In Times of Fading Light

couldn’t even get to church with these feet, even her ottopedic shoes didn’t help, her feet were finished, had been around the world enough, all the way from Tartarsk to Grishkin Nagar, four years or however long it was on the road, walking, walking every summer, from the thawing of the snow until harvest, and then God grant that the kulak took pity on you, even if it was only a place in the stable that you got for the winter.

To put the shoes on she always had to unthread the shoelaces almost entirely, now she pulled them up again through the twelve holes, tied a bow, and another knot above the bow for safety’s sake, then it was done. She brushed her hair, without going into the bathroom specially, the TV screen was enough for her shaggy locks, thought Nadyeshda Ivanovna, all the better if you didn’t see yourself too well, then she put on her summer coat, it was still warm outside, and instead of the bag that she carried around on such occasions—although why bother, she had the key around her neck on a chain anyway, and she hid her purse in a pocket specially sewn into her skirt—well, instead of the bag she picked up the jar of pickles that had been standing on her table since this morning, sat down on the bed again, and waited for Kurt to fetch her. She didn’t mind waiting when she knew what she was waiting for, far from it, she was happy to wait then. It occurred to her that she hadn’t had anything to eat yet, the cheese roll that Ira had slammed down in front of her still lay on the desk with not a bite taken out of it, but she decided not to touch it, after all, she wasn’t a dog, so she stayed sitting where she was with the jar of pickles in her lap, waiting, thinking of nothing, or at least of nothing in particular, only that the things she was thinking of today were strange, of when she was a child sitting outside the church looking out for shoes, it was a long time since she’d thought of that, but where it was she had no idea now, the village, the faces, all of it forgotten, like the beginning of the book called War and Peace, only of course she remembered the day when they found Lyuba lying in the snow, you might have thought she was a frozen rag. She was said to have threatened one of the men with an ax. And then they had to move on, because they were “trouble makers,” in the middle of winter, but the kulak gave them a quarter of a pud of bread, she remembered that, and how the people stood at their windows watching, and then—she didn’t remember the rest of it. No idea. Somehow or other they came through. Somewhere or other they found places to stay. Sometime or other—was it that summer, was it the next summer?—they reached Grishkin Nagar, still the three of them: their mother, Marfa, Vera, Nadyeshda.

She could still remember Vera very well. Lyubov had been the most beautiful, their mother Marfa always used to say, but Vera was the gentlest, and that was how Nadyeshda Ivanovna still remembered her, God-fearing and quiet, and to this day she wondered why Vera, of all people, died such a terrible death. She had only a single winter in Grishkin Nagar. The first time they’d had a home of their own, their cousin had let them have the use of the little cottage, the gaps were well stopped up with moss, the stove was big enough for exactly three to sleep on it, in the evening the pinewood chips burned there with a resinous fragrance, while they sat together at the table doing this and that in a desultory way. The samovar hummed. Outside the wind howled, or when it was very quiet you heard the wolves howling, far away, as it seemed, but when winter had gone on long enough they came closer, slinking past the houses of Grishkin Nagar, and when you opened the door in the morning you saw their tracks in the snow. In the summer they were cowardly, you were more likely to be eaten by the mosquitoes than the wolves, you had to be half dead before they attacked you, the men said, she had probably been half crazed with thirst, who knew how long she had been wandering about, people who lose their way go around in circles, it was said, she had been found two years later some twelve or fifteen versts away, they brought back the zinc bucket that she had taken with her when she went out gathering berries, and in the bucket, oh, don’t ask, to this day it gave her goose bumps to think of what was left of Vera, only hoofs and horns left, now you know why, you turn around twice, you reach out for the berries twice, then you’ve lost your sense of direction, the taiga is large, you quickly lose all sense of direction, and then you find out what’s left of the little kid, only hoofs and horns left, in vain she did cry, only little hoofs and horns… ah well, he’ll have forgotten that, the boy will, and why remember, there were no wolves in Germany, everything was neat and tidy in Germany, even the forest, and who knew if they had any forests at all in America?

