5
GALINA WAS BONE THIN. When they embraced, Filip could feel her ribs under his fingers through the cloth of her loose dress. He closed his eyes, absorbing the warmth of her, her hips hard as stone against his own diminished body. Her face, framed by a fringe of rough-cut hair, was exquisite in an ethereal way, the cheekbones sculpted, the eyes large and serious, ringed with fatigue but luminous and alive. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered, echoing the words spoken just a few years ago, both of them schoolchildren showered with spray from the breaking waves of the Black Sea, cocooned in the purity of their innocence.
She wept, silently, intensely, without sobbing. With a visible effort, she pulled herself together and stepped away from him, wiping at the damp spot on his shirt with a fragile-looking hand. “I left Katya with my friend Marfa,” she said, before he could ask about the child. “She finally fell asleep and I didn’t want to wake her. Where is my father?”
“Yes.” Ksenia, standing a few paces away, moved closer to the young couple. She held a small cloth-wrapped bundle. “Where is Ilya?”
The tall nun recognized Filip. “He drank a little broth yesterday. Nothing today, only water. If only the doctor could come sooner…” She opened the door and stood aside while they filed into the room. “There may be some danger of contagion, we believe. Please be careful.”
“Papa!” Galina exclaimed, too loud for the small, neat room. She knelt by the bed, pressing her cheek to Ilya’s dry hand. “Papochka,” she said, softly now. “I have missed you so.”
Ilya stirred, turned his head in her direction. “Galya,” he breathed. “Dochenka. My daughter. Don’t cry.” Gently, he freed his hand and placed it on her head, stroking her hair, barely aware of his own tears. “And your mother?”
He raised his eyes. Ksenia moved to the other side of the narrow bed, wiped his face gently with the back of her hand. He smiled. “My family. I was afraid I would not see you again. I was afraid for you. But you have come? This is not a dream?” He tried to raise himself on one elbow but fell back heavily, his breath catching in his throat.
When the coughing began, Ksenia reached instinctively for the basin on the floor next to the bedside table, raising Ilya to a sitting position. She supported his back with one arm while he surrendered to wave after wave of spasmodic hacking, spitting bloody mucus into the waiting receptacle. Galina stepped back to stand near the window with Filip, her hand to her mouth in horror. Filip stood awkwardly, one arm around his wife’s waist, his eyes fixed distractedly on a line of geese moving across the sky in precise geometric formation.
The nun came in with fresh water, bathed the patient’s face and hands when the episode subsided and he lay exhausted, eyes closed, his breathing rapid and shallow. “Schwester,” Ksenia began, her German hesitant, “sister… Tell her, Filip. I brought a clean shirt and some shaving soap. Also bread and fruit. Plums. I cannot pay. Tell her.”
“God will provide. We are grateful for your kindness,” the nun replied, accepting the bundle with her free hand. “The soap, yes. We will shave him. But I don’t know what your husband can eat.”
“Give it to someone else, then, or use it yourselves. I will try to bring more tomorrow.”
“Papa.” Galina sat on the edge of the bedside chair, her knees touching the mattress. “Can you hear me?”
Ilya made a throaty sound, but did not speak.
“I heard a new song, just yesterday, in the beer hall where Mama and I work.”
“What song?” Ksenia cut in. “I heard no song.”
“You were in the kitchen. It was a busy night, remember? I was helping at the bar.” Galina frowned, annoyed at the interruption. “Anyway. A young Russian soldier was singing. He was so young! Really just a boy, with a beautiful tenor voice that made me want to cry.”
“Your father is tired, Galya. He needs to rest,” Ksenia said softly.
Galina raised a protesting hand. If I keep talking to him, he will not die, she thought, and fervently believed. “It’s a war song, but not about glory or pride. It’s about men, people far from home; about danger and loss. About not knowing what will happen next, where the road leads.”
“Like us,” Filip said unexpectedly, moving from the window to stand at her back.
Ilya looked at his daughter with clouded eyes, the lids coming down as if of their own leaden weight. “The song?” he whispered.
“I don’t know all the verses, but I have the tune and the refrain. Shall I sing it for you?” She took his hand, warming it between her palms.
Ilya nodded.
“Ekh, dorogi… pyl’ da tuman,” she began, her voice wavering a little. “Oh, roads… dust and fog,” she sang, gaining confidence, filling the room with images of snow and wind, of flame and battle and brotherhood. She sang of homesickness and longing for loved ones, and of remembrance.
The echo of the melancholy melody lingered when she was done, each person in the room alone with their thoughts and feelings, beyond the reach of speech.
They started toward the door. Ilya’s breathing had evened out to a sleeper’s rhythm. When first his daughter, then his wife, kissed his forehead, he stirred but did not open his eyes. In the hall, with the door nearly closed, they heard him call out weakly, “Filip.”
“Thank you for finding my family.” Ilya’s voice was a hoarse whisper, his pale face once more painted with fever on both cheeks.
“I did nothing. It just happened,” Filip replied, ashamed at the truth of it, uneasy with the undeserved gratitude. But the old man was asleep, and did not hear him.
6
“WE PRAYED FOR HIM,” the young nun said solemnly. “But the Lord in his wisdom chose to end his suffering.”
“No.” Galina was firm. “Look, I have brought his granddaughter for him to see, if only through the window. He must see her. He must,” she insisted, ignoring Ksenia’s sharp glance. “I made a bookmark for his birthday. It was last month, but we were separated then.” She took a narrow strip of cloth from her sweater pocket, thrust it at the implacable sister. The faded scrap of shiny fabric, which Galina had embroidered with leaves and flowers using threads she had pulled from her own clothing, trembled in her hand.
“He sees us all, child.” The nun placed a cool hand on Galina’s arm. “Hold your father in your heart, and teach your daughter to know and love him.”
Galina turned away, repelled by the sanctimonious words and the woman’s air of meek superiority. What did she know? She had most likely lived out the war in hushed seclusion, protected from its daily horrors by her usefulness to all sides.
Galina spun around when Filip approached her and cupped her elbow with his hand. “Why is everyone touching me?” she demanded. “And you—were you not with him? Did you not see he needed help? After we opened our home to you—” She broke off, swiping angrily at her eyes with her free hand.
“I tried! The apothecary was closed.” His own anger rose to mirror hers. He could never admit to what had really happened, how he had abandoned his search and gone dancing. But he had paid for that with the guilt that gnawed at his remaining confidence, burdened by the knowledge of his own inadequacy.
Still, hadn’t all those unfortunate events led him here, where help was available even if it came too late? Where he had found the people Ilya loved and given them all at least a little time together, no matter how brief? No, he was not to blame for everything. “He wanted to just rest awhile, until he felt better. He did not want a doctor.”