Alina Bronsky - Baba Dunja's Last Love

The man standing at the front of the soldiers waves a paper. “You are suspected of murder.”

“Who is?”

The soldier looks at his documents. Then he tries to look me in the eyes and immediately squints. “All of you.”

“All of Tschernowo?”

“I’m sorry, Baba Dunja, but you are not excluded.”

And he shows me a line with my name before snatching the paper away again. Apparently he is afraid that his hands will fall off if we both touch the same piece of paper.

“Honored comrade in the service of the military police,” I say. “Honored soldier, sir. This can only be some sort of misunderstanding.”

Suddenly he waves the paper wildly. “I’m just doing my job, old woman.”

“But please look at us, do we look like murderers?”

His gaze wanders over our faces, one after the other. It lingers a little longer on the bridal pair. I decide not to point out their status so he doesn’t feel like he’s being tricked.

“Don’t make this so difficult, Baba Dunja,” he forces out between his teeth. “We really have no choice.”

My dear granddaughter Laura,

This is your loving grandmother Baba Dunja writing to you from the village of Tschernowo-by-Malyschi. At the moment I’m not actually in Tschernowo but in prison. Please forgive me, then, for the gray paper, I had bought special writing paper with roses on it but I don’t have it here.

You are a big girl now and I would like to write to you directly. I find it nice that we are now corresponding. It should be easier for you than for me in one regard because you’ll quickly find someone to translate the letter in case you can’t understand it. Maybe you can even read Russian but not write it? You young people have it easy when it comes to languages.

I hadn’t intended to bother you or your mother with the news. But I heard through the grapevine that it had spread beyond the Russian border. I don’t want you to worry unnecessarily. I was told that there are television reports about us. Less on Russian, Ukrainian, and Belarusian stations than on the many foreign ones. Apparently there are a lot of journalists and television crews in front of the prison, and the court can’t do its work.

I decided to write you this letter for that reason, so that you hear about things from me and not (only) from your mother or the television. Because the television is a good source of information, but it is also good to hear about the events from someone who was actually there.

I’ve never been to prison before. It’s called pre-trial detention because the crime is not yet proven. But I can’t tell you exactly what is different about it from real prison.

Let me describe it.

There are ten women in each cell. The cell isn’t very big, more like cozy. Aside from me, Lenotschka and Marja are here, they are two women from Tschernowo. Lenotschka always looks sad because she has no children. She used to worry that they would get sick, so she never had any. I have to say, it was probably a good decision.

Marja is my neighbor. I’ve already written to you about her. The other women we only met here. Many of them are nice. Tamara had a fight with her husband. Natalja picked up a stranger’s baby without asking, Lida mixed up some medications, and Katja insulted a good man, probably by accident.

At first they were worried that we wouldn’t be a good fit in the cell together, but the situation has improved.

I haven’t seen the men from Tschernowo but I hope they are doing well.

I must confess that your old grandmother has been feeling a bit down here. I sometimes find myself in a bad mood. It’s Marja who cheers me up. She makes sure I eat my soup and that I have space on a bottom bunk to sleep, and when we talk she keeps me from getting too melancholy. She says I shouldn’t shut down, after all she’s the one who just got married and should be far more depressed than me.

Naturally the marriage isn’t recognized in prison, and Marja and her newlywed Sidorow are strangers in the eyes of the court and must testify against each other.

My dear granddaughter Laura, I don’t know what they are saying on German television. I sometimes glance out the window when I am taken for interrogation. But all I can see is barbed wire and walls.

That’s enough for now. I send you a hug, your loving grandmother Baba Dunja.

I know how it feels to be helpless and not to know what to do. But I’m not familiar with the feeling of not knowing what is right and what is wrong. I should have told Laura that I can’t read her letter. But I’m a little ashamed about it. And besides, I have to assume that Irina will read my letter, too. I’m not used to thinking about so many angles, I’ve always been straightforward.

I just hope I haven’t disgraced Irina and Laura with this stupid arrest.

It is night in our cell, and I hear the others snoring. It’s strange how quickly people get used to one another when they have to. In our cell, I get along particularly well with Tamara, Natalja, Lida, and Katja. Tamara killed her husband with an electric iron. Natalja stole a baby out of a stroller in front of a butcher shop. Lida sold sugar tablets as American aspirin, and Katja spray-painted obscenities on a bishop’s garage door.

At first they didn’t want to talk to us, they didn’t even want to be in the same cell with us because they were afraid of radiation. They banged on the door and screamed until a guard came and switched off the light.

Somewhere in the distance metal utensils clatter. I’m caged like a guinea pig. We never had a hamster or bird at home, no animal that you had to keep in a cage. I was against locking up animals.

When Marja turns over while she is sleeping the entire cell shakes. I feel very sorry for Marja. Lenotschka less so; she looks no different here than in Tschernowo.

I take out Laura’s letter, which I always have with me, and go slowly to the door with it. The light is out in our cell but dull light from the hall comes in through the grated window. I try to read the words but they still make no sense to me, just like so many times before. So I linger on the signature in Latin letters — Laura.

A guard has picked up on the movement in our cell. She walks up to our door with steady, heavy steps. Many of the women here have bodies like men, thick in the middle. The window opens.

“It’s me, Baba Dunja,” I whisper quickly so she doesn’t start shouting and wake up the entire block.

“Go to sleep, granny.”

“I can’t. Grannies are wakeful.”

“Then lie down and button your lips.”

“What is your name, daughter?”

She pauses. “Jekaterina.”

“That is a beautiful name. Do you know German, Katja?”

She is a big woman. Her face hangs in the window, bloated, round and pale like a full moon. You can tell that she works nights and drinks a lot. And that nobody is waiting for her at home.

“I learned French in school. And if I hear another word out of you, granny, I’m coming in.”

I fold Laura’s letter until it is small enough to fit into the palm of my hand. My greatest fear is that it will disintegrate before I find out what it says.