip glanced at the mechanical spinning top balanced on her palm. “I think Zinaida Grigoryevna has lost her mind,” he replied. “Too much romantic poetry can do that to a person. What possible use is this… this trifle to a war veteran?”
“Well, the paint is chipping here and here. But the plunger you push in to make it spin, that works fine. She thought it might help him to, you know, exercise his good arm…” Her voice trailed off, as if no longer sure of the soundness of the idea.
“Dura. No, not you, Galya. That woman, she is a simpleton!” He reached for the toy, intending to toss it in the gutter, but Galina was quicker. She closed her hand and stuffed it into her pocket.
“I will give it to him anyway. It might cheer him up.”
When they got home, Maksim was sitting on his cot, staring at the rug hanging on the opposite wall. It was a nature scene, a partridge and her chicks partially concealed in meadow grass, a fox watching them with interest from behind a bush, an eagle circling the panorama above the trees.
She sat down next to him. “What are you thinking about?”
“That picture. It’s supposed to be peaceful, I think, but it’s full of calamity about to happen. The forest food chain in tapestry. The only one who survives is the eagle. Until the hunter appears, that is.”
“What a gloomy outlook. Not everything gets eaten all the time, not even in nature. Look, I brought you a present.” She placed the top on his night table, pushed the plunger down to make it spin.
“What the—” He stared at the gyrating plaything, its stripes of blue, yellow, red blending into a blur of color. He looked up at his sister.
“It might help you strengthen your arm, and…”
“Is this one of your idiotic jokes?” he exploded, bringing Ksenia running in from the kitchen, Filip and Ilya from the yard. “What is wrong with all of you? Can you not see that I am worthless? No good to anyone? What is the point of ‘strengthening my arm’ if I can do nothing with it? Ni cherta. Not a damn thing.” He flung the toy across the room; it bounced off the far wall and came to rest, still wobbling, under Ilya’s worktable. Maksim stormed out, muttering, “Pardon my language, Mama,” when he squeezed past her. “Just leave me alone,” he said from the doorway through clenched teeth, his back to the room. “All of you.”
When the evening meal was ready, Filip came in from the yard by himself. “Galya has a headache. I will bring her her food.”
“I—” Ksenia rose, soup ladle in hand.
“No. I will do it.” Filip took the plate from her, balanced the bread on the edge, and retreated, coming back after a few minutes to take his place at the table. They ate in silence.
3
“MAKSIM,” KSENIA SAID SOFTLY, moving aside the curtain that separated his cot from the rest of the room, “are you sleeping?”
“No.” He kept his eyes closed, his one arm shielding his face from the light.
“Go to the post office for me, proshu tebya. Please, I ask of you, do this for me. I have a letter for my sister, your aunt Varya, in Kostroma.”
He faced her. “Why bother, Mama? She will not receive it. And if she does, you will never get her reply.”
“We must try, son. She may not receive my letter, kto znaet? Who knows? But if she does, she will know we are still alive.”
“Why me?” he asked peevishly. “It will take me forever to get there, and what if they’re not open today? Or if there’s a long line, with no way to rest my leg. I would not be home till sundown, and nothing will be accomplished. Send Filip; stamps are his special interest.” He rolled onto his side, face to the wall. “Let me sleep.”
Ksenia retreated to the kitchen. She stood, head down, hands grasping the back of a chair, for a long time. Finally, she raised her chin. Nyet, she decided. No.
She left the letter on the table and gathered a few things: a three-legged stool Ilya had fashioned from scraps, the legs cleverly carved to disguise imperfections in the wood; the last two painted teacups and matching saucers from her wedding set; a multicolored shawl Galina had knitted from odd lengths of scavenged yarn. She tied everything in a bundle. As an afterthought, she tucked several cloth dolls and Maksim’s discarded spinning top into one of her dress pockets and went out.
She took the streetcar north, to the city limits, then walked in an easterly direction, keeping to the wooded edge of the road. No one challenged her. She was just another baba lugging things around for who knows what purpose.
The day was clear and hot, the midsummer air still, the road nearly deserted. Somewhere far away, thunder rolled, approaching and receding in great invisible waves. Ksenia stopped to rest at the edge of a meadow. She listened. Yes, it was thunder. Not guns, not bombers. Thunder. “Jehovah’s chariot,” she observed, and smiled.
The road ended, turned into a dirt track through woods of pine and birch. Ksenia looked up. The sky above the treetops was still blue, the leaves high overhead barely disturbed by a breeze she did not feel. The storm was still some distance away. At the edge of the Tatar village she met a boy herding a few goats, brandishing a thin leafy branch. He waved it at her, as if taking pleasure in its supple motion; she raised a hand in return greeting. Later she would wonder if this had really happened. Or was it a dream, a vision of some bucolic paradise conjured by her need for relief from ugly, treacherous reality?
The first house she came to was small, the roof thatch in need of repair. The young woman who answered her knock shook her head, pointing to the small children clustered at her skirts, the baby in her arms. Outside, an older girl scattered a handful of kitchen scraps; Ksenia watched the two hens and lone rooster cluck and peck, devouring every trace within minutes.
She had not visited this particular village before, knowing that you could not keep coming back to the same people too often and expect good results. Choose a bigger house, she told herself, one that looks more prosperous. She found one near the village center, a solid structure with a painted flower trellis and shiny brass pump in the yard. The woman here was older, her tawny skin set off by large silver hoop earrings, a medallion necklace adorning her deep red caftan.
Ksenia untied her bundle and showed her wares, not in the aggressive manner she used on market days, but with simple dignity. Neither woman spoke much. They communicated with gestures and a few words that both understood in their respective languages. The Tatar examined the shawl from both sides, seemed to like its variegated colors and approve the workmanship. She turned the stool this way and that, tracing the carving with a slender finger. She held the teacups up to the light, looking for hairline cracks or imperfections. Finally, she nodded. She disappeared into the summer kitchen at the side of the house and came back with a small sack of flour, some carrots, and a few plums.