Marina Cramer - Roads

Galina led him through a small sitting room crowded with old furniture. In passing, his eye caught a faded upholstered chair, a simple lamp on a low cloth-covered table, a sewing machine set on a vintage desk in front of the only window, a narrow daybed against the opposite wall, draped with an ornamental rug, several small embroidered cushions piled at one end. Another rug hung on the wall, a troika speeding through a wooded winter landscape. Filip stopped in front of the tapestry, admiring the realistically rendered horses, manes flying, breath steaming from flared nostrils, a wild look in the single eye turned toward the viewer.

“It’s been in the family for years,” Galina said. “My grandfather was a merchant. He brought it from the Caucasus, along with these others.” She gestured vaguely, taking in the spread and the floral rug beneath their feet.

“And the icon? Are you not afraid to have it on display?” He pointed to the holy image on a high corner shelf, a votive candle reflected in the protective glass.

“Mama is not afraid. She says Saint Nicholas—that’s him, in the icon—will protect us. He has been her family’s patron saint for generations. So far, it seems to be working. Come. Now. Mama has to finish the wood.”

They passed quickly through a doorway draped with floor-length curtains separating the living area from the tiny kitchen. A freshly baked pie cooled on the cast-iron stove, filling his senses with its savory blend of potatoes, onions, and pastry, provoking a gnawing, instantaneous hunger. At home, there would be grape leaves stuffed with rice—he had seen the leaves soaking in a basin when he left for school—and maybe a thin soup for supper, depending on what rations his mother would have received that day. Good, but nothing like this. Was there any hope of getting even a little taste?

Filip was so distracted he did not notice how he and Galina had ended up in the little yard behind the house, where he could see garden tools in a tiny rough-built shed next to a flourishing kitchen garden. A tall, large-boned woman was splitting logs for firewood, stacking the finished pieces under a corrugated metal canopy next to the back door.

He would always remember his first meeting with Ksenia, the indelible impression of bare, powerful arms wielding an ax with as much skill as any man. She had the preoccupied appearance of a woman with too much to do. Her hair, cropped to just below the ears, for convenience rather than any concession to style, was a fine light brown streaked with silver. Her features had none of the radiant beauty Galina so innocently displayed; only a slight resemblance around the mouth revealed the relationship.

“Mama, this is Filip.” Galina raised her voice to be heard above the crack of splintering wood.

Ksenia buried the ax in the chopping block and looked at him with unsmiling gray eyes. “Ksenia Semyonovna,” she introduced herself.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Filip answered formally. “I am sorry to intrude on you. I can see you are busy.”

“There is always work to do.” The words echoed similar pronouncements he had heard repeated in Pioneer meetings and noticed on billboards around the city, but sounded decidedly different coming from this formidable woman. This was no ideology expressed for the good of the people. This was a fact of life.

“Yes. Well, I am involved in another kind of work. Well, not work, exactly, but… still important, in its own way… you know…” Filip floundered, feeling the sure ground of his idea give way in the face of this undeniable practicality. “Galina and I…”

“I know. You have been deskmates for years. You start at the gymnasium in the fall. You want to be an architect, yes? Galya chatters about you endlessly.” Ksenia glanced at her daughter, who stood meekly next to her earnest friend, twisting the end of her braid with nervous fingers.

“Oh, yes, I do. Unless I am called to serve the motherland.”

“Like my Maksim,” she said, offering no further explanation. Filip knew Galina’s brother was studying medicine at university, but felt too much a stranger to the household to ask for more details.

“Well. I work with the Theater Players. We are trying to keep our cultural heritage alive for future generations.” The words sounded condescending and grandiose even to his own ears, and he wished he had not spoken them.

Galina tittered. “Go on.” She punched his arm. “Future generations!”

He ignored her. There was nothing to do but continue. “And provide entertainment, of course. A rest from the routine… Anyway, we need a singer for the next production, the summer series. I know how your daughter loves to sing. I thought…” He trailed off, his courage ebbing with each word.

“And you want her to sing? To exhibit herself on the stage?” Ksenia faced her daughter. “Galya, do you want to do this, in front of all those people? People who may know you? And German soldiers, too?”

The young people both spoke at once, their words mixing in a chorus of enthusiasm the older woman found endearing in spite of her reservations.

“Yes, Mama, I do want to sing.”

“Her voice is so fine; it would be perfect for our program. The audience would be uplifted by its beauty. Don’t we all need some beauty now, in these hard times?” Filip finished bravely. If the cause was hopeless, he had nothing to lose.

“And how long?” Ksenia turned her head to one side, studying their flushed faces.

“Oh, just the summer, Ksenia Semyonovna. We perform Thursday through Sunday evenings, at seven o’clock, so everyone can be home before curfew.”

“No Sundays. Sunday is the Lord’s day.”

“Very well. Ladno .” Filip rocked on his feet, elated. Was she really giving in? “No Sundays. I will arrange it with Fyodor Andreevich.”

“So I can do it? Yes? And Papa will not mind?” Galina hopped in place, just stopping herself from clapping her hands.

“I will explain it to Papa. He will not mind.” Ksenia’s voice was firm. “My husband is often away, selling his jewelry and crafts in nearby towns,” she explained to Filip. “I cannot wait for him with every question.” He nodded, but sensed that making decisions came naturally to this forceful woman; unlike his own mother, she seemed likely to have the last word in any situation.

“Come inside,” she added. “Have some pie before you go.”

Kharkov, 4 February 1941

Dearest Mama,

I trust this letter finds you well. I know that life in Yalta is hard, but you are strong. And you have Galya to help you. She is good at practical matters. You know I am not.

About her singing—do not worry about the exposure giving her romantic ideas of a theatrical career. She has been wailing one song or another practically since birth, and I suppose she has a pleasing enough voice, but she lacks the discipline required of professionals, and is probably too old to begin formal training. Well, perhaps not. I really know little about the artistic world, especially of singers. I do know that with the real threat of escalation of the war, many have put aside pursuing personal ambitions until after the conflict ends. So let her sing if it pleases her and people want to listen. Soon enough she will marry and her life will take its course.

The theaters and concert halls are filled to capacity for every performance here. The other day, Uncle Vanya was interrupted by an air raid. Everyone just filed into the bomb shelter, then came back for the final act. You could say we love Chekhov more than life itself. Recently, the Moscow circus was in town, and the performers say it is the same there, even though the German threat is advancing and many shops are out of food by eleven in the morning. I cannot say I truly understand this madness for theater, film, and ballet, except that we as a people have always loved the arts and appear to need this release, pretending for an hour or two that life is normal and all is well. Psychology is not my specialty.