In Times of Fading Light

“Ah,” said Kurt. “Yes, of course.”

But she sensed that he didn’t really believe her.

“He would have married me,” she persisted, “if Marfa hadn’t interfered first, and then we went away from Grishkin Nagar, then later, when Ira was a big girl, we went to Slava.”

“What year was that?” asked Kurt.

“When the Soviets came.”

“When the Soviets came, Nadyeshda Ivanovna, you were just ten years old.”

“No, no.” Nadyeshda Ivanovna set him right. “I still remember, it was when our cousin slaughtered the cows, because he heard that anyone with more than three cows would be dekulakized, and then they dekulakized him all the same because he had slaughtered the cows.”

“You mean they shot him.”

“They’ll probably have shot him, it’s a long time ago.”

“And then you went to Slava.”

“Well, yes, Marfa didn’t want to go at first, not to Slava, because the Soviets were there.”

“But the Soviets were in Grishkin Nagar too, you just said so.”

“Yes, but in Grishkin Nagar, you see, there wasn’t much for the Soviets, six houses, not even a church to tear down. People said they were tearing churches down in Slava. Making electricity instead. My mother didn’t want anything to do with that, not her. She was against progress. I wasn’t against progress. It was a shame they tore churches down, but electricity, why not? And school, they said, people go to school in the city, so then we moved to the city, mainly because of Irina.”

“What city?” asked Kurt.

“How do you mean, what city?”

“You said you moved to the city.”

“Yes, you know we did.”

“Then you mean Slava.”

“Yes, of course, Slava. Where else?”

“Of course,” said Kurt, “where else?”

They crossed to the other side of the road. The sun was shining through the sparse crowns of the trees, warming you through your clothes, all the way to your bones. Nadyeshda Ivanovna enjoyed walking along beside Kurt, arm in arm, it was almost flattering, she’d even forgotten her feet with all the talking. Maybe she’d go to church again, to an Orthodox church, you could go some of the way on a tramcar, she could light a candle for Sasha, even if he didn’t believe in all that, maybe it would help him find some peace all the same, poor boy, or she would give something for the collection if that was what you did, after all, she had money.

Charlotte and Wilhelm’s house was beautiful. The little tower sticking out on one side of the roof even made it look a little like a church, her mother, Marfa, would have taken it for a church, though in fact she took any stone house for a church. The entrance was almost at ground level, that in particular seemed to Nadyeshda Ivanovna very grand, you had only to go up one step and then you were in front of a massive wooden double door, even with carving and two gilded fish heads on it.

A young man in a suit opened the door to them, Nadyeshda Ivanovna knew him, she’d often seen him at Charlotte and Wilhelm’s house, a cheerful person who was always laughing, and who welcomed her exuberantly. Babushka, Babushka, he said, and Nadyeshda Ivanovna said: God be with you, my son. “Bogh s taboyu, synok.”

First you went into a little front room, from here a glass door led to the spacious hall, there was even a cloakroom alcove for the coat stand, which looked just like the front door of the house, carved wood, except that Wilhelm had painted it, but tastefully, not like Ira, who painted furniture white so that the place looked like a hospital.

Now Charlotte came bustling along, she too was older than Nadyeshda Ivanovna, but her legs were still fine and she had a hairstyle like a young girl. Although the conversation between Kurt and Charlotte was in German, Nadyeshda Ivanovna grasped the fact that Charlotte was asking how Irina and Sasha were, and she could tell from Charlotte’s face that she wasn’t happy about what Kurt told her, which was, or so Nadyeshda Ivanovna suspected, that Sasha was in America. Still, she took it with composure, just so long as Wilhelm heard nothing about it, ni slova Wilgelmu, she repeated in Russian for emphasis.

“You see, Nadyeshda Ivanovna, he’s not at all…”

And she gestured in a way that was difficult to interpret. What was the matter with Wilhelm? Wasn’t he well?

It was a fact that Wilhelm had lost weight since Nadyeshda Ivanovna last saw him. He almost disappeared into his huge armchair. His glance was gloomy, and his voice quavered as he welcomed her.

“For you, little father,” said Nadyeshda Ivanovna, giving him the jar of pickles.

Wilhelm’s eyes brightened. He looked at Nadyeshda Ivanovna and said, glancing back at the pickled gherkins, “Garosh!”

But they weren’t peas.

“They’re gherkins,” Nadyeshda Ivanovna explained. “Ogurzy!”

“Garosh,” said Wilhelm.

“Ogurzy,” said Nadyeshda Ivanovna.

But Wilhelm, as if to prove that there were peas in the jar anyway, had it opened for him and fished out a gherkin. And although it really was obviously a gherkin that he was biting into, he said, “Garosh!”

Nadyeshda Ivanovna nodded. So that was it! On the way out, poor old Wilhelm. Now she understood the darkness of his gaze; she’d seen it before in those about to die.

“Bogh s taboyu,” said Nadyeshda Ivanovna.

Then she set about greeting the guests. She knew many of them, if not by their names. She knew the silent man with the sad eyes who had opened the jar of pickles for Wilhelm. She also knew his wife, a blonde who always seemed to be a head taller than her husband—except when they were standing side by side. She knew the friendly lady who sold vegetables in the store next to the post office; she happily gave her her purse to take out the right money. She also knew the police officer and the neighbor whose hand was always damp and who always greeted her with the words Da zdravstvuyet!—long live, only he never said exactly what was to live long. They were all really friendly, even those she didn’t know, the men stood up specially, shook her hand and patted her on the shoulder, it was quite embarrassing. Only the friendly man in the pale gray suit who still used to speak Russian to her last year looked as if he didn’t recognize her, his hand shook and his face was frozen, and he suddenly looked like Brezhnev.

She sat down at the end of the long table, someone brought up a little armchair specially for her, a chair into which she sank so far that she hardly came up to the top of the table. She was given coffee and cake, thank God the coffee wasn’t too strong, and the cake was delicious, she ate two slices, balancing the plate on her knees while the other guests went back to their conversations. The Germans talked a lot, that was nothing new, all that university education, they had a lot to tell each other, for Nadyeshda Ivanovna it was nothing but the usual torrent of rasping, guttural sounds. Yes, of course she’d wanted to learn German when she came to Germany, she used to sit down and bone up on the German letters every day, but then, when she knew all the letters by heart, when she knew the entire German alphabet, she made an astounding discovery: she still didn’t know German. So then she gave up, it was pointless, such a difficult, mysterious language, the words scratched your throat like dry bread, Kootentak you said on meeting someone, good day, and Affeederseyn, until we meet again, on parting, or the other way around, Affeederseyn, Kootentak, such a lot of trouble to take over just saying hello and good-bye.

The man with the sad eyes pushed a small green metal beaker over to Nadyeshda Ivanovna and raised his glass.

“Nadyeshda Ivanovna,” said the man.

“Da zdravstvuyet,” cried the damp-handed man, also raising his glass.