Susan Sherman - The Little Russian

A girl in her twenties sat behind the counter typing at a desk. She was copying a list of names and telephone numbers from a handwritten list on a pad. Her red lacquered fingernails flew over the keys, while her eyes kept traveling from the list to the keyboard and back again. Another girl about the same age was talking on a telephone at a nearby desk. Both were smartly dressed in suits with long straight skirts, crisp white blouses, and ties. Their hair was cut in the same bob and they wore the same red lipstick that matched their nail polish, despite the fact that both were expressly forbidden by the foreign service dress code.

Berta couldn’t understand the telephone conversation because it was in English, but she could tell it was a personal call by the way the girl cradled the receiver between her ear and shoulder and picked at her freshly manicured nails.

“Mademoiselle… S’il vous plaît. ” Berta held on to the desk for support. She was dizzy and feeling nauseous. Her words came out in a breathy rush.

The girl’s eyes slid over to her and she held up a finger. She chatted on for a minute more and then with exaggerated reluctance put the receiver back in its cradle and regarded Berta with undisguised annoyance.

“Yes?”

“ Mon nom est Madame Alshonsky. Pouvez-vous m’aider à trouver mon mari .”

“Oh, French.” She sounded disappointed. “I’m not very good at French. I don’t suppose you speak English?”

Berta shook her head. “ Son nom est Alshonsky. Il habite en l’Amérique. Pouvez-vous m’aider à le trouver. ”

“Look, I have no idea what you’re saying.” She turned to her friend, who had stopped her typing and had been following their conversation with interest. “Francis, don’t we have someone here who speaks French?”

“Iris, wait.” Francis pushed back her chair and stood up. “You’re not listening to her. Did you hear what she said?” She came over and considered Berta from across the counter. “Did you say Alshonsky ?”

Berta hesitated because she had thought she had heard her name, but it was so badly mangled that it was nearly unrecognizable. “__,” she said, dropping the French. “__, ___ ___ Alshonsky .” Her heart was pounding in her chest. There was a sickly sweet metallic taste in her mouth. Black shapes drifted down through her field of vision.

“Now what is she speaking?”

“Russian, I think. But, Iris, listen.” And then to Berta she repeated: “Alshonsky.”

“ Oui ,” said Samuil hopefully. Then under his breath he added: “Open your eyes, Mameh. They’re watching you.”

“Iris… it’s that woman and her son.”

“No.”

“ It is. ”

“But she had a daughter too.”

“I’m telling you. It’s her.”

Iris turned back to Berta. “Alshonsky, right?” Samuil nodded vigorously. “Oh my goodness, we found her.” And then to Berta: “Mrs. Alshonsky, we’ve been looking all over Europe for you.”

Berta held on to the counter and tried to stop the room from spinning. Samuil caught her arm just as she was about to slip to the floor. “Look healthy, Mameh,” he whispered fiercely. “You have to look healthy.”

“Oh God, she’s ill. She’s going to faint.” Francis rushed around the counter and took her other arm.

“She is fine,” Samuil said in French. “She is healthy.”

“I’ll call a doctor,” Iris said, reaching for the phone.

Francis was already helping her to the bench. “No. She’s burning up. Call an ambulance.”

Across the hall a crowd of hopeful émigrés lined up at the windows, waiting to get their papers stamped. Their faces turned to watch the boy help his mother to the bench. They stared openly, not bothering to hide their interest. It didn’t seem to matter. The woman was obviously beyond caring. Her face was sickly white, glistening with sweat, her eyes bright with fever, and she was shivering, even though she was wearing a coat.

“Mrs. Alshonsky,” Francis said in her flat American accent. She crouched down in front of Berta and took her hand. “Hang on there, Mrs. Alshonsky. We’re calling an ambulance.”

“It’s no good, Mameh. They know you’re sick. They’re not letting us in,” Samuil said plaintively.

With a great effort of will Berta opened her eyes and for a brief moment she saw the concern on the girl’s face. She knew Samuil was right. It was hopeless. She didn’t know what to tell him. She didn’t know where he should go for help or how he was going to get there. There was no money left. The girl kept talking and, although Berta didn’t understand a word, she knew this young woman meant well. She could hear the sympathy in her foreign words.

“You’re going to be all right, Mrs. Alshonsky. We’re taking care of everything. We’ve been waiting for you. Your husband has been looking all over Europe for you.”

She seemed like such a nice girl and she wasn’t that young. Surely, she could take care of a child like Samuil. He was so smart and almost full grown. How hard would that be? Maybe she wanted a boy to take care of. Maybe she would be willing to be Samuil’s mother. In time she would love him. How could she not? She would see how special he is and eventually he would grow fond of her too.

“Do you understand, Mrs. Alshonsky? He’s been looking for you. He left word at all the embassies around Russia. You are an American citizen. You’re safe now.”

Berta leaned back as the blackness swirled behind her closed eyes. She could hear nothing now but the slowing beat of her heart. Samuil was in good hands, she could see that. This woman would take care of him. It would be all right. He was safe. She could sleep now. She didn’t have to fight anymore.

“What’s wrong with her?” the young woman said in clumsy French.

“She’s fine. She’s healthy,” Samuil answered desperately.

The last thing Berta heard was the woman replying, “No, she’s not fine. She’s not fine at all.”

And then she was riding in an open sleigh with Sura by her side. They were sailing down Petrovka Street, bundled up in furs and leather blankets, coming home from a party at the Kokorevs’. She could smell the signal bonfires at the intersections and hear the sleigh bells and the whoosh of the runners on the hard-packed track. There was a candle burning in one of the upper-story windows of a large house. It melted the frost on the glass in a perfect semicircle.

Are you happy, Mameh?

Very happy.

Sura looked up into the sky and closed her eyes. She let the snow fall on her face, icy and wet, thudding down on her cheeks and lips with down-feather softness. Berta put an arm around her daughter and breathed in the smell of her hair and felt her silky cheek, wet and cold against her own.

May 1921

THE FLIVVER was parked in front of the Hoenig Brothers hardware store and undertaker, a brick building adorned with new awnings and wrought-iron chairs that sat out in front. Painted on the side of the building was a huge sign proclaiming in big block letters THE FARMER UNION BETS ON YOU! Up the road, a work crew labored to lay down a new wood-block road. Hershel had talked the other business owners into pitching in for it. It will be good for business , he had told them. New roads for a new day .

Once they were settled in, Hershel pulled out the carburetor choke, pressed the starter button, and when she caught he released the brake. They drove out past the business section, which was still composed of mostly empty lots, but here and there were clapboard and brick buildings fronted with signs that said simply FURNITURE; LUMBER; SINGER SEWING MACHINE.