Джанет Фитч - Chimes of a Lost Cathedral

I snapped the diapers to get as much water out of them as I could, and laid them in the sun, away from my admirer.

He leaned over to where I was squatting, his shadow shading me. “You’re avoiding me, Marina Dmitrievna.” I cringed. How could he know my name? From the visit from the railway Cheka? I never used my patronymic on the train.

“I’m just trying to get these diapers done.”

“Leave them. Let’s go have some samogon with some friends of mine. They say it’s good for the milk. Makes it flow like a fountain.”

The last thing I wanted to do was to go drinking with this man, or meet his friends. I certainly didn’t want him thinking about my milk flowing like a fountain. It made me ill to think that he had given such consideration to the condition of my milk. “No, I think I’ll live instead,” I said. “It’s all poison.”

He brushed his hand against my shoulder, the tips of his fingers. I shuddered despite myself. “Suit yourself,” he said.

The full moon filled the windows of the rocking train. Everyone was asleep, including the Chekist, out cold on the bottom bunk opposite after his party in Vologda, snoring even louder than the train. I recognized everyone’s night sounds now—the Petrocommune man from Eliseev’s with his whistling snore across from me, and below him, the timber man, who was a tremendous farter. We knew each other all too well. The rising moon was like a small child trying to peer above a table, enormous and white, round-faced.

All I could think of was being back in Kolya’s embrace. This same moon was peering in at him, somewhere up ahead. Dream of me, Kolya. Feel me. I’m on my way . I breathed, and projected myself into the astral, and flew out across the miles, Iskra in the crook of my arm, west to Petrograd, following the train lines. We dipped over the canals and the vast shining Neva, peeked into windows, looking for him. We landed on a windowsill—Kolya at a desk, the lamp lit, the window open, he was smoking a cigarette, writing a letter. To whom? He looked tired. I didn’t like to see him like that. I wanted to rub my palms over his forehead and erase those lines. They didn’t suit him. I’m coming, my dear.

I needed to urinate, but dreaded the long march to the filthy toilet. Next to me, Iskra lay, her tiny upturned nose, the bow of her mouth. What could she be dreaming? I hated to wake her, but I would not leave her here alone. At least at this time of night, there might not be a queue. I clambered down, trying not to step on the woman and her son, and the husband below, then lifted the baby’s sleeping weight out of the berth and snugged her into the cloth. I had about two seconds to quiet her between her awakening and the first shriek. I was getting pretty good at this. Then we began our awkward, jolting, swaying stumble through the crowded car, stepping across people sleeping on the floor with their bags and packages. They slept pretty well considering the clanging and rattling of the unmaintained train and my misplaced steps. God, what a stink. Gas and bad teeth and unwashed bodies worse than any zoo. The longing face of the moon followed me down the car.

I used the unspeakable hole at the back of the train, holding my breath until I could open the door again.

There in the narrow corridor, waiting for me, loomed the Chekist’s fat face. He pushed me back into the WC, shut the door. In this stinking hole, he was on me, crushing me to the wall next to the toilet, smashing Iskra between us to plant a repulsive, boozy kiss on my lips, clawing at my dress, popping the buttons from its bodice. His disgusting hands grabbed my bare breast. I screamed, but who could hear me in this coffin over the grinding of metal on metal, the clangor of the train? He clapped his hand around my throat, cutting my wind, and with the other, unbuckled his famous belt. I heard it hit the floor as his pants dropped, God, he was going to rape me right here in the crapper with my daughter tied onto me. She was screaming now that she had the room.

Perhaps wanting a better grip on my body, he reached into the cloth and grabbed her. He was trying to pull her out by her arm! Oh God, her screams. I had no thought but to stop him, stop him from hurting my baby. I reached through the slit in my skirt and pulled out the gun, pressed it deep into his chest. Do you know what this is, Mr. Cheka? Without hesitating, I fired.

The impact slammed him back against the door. He slid down, but there was no room to fall, he sagged onto me. I tried to open the door, but he was in the way. The baby screamed and screamed. He was holding his chest, blood bubbling out of his mouth. I had to stay out of the blood. I climbed onto the surround of the toilet, so he could fall against the wood. I put the gun back in my pocket—searing hot against my belly—and pushed open the door into the narrow corridor.

It was full of people. I could see their staring eyes in the moonlight. Boys. Orphans, traveling for free huddled in the filthy corridor. Gaping at me. “Help me open that door,” I ordered over Iskra’s screaming. “Quick.”

A boy reached over and pulled open the rear carriage door. His eyes gleamed with respect in the moonlight.

The sound of the train, the couplings, the fresh air, twice as loud now. I could no longer hear Iskra’s shrieks, or the man’s chest-shot gurgle, or smell the odor of offal and blood. All I knew was that I had to get rid of this Chekist or they’d come looking for his murderer. I pulled him out of the toilet on the blood-slick floor—my God, he was still alive, wheezing. The blood made the floor slick. “Help me,” I begged of them. “I can’t let them find him here.” First they pulled off his boots and went through his pockets. They took his clothes except for the bloodstained shirt, stripped him fast as one would skin a rabbit. Then they helped me pull him out onto the platform between the cars—the platform, too, was full of beggar children, riding out here in the dark and the wind and the scream of the metal. The bigger boys were the ones who shoved the Chekist out into the rushing darkness, onto the tracks. We stood on the platform among the smaller children, as his naked body disappeared in the moonlight. He was gone. Ten yards, twenty yards. The moon our only witness.

The baby wailed. I came back inside the car, and stood panting, staring at what had to be blood on the floor. Was it on my hands? On the boys? They didn’t look too bad. They showed me their hands. We stood outside the stinking hole, listening, waiting to see if anyone would come. You really couldn’t see the blood, the floor was so dirty, no one would notice it. I had to bet on it.

The moon leered through the window, a dangerous witness. I tried to soothe Iskra, but she would not be consoled. “What’s wrong with her?” one of the boys asked, a tall, tough-looking one with dark eyes.

I sat down, took her from the cloth and had a good look. There was something wrong with her arm. Limp. It was lower than the other. The bastard! My head was on fire. I wanted to scream, to become hysterical, but there was no time. My innocent child. This was my fault. It was up to me, there was nobody else. The moon waited, the train shuddered and groaned.

“He pulled the shoulder out,” the boy said. “You gotta pop it back in, mamenka .” He gestured, a fist into a cupped palm.

“I don’t know how,” I said, fighting hysteria.

“I do. Here, give ’er to me,” said the boy. He looked about fifteen, scabby and mangy. Though my life rested in his hands, I didn’t want to give my baby to him. There was no way to know when he’d last washed his hands, what diseases he might carry. But I did it. He sat on the floor and I handed him to her. “So, here’s what you do,” he said as he settled my poor screaming baby between his bony thighs. “You hold her arm still.” He showed me, pressing Iskra’s tiny upper arm against her rubbery baby body, as she shrieked and writhed. “Now ya gotta lift the bottom part up.” He raised Iskra’s forearm. The shrieks!