“This way, Doctor.” Ksenia gestured toward the bedroom she shared with her husband. “My son sleeps here”—she indicated the curtained corner of the front room—“but our room will be more private for your examination.” Maria Kirilovna nodded, followed Maksim into the room, and shut the door.
Ilya followed Ksenia into the kitchen. “Did you notice her limp?” he whispered. “That may be why she was passed over for service. That, and her age.”
“As long as she knows doctoring.” Ksenia removed the towel from the rising meat pie, pricked the smooth doughy surface at regular intervals with a fork, and slid the pan into the oven.
She had just removed the pie and set it on the table to cool, an hour or so later, when Maksim and the doctor emerged from the bedroom, just as Filip and Galina came through the front door. Ilya put down the book he was reading. Everyone stood a moment in silence, inhaling the incomparable aroma of baking, an aroma that filled the whole apartment with an essence so rich it seemed capable, almost, of satisfying the very hunger it provoked.
Several people sighed; someone grunted appreciatively. Maria Kirilovna spoke. “Maksim is an exceptionally fortunate young man. Any delay or carelessness in treating his wound would surely have been fatal. He would have died of infection or loss of blood, or both. But he did not.” She sat down in the chair Ksenia offered, opposite Ilya. The pie steamed enticingly between them, Ksenia with a bread knife at the ready to cut into its burnished crust. The others stood around the kitchen, listening.
“The arm was amputated just above the elbow, as you know. It is possible, in my opinion, to have it fitted with a prosthesis, so that, with training, Maksim could regain some limited use of it. Unfortunately, unless you are members of the Politburo, that operation will have to wait; all medical resources are being focused on the war effort at present. Could I have some water, please?”
“Ach, forgive me. Galina, make some tea,” Ksenia exclaimed. She put down the knife and reached for the teakettle.
“No, no. Water will do. Thank you. Now, the limp. My own condition is congenital; I was born with one shorter leg. But that is not the case here, correct? Your son did not limp before he left home. My examination revealed no wound or other trauma to the legs, hips, or back. I must conclude, then, that there is no physical obstacle preventing a natural walk. There is, however, the possibility of psychological shock, which can manifest itself in unpredictable ways. I am not expert in this area, but that is my suspicion.”
Ksenia picked up the bread knife. Starting at the center of the pie and making the lightest tentative cuts, she marked off equal-sized portions along the edges of its rectangular surface at intervals so precise they would have stood up to mathematical measurement and been found accurate. She frowned. “What does this mean? That he is limping for no reason? He tells me there is pain.”
“There is a reason, but it is not physical. There is a wound, of the mind and spirit. Until this wound is healed, I believe Maksim will continue to limp. The pain is caused by the unbalanced use of leg and back muscles—in other words, by the limp itself. That, too, will cease when the underlying cause is no longer present.”
“So what can we do?” Ilya asked, his hands folded in front of him, fingers interlaced.
“I am not expert in this area,” the doctor repeated, “but I believe…” She stopped speaking. Ksenia had begun to slice the pie, cutting deeply at each mark, through the firm upper crust, the aromatic layer of meat, onions, and potatoes, and the thinner bottom crust, her knife scraping along the metal pan. Everyone watched, entranced, completely absorbed in her actions. She turned the pan around, sliced in the other direction, then raised her head, signaling Galina with her eyes. Galina handed her a plate.
Maria Kirilovna cleared her throat. “I believe,” she went on, “that the answer may lie in some meaningful activity. Maksim has suffered a grievous wound, it is true. But his heart is strong, and his intelligence is evident.” Again she stopped, and everyone watched Ksenia lift each perfectly formed square onto the plate, stacking them in a pyramid four layers high. The pie seemed to breathe on the chipped platter, the air above it alive with vapor, heat from the savory filling radiating into the room.
“Please, eat,” Ksenia invited, moving the plate closer to Maria Kirilovna. The doctor took a piece. Everyone followed suit. Ksenia watched them eat, her face aglow with intense satisfaction. After a moment, she also took a piece, crossed herself, and ate. It is like a sacrament, this food, she thought. How little we need.
Filip, standing near the door to the courtyard, wanted desperately to take a second piece, but did not dare. “What do you recommend, then, Doctor?” he said, trying to distract his attention from the pie and conclude the discussion. “What can he do?”
“Perhaps he can teach, or lead a youth group, give health and first aid instruction with someone else demonstrating the techniques. He has enough knowledge and experience to be useful at the sanatorium in some capacity. Or he could learn to use a typewriter and write for a journal or a newspaper.”
“He could play chess,” Filip suggested. “That only takes one hand.” Maksim glared at him. Filip shrugged, watching with profound regret as Ksenia arranged the remaining pie pieces on a clean kitchen towel, folding the edges in to make a neat package.
“Thank you, Doctor,” she said. “We can give you only a little money for your visit, and for your advice. But please also take this pie.”
Maria Kirilovna stood up. “I will accept whatever you can manage. Your pie is delicious and I thank you for sharing it with me. But I live alone, and cannot take this bounty away from your family. Maksim, you are a fine young man. I wish you the best possible recovery, but you must take your life into your own hands.” Realizing what she had said, she colored deeply and went quickly through the apartment and out into the night.
5
IN THE WEEKS FOLLOWING the doctor’s visit, Maksim began to die. There was no sign of illness, no inexplicable cough, no sudden weakness or fever, just a profound crushing despair.
“Only a cup of tea, Mama,” he said quietly, pushing away the food she had fortified with every nutritious ingredient she could find. “Thank you,” he added with an anemic smile.
“Listen, we’re doing a comedy tonight. Come with us,” Galina encouraged. “Not much of a play, but you can see how Filip made a set out of practically nothing.”
“I had help,” Filip protested. “And people let us borrow things. Luyba’s lamp steals the show, with its decadent fringed shade.”
Maksim sighed. “No. Theater does not interest me. It never did, with or without lamps.” He left the table, going out to the inner yard to smoke.
No one spoke. They finished the meal quickly; Galina jumped up from her seat. “I will wash the dishes, Mama, when I return.”
She and Filip walked, stepping around freshly formed puddles with inordinate concentration, as if navigating a minefield. Finally, Galina said, “What will happen to my brother? He is so unhappy.”
Filip said nothing, steering them clear of two German soldiers preoccupied with lighting their cigarettes in the evening breeze. But Galina wanted an answer. “Filip. How can we help him?”
“How do I know?” He spread his hands, palms up, and shrugged his shoulders. “He does nothing all day, sleeps and smokes, will not even try to help your mother in any way. Just smokes and stares into space.”