“Kulik!” Efrosinia repeated. “What nonsense! I’ve never heard anything so silly. A village teacher, with a small salary, and no future? Hah! Do you really want your daughter to while away her years in some dark, godforsaken hole surrounded by filthy, illiterate moujiks? She’s headed for bigger and better things than that. If she plays her cards right, Simon Stepanovich is her ticket to happiness and prosperity. He has an enviable position with the regime, he’s a well-respected officer, and he’ll go far in the Party. True, he’s a Russian, and maybe a bit on the mature side, but we can get used to that. And he’s promised to bring Lonia home. All he has to do is make a phone call, ask a few questions, and Lonia will be as good as home.”
Efrosinia walked over to look at several photographs hanging over the cabinet. She took down one of the larger ones, and sat on a chair beside the sofa. The photograph was of Lonia as a boy of nine or ten, smiling and holding a ball. Her eyes filled with tears. “My baby, my poor baby, good lord! I can’t believe it, my baby’s coming home at last!”
Two days passed uneventfully. Efrosinia busied herself preparing for Lonia’s arrival, with Marusia’s help. Valentyn for the most part lay on the sofa dozing or reading the newspaper. On the third day, the same blond boy appeared at the door with a parcel. It was from Simon Stepanovich, and this time it held a skirt and a small bottle of French perfume. There was no label on the skirt: it had been snipped off. But its quality and style showed clearly that it could have come from only one shop: Kranza’s. Marusia turned pale and thought about the Kranza family again. They were certainly gone, and their shop was shut. She closed her eyes, and tried to organize her thoughts. The skirt was so attractive and stylish, made of the thinnest, finest wool, and the perfume had come all the way from France. What harm could there be in her keeping them? It certainly wouldn’t hurt anybody, and it certainly wouldn’t bring the Kranzas back. This was simply a gift from a generous admirer. The skirt would look stunning with her white cotton blouse, or maybe with the red angora sweater her mother had made for her on her last birthday.
The extravagant generosity of Simon Stepanovich was overwhelming. The attention he was giving her was like nothing she had ever experienced. It made her feel wonderfuclass="underline" feminine and beautiful. Excitedly, she hurried down the hallway to tell her parents, but something held her back. Talking to them about Simon Stepanovich would only start more arguments, something she wanted to avoid. Their quarrels always gave her a headache, and she didn’t want anything to spoil her good mood. She took the gifts upstairs to her bedroom, and hid them in the back of her closet.
A week went by and to Marusia’s surprise Simon Stepanovich did not pay a visit. She wondered what had become of him. A couple of times she even got up early to look for him through the living room window. But he was nowhere to be seen. Where had he gone? Was he hiding someplace? What was he up to? She began to feel uneasy. And then, to her great surprise, another thought popped into her mind — maybe he was with another woman. She was shaken by jealousy, a new feeling for her. Had he lost interest in her already? For a moment she believed that he really had found someone else.
But then she was struck by another thought, a frightful, shocking thought. “What if he’s not with another woman, what if he’s in the Zovty Prison?” She couldn’t erase this violent image from her mind and it stayed with her for days.
Finally, on the following Sunday, around seven in the evening, Simon Stepanovich appeared at the Bohdanovich house. Without bothering to knock, he walked into the kitchen and to the table where Efrosinia was peeling potatoes. He was in full NKVD uniform, and he was holding a pair of black leather gloves. He looked worn and ill, as if he hadn’t slept for days. Efrosinia looked up at him, startled. “Is that you, Lieutenant Sobakin?” She got up, drying her hands on a dishtowel. “Why, comrade, you look like the living dead!”
“I must admit, Mamasha, I’m totally exhausted. I’ve been swamped with work these past few days.”
Efrosinia looked at him closely. There was something particularly disconcerting about him tonight and she never hesitated to say what was on her mind. “Your face is stone gray and your eyes are all bloodshot. What have you been doing? What kind of work can possibly make a man look the way you do?”
Simon Stepanovich frowned and before he knew it, he snapped, “What business is it of yours?” Then he looked away. He had to try and restrain himself, at least until he got what he had come for. Marusia was nowhere in sight.
Giving Efrosinia a broad, exaggerated smile, he said, “Yes, Mamasha, the reason I came by tonight was to discuss your son. I found out a few things about him. He’s quite an exceptional young man. He has not only caught up with the studies he missed while he was in the infirmary, but he’s at the top of his class. He’ll be an engineer before you know it. You should be very proud of him. But unfortunately, I’m sad to say, he won’t be back this week as I promised. My official who visited him on Lichakivsky Street was quick to advise him not to interrupt his studies because it could greatly affect his graduation. But happily, this doesn’t include the spring break. Mamasha, Lonia will be home when the snow melts.”
Sobakin slipped his hand into his pocket, brought out a sealed envelope, and handed it to Efrosinia, who ripped it open and burst into tears. Before her very eyes was a photograph of her son taken only recently. “Oh, my dear Lonia,” she cried, kissing the picture over and over. “You’re alive! You’re alive!” Then, frightened, “But how thin you are and your face is so drawn and hollow, it has no life. You look like no more than a skeleton.” For a moment she stood mournful and dejected, as though she had just received news of his death. But Lonia was not dead, he was alive and she had a photograph to prove it. Lonia was alive!
In an outpouring of gratitude, grabbing hold of Sobakin’s hand and pressing it to her cheek, she exclaimed, “Oh, Lieutenant, thank you! Thank you!” She shook with excitement. Lonia was alive and that was all that mattered to her now. It was already late January and in just a few short months her son would be home. “I can’t believe it’s true. Oh, Lonia, my son!”
Sobakin watched the old woman with mounting disgust. Her thin graying hair, her skinny arms, and her faded black frock, which she seemed to wear all the time, made him wince. She was loathsome to him. This whole nonsense of her missing Lonia was becoming tiresome and burdensome and he had no desire to continue with the charade. But still, for the next little while at least, he had to find a way of humoring her, of getting on her good side. His eyes wandering, he said, “Yes, Mamasha, from what my official tells me your Lonia is as eager to see you as you him. You have everything to be thankful for.”
Efrosinia, taking in his every word, threw up her arms as if set free from a terrible burden. Tears of joy streamed down her cheeks and her heart raced. Rushing to the doorway, she shouted, “Marusia! Come quickly, I have wonderful news!”
A few seconds later, Marusia appeared in the doorway, out of breath. “Mother, what on earth is going on?” Stopping short upon seeing Simon Stepanovich, she murmured, “Company? Oh, I didn’t realize we had company.” Blushing, quickly smoothing her skirt, she looked awkwardly at him and smiled. Efrosinia ran to give her daughter a hug.
“Oh, Marusia, we have such good news! It’s about Lonia. Look, he even sent us a photograph. He’s well and he’s coming home in April. Lieutenant Sobakin, bless his heart, is the bearer of good news tonight.”