“Ah, Aunty, what nonsense. It’s Anton, my co-worker. He said his mother died. I gave him a friendly hug.”
After heaving a sigh, her aunt shrugged and bent to continue pulling weeds from the vegetable bed.
12
Ulya
June-July 1939
Engels, Saratov
What a wonderful day it was. The sun flooded the room, its gleam on the gray-greenish cardboard cover of her diploma, thrilling proof she was now a higher education specialist. With the tip of her finger, she traced over the letters Diploma then went to the window and peered to the end of the street for any sign of her Vati. Why was he late? But what wonder, as though it had never happened before? Perhaps a correspondent didn’t bring his article in time and her father had to write something in a hurry to fill the vacant space. Then the proof-reading would delay the printing. There could be any number of explanations. Yet of all the days, she wished nothing like that would occur.
At that very moment, “Schätzchen!—Darling!” sounded from the door.
“At last!” She ran to meet him. “What is it, Vati?” Ulya stared at the packages and carton boxes in his hands, his briefcase jammed under his armpit.
“Don’t we have a good reason to celebrate? Free me from these parcels. Let me see your diploma.” He dropped the purchases into her stretched hands and leaned over the table. “Great, daughter. You made me pleased. But why? Everything you do is worth of admiration. I’m proud of you.”
Ulya looked at her father, so fit