Andrea White: Radiant Girl

I slipped the matryoshka out of its box. Granny Vera always said, “ Matryoshkas are built like the human heart: Mysteries within mysteries.” It was true that you never knew how many dolls a matryoshka contained. Most matryoshkas had five, and many had seven. Another mystery was whether the smaller dolls matched the outer one or exhibited a completely different pattern.

Eager to find out, I studied the biggest doll. She was a young woman wearing an embroidered shirt and skirt. She had big brown eyes, a round stomach, no hands and a red scarf on her head. In the moonlight, I squinted to see her better. Her scarf failed to conceal her red hair.

I held up the doll. “Thank you, Uncle,” I called.

He was busy drinking and didn’t hear me.

“Let me see it. Let me see it,” Angelika said.

“Just a second,” I answered. I unscrewed the lid and found that the second doll was younger than the outer one. Like me, she was a redheaded schoolgirl. She had on the same brown dress and the white apron that I wore on ceremonial occasions.

Impatiently, Angelika made a move as if to grab the matryoshka from me.

I quickly unscrewed the schoolgirl’s lid and was disappointed to find only one more doll. I held in my hands a baby, with no hair at all, wrapped in a white blanket.

Angelika bent over me. “Only three dolls, huh?”

I nodded.

“Can I open the Barbie?” she asked, having lost interest in the matryoshka .

“Sure,” I said.

“Comrades.” My Uncle Pavel Kryko held up his glass of horilka . Mama always said that Pavel Kryko’s peg leg shouldn’t give him an excuse to drink too much. Then Papa always said for Pavel Kryko, any excuse would do.

As Uncle Pavel repeated one of the jokes that he favored, his nose shone particularly bright. “Someone asked me,” my uncle said, “‘What do you do if vodka is interfering with your job?’ I said, ‘You quit your job.’” He began guffawing so hard that he bent over.

“Cake,” my mother called out quickly, probably to draw attention away from Pavel Kryko’s drunkenness. “It’s time for the cake.”

As if by magic, Aunt Olga appeared next to me. She was holding the chocolate cake now ablaze with candles.

I didn’t have time to reassemble the matryoshka , so I scooped the bigger pieces into the box. Afraid I’d lose the baby, I slipped it into my pocket before standing up and hurrying over to the outdoor table.

Until the moment that I faced the lighted cake, I hadn’t given any thought to my wish.

Without a pause, Papa’s deep voice, Mama’s soothing one, Uncle Pavel’s slurred bass and Aunt Olga’s soprano all united in calling out to me, “S dnem narodzhennya .”

A wish. I had to make a wish.

Earlier that evening, I had dreamed of marrying Boris, but he already had a girlfriend.

Sergei was cute, but Angelika liked him, and I didn’t want to lose my best friend. Of course, I longed for a Yava, but a motorcycle of my own was an impossible dream. I heard my name. My loved ones were growing impatient.

With the stars shining down on us, I gazed at the candles. The flames twisted red and yellow in the night breeze.

“You have so much,” Angelika whispered. “What do you have to wish for?”

This was the hint that I needed. I shoved my hands deep into my pocket and felt the little matryoshka . I sucked in a deep breath and blew with all my strength. All the while, I fixed my mind on one true thought: Thank you , I thought, whoever you are . I did have so much: my parents, my friends, my motorcycle ride, my forest and the mighty Soviet Union. I wish for these things never to change .

Many of the candles flickered and went out, but two stubbornly continued to burn brightly. In our family, a birthday girl’s wish comes true only if she is able to blow out all the candles in a single breath, and I stared resentfully at the holdouts. Although my wish wasn’t for anything new, I still felt let down.

Encouraged by my little cousins’ laughter, Uncle Pavel was attempting to balance his carved wooden cane on his nose. He tripped and stumbled into a corner of the table. A crockery plate bounced on a bench and shattered, spewing cucumber salad. I remembered the plate had been special to Granny Vera, but I wasn’t sure why.

“Oh, my goodness,” Uncle Pavel said, fumbling to collect himself and his cane.

Not again, I thought. Mama is going to be angry.

Aunt Olga rushed past holding a dustpan.

In all the commotion, I saw the fine spray of Yuri’s spit raining on the cake. My little cousin had blown out my two remaining birthday candles. “Yuri!” I called. But the little demon disappeared underneath the table before I could scold him. A few moments later, I caught sight of a small figure running towards the garden.

My father walked over to my mother and me. He whispered, “I’m taking the Krykos home.” His voice was heavy with scorn. He used this tone when he discussed the “weak ones”: alcoholics, men who were out of shape or who couldn’t take care of their families. “I’ll go straight from town to work,” he finished.

I knew that Mama was both disappointed Papa wasn’t going to stay for the birthday cake and relieved to say goodbye to Uncle Pavel. She was anxious for him to leave before he told more bad jokes or caused more damage.

“Happy birthday, little one,” Papa said.

“Thanks, Papa,” I answered. “I wish you could stay.” Papa rumpled my hair. “You know I don’t eat dessert anyway.” He set off to collect Uncle Pavel.

What Papa said was true. He was the healthiest man in the whole village. He called horilka ‘poison’ and avoided sweets, even kutia , the traditional Christmas dish Mama made with poppy seeds, wheat nuts and honey.

Not me! Mama cut me a perfect piece of chocolate cake, the corner with extra icing. Even though I had been too full to finish a whole cabbage roll, I was suddenly starving and was able to finish my slice in a few bites.

A few minutes later, Angelika squeezed my hand. “Mama says we have to go.” She shrugged. “School night.”

I thanked her again. “I love the Barbie doll.” The writing on the pink box was in English, which I couldn’t read. But I was excited to comb the Barbie’s hair. The bobbed-blonde style looked so Western.

After walking Angelika and her mother to their car, I returned to the cottage. The smell of coffee now filled our home. Aunt Olga and a neighbor were carrying a huge stack of dishes to the sink. Since I wouldn’t be expected to help in the kitchen on my birthday, I began gathering my gifts from the ground outside and transporting them to my room. Inna Boiko cried out, “Have you seen my coat?”

“Katya, where are you? The Boikos are leaving,” my mother called.

I walked back into the main room where my ears were pulled all over again, too many times to count. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a few pieces of Granny Vera’s plate gleaming on the counter. Without comment, Mama scooped up the shards and dumped them in the trash.

The June bugs and gnats beat themselves against the light on the porch as Mama and I waved goodbye to the last of the guests. When we reentered the house, only a sweet, meaty smell lingered as proof that the gathering had taken place at all.

“I’m glad you had a good time,” she said. As she stroked my hair, her eyes sought out the cuckoo clock.

I sighed and leaned into her strong arms. “It was perfect.”