Kurt knocked on her door.

“I’m going to give him a jar of pickled gherkins,” said Nadyeshda Ivanovna. “Or isn’t that good enough?”

“That’s a very good idea, Nadyeshda Ivanovna, yes, you give him a jar of gherkins.”

A good man, Kurt, always polite, always called her by her first name and her patronymic, Ira could think herself lucky to have found a man like that, thought Nadyeshda Ivanovna as she hauled herself up, he’d been a camp inmate, yes, he’d been in the camp, but back in Slava she’d noticed that the former inmates were decent men, more so sometimes than that drunken lot the camp administrators, but to think he’d rise so far, get to be a professor, going to Berlin every Monday with a briefcase, he did something or other there, she didn’t know just what, but it was all in the cause of the state, and he earned good money, he’d bought Ira a car, no one back in Slava would believe her. The wife driving the car, the husband going on foot, come to think of it, where was Ira?

“Where’s Ira?” asked Nadyeshda Ivanovna.

Kurt shook his head.

“She’s not coming with us,” he said.

“What, not coming with us? On Wilhelm’s birthday?”

Kurt pointed upward. Now Nadyeshda Ivanovna heard the music coming out of Ira’s room, she knew that music, Ira had been listening to it a lot recently, it was Russian music, a Russian singer bellowing for all he was worth, but it wasn’t the music that worried Nadyeshda Ivanovna.

“Isn’t she feeling good?” asked Nadyeshda Ivanovna.

“She isn’t feeling good,” said Kurt.

“Because of Sasha?” asked Nadyeshda Ivanovna.

“Because of Sasha,” said Kurt.

Which was no reason for drinking, all the same, thought Nadyeshda Ivanovna. It wasn’t right for a woman, where did you ever hear the like of it, the wife drinking while the husband stayed sober, enough to put you to shame, and smoking, she smoked as well, none of it was right, getting drunk on Wilhelm’s birthday, as if Sasha would come back if she got drunk upstairs there.

“Take my arm, Nadyeshda Ivanovna, or you may fall.”

She took Kurt’s arm and went down the steps outside the house, one step at a time. The weeds in the cracks between the paving stones needed pulling out, she thought, as they went to the garden gate, but that was none of her business.

“So long as he’s all right there, that’s the main thing,” said Nadyeshda Ivanovna.

“Yes,” said Kurt. “That’s the main thing.”

Charlotte and Wilhelm lived in the same street, not very far away, but not really close either when your feet were worn out. Luckily the sidewalks in Germany were paved. Kurt was carrying the jar of pickles, they went along arm in arm, taking small steps. Maybe he simply wasn’t firm enough with Irina, thought Nadyeshda Ivanovna. Irina wasn’t going to listen to anything that she, Nadyeshda Ivanovna, said, she always knew better, whether it was about pickles or the dough for pelmeni, it wasn’t supposed to have eggs in it, and just try telling her she ought to drink less, all hell would be let loose, what do you think you’re doing meddling in my life, we’re not in the Urals at the back of beyond now, well, excuse me, but if they were in the Urals, at the back of beyond, you can just close your door there and have some peace and quiet. It was probably because she hadn’t had a father, her grandmother Marfa had spoilt her, of course, at the start it was all oh, the shame of it, a child by that dark man, she always said the dark man, the Zigan, but he wasn’t a gypsy at all, he’d been a trader, they’d bought kerosene from him, he was a good man, Pyotr Ignatyevitch, not a drinker, not like the mujiks in Grishkin Nagar, he was a gentleman almost, with his coat and his good manners, three horses to his cart, there weren’t as many as that in the whole village, and although yes, it had been a sin, and she asked God’s forgiveness, secretly she felt innocent, because if her mother, Marfa, hadn’t intervened they’d have been married in church before the eyes of God, he’d promised her on his word of honor.

“He wanted to marry me,” said Nadyeshda Ivanovna.

“Who?” asked Kurt.

“Why, Pyotr Ignatyevitch,” said Nadyeshda Ivanovna.