David Bezmozgis - The Free World

— Not long ago, Emma said, Alec told me and my husband that he was going to marry and apply for emigration. It was the first we’d heard about either of these things — neither of them being something a parent would take lightly. We were both quite shocked, though, I daresay, not for the same reasons. Now Alec changes his plans: he still intends to emigrate, but no longer to marry. When I ask about his bride, who she is, what happened, he doesn’t say. But I’m his mother. Men believe they have secrets only because women pretend that they don’t know.

Emma delivered this last line with a wry resignation, and Polina felt yet more warmly disposed toward her.

And then, without any further preamble, Emma related a story from her past.

Emma tried to conjure for Polina the image of herself as she was at the age of twenty-one, a young bride, innocent in a way twenty-one-year-old girls no longer were, wedded to a handsome man she barely knew, a man twelve years her senior, a Red Army officer and a veteran of the front, experienced in life in ways she couldn’t imagine and didn’t dare ask about. They were living in Baltinava, the small town where Emma had been born, and from which she and her parents had fled when the Nazis invaded in 1941. In the woods surrounding the town were bandits of various stripes. Most days, there was shooting. It was dangerous to go into the streets at night, and even more dangerous to be on the roads outside of town. Her father and her husband were both military men. Time and again, they led raids into the woods.

This was in January, the winter of 1946. She was six months pregnant. For most of the Soviet Union the war was over, but for her it persisted.

— I was frightened every minute of every day, Emma said. I feared for the lives of my father and my husband, out in the woods, and I feared for the life of my unborn child.

There were townspeople who sympathized with the bandits. When her father and husband were away, only she, her mother, and her invalid grandfather remained in the house. Her father and husband left them a submachine gun, but the weapon terrified her and her mother both. If, God forbid, the need arose, neither of them trusted herself to use it.

The strain on her nerves led to complications with her pregnancy. From the very beginning, she had been unwell. What she desperately wanted was to quit the terrifying town and wait out the duration of her term in Riga, or at the very least with relatives in Karsava. But her father and her husband dismissed the idea. Her husband said that the conditions in town were nowhere near as dangerous as she made them out to be.

But she couldn’t cast the worries from her mind, and she couldn’t simply ignore the shooting that came from the woods. Finally, late one evening, under the weight of her nervous strain, something in her snapped. There were terrible pains and a great deal of blood. She was put into bed, and the white sheets were quickly drenched. Outside, a thick coat of snow lay on the streets.

— The town had no proper doctor, Emma said, only a medic in the Red Army garrison and two midwives. I had already started my medical training and I knew that there was nobody in town equipped to handle what was happening to me. I thought that my baby was going to die inside me, and that I would die too.

Through this anguish, she saw her husband standing at her bedside. She thought he was angry with her, but then, with great force, he said: You will not die.

He went out into the night and returned with his hat and the shoulders of his greatcoat covered in snow. With the help of her parents she was lifted from the bed, wrapped in wool blankets, and taken outside on a feather duvet. Her mother had used a rag to stanch the bleeding, but it didn’t help. In front of the house was a horse-drawn sledge that her husband had hired from a neighbor. There were no trucks or automobiles to be had. Even the garrison had none — but even if it had, a truck or an automobile would have been crippled in such snow.

She was put on the sledge, and her husband took the reins.

From where she lay, she saw the back of his greatcoat. He had a submachine gun across his shoulder and a whip in one hand. He snapped the whip and they lurched off into the dark, frozen night.

They were headed for Karsava, fifteen kilometers away. At night, in such weather, the trip would take hours and hours.

— I lay in the sledge and felt the life draining out of me. Not just my own life, but also the life of the child. In my delirium, I felt the child’s spirit float out of me and waft into the sky. I felt beyond all consolation. Only a woman who has experienced such a tragedy can comprehend it. I no longer cared about my own life. I was ready to let my spirit drift off after my child’s.

Only her husband’s will kept her from dying. It was as if Death had her by one hand and her husband had her by the other. And all night long she felt herself being pulled in opposite directions, until, finally, Death released its hold. For the sake of her life, her husband had been more unyielding than Death.

— I saw a part of him I had not seen before, Emma said. He was not only stern, but he was also gentle; he spoke sweetly to me; over the howling wind, he called my name. I could not put into words everything I saw of him that night. But it was what kept me alive. And not only that night, but also in the weeks that followed.

They were standing again near the front gates of the factory. Even as they stood quietly, Emma kept her arm linked with Polina’s.

— I am grateful to you for your kindness, Polina said. It’s very sad what happened to your child. But our experiences are not the same.

— I know you don’t know me. You have every right to think: Who is this woman? What does she want from me? It’s true that I’m Alec’s mother and that I saw his unhappiness and I wanted to help him. But I am also a woman, and I came to speak to you as a woman. My dear, you are still young. Your life is ahead of you. Even if you don’t make a life with my son, you mustn’t punish yourself. Sooner or later, we all say, What’s done is done. It is better to say it sooner.

Emma turned her head and glanced down the street. Polina watched her eyes settle on a black Volga, which responded by edging from the curb. The car rolled slowly toward them. Through the windshield, Polina saw the face of the driver, a lean, muted, sagacious, Latvian face. The car stopped beside them, its rear passenger door level with Emma. The driver got out and came around to their side. He opened the door for Emma and remained in place, looking obediently, implacably into the distance. The heavy, polished car idled luxuriantly. Polina became aware of VEF workers, entering and exiting through the main gate, who paused to look at her. Emma paid them no mind.

— We are leaving this country, Emma said. Whatever you decide, my dear, decide so that you do not regret it later.

She released Polina’s arm and lowered herself into the backseat of the car. She said, Thank you, Arturs, and Arturs expertly shut the door.

Never looking directly at her, his tone sedate, the man spoke to her in Latvian.

— If you were my daughter, I would tell you to use your ticket. Nothing is going to change here.

Arturs rounded the hood and resumed his seat. Polina watched the formal black car, with its two apostates, pull away and disappear down the road.

My dearest Lola,

Belated Rosh Hashanah greetings to you and Igor! May you both have a good and sweet year! (See how I’m expanding my cultural horizons!) How did you celebrate the holiday in Rome?

Here, I was invited by my new friends to a special dinner. Thanks to you, I’ve been made an honorary member of their circle. They’ve even given me a new name: Naomi. They’re all very amused by the idea of me as Naomi. The name is from the Bible, which some of them claim to have read. As a work of literature, it’s gotten mixed reviews. Our mailman says that God was no Tolstoy. But everyone agrees that it’s the best source to consult when you need to name a Gentile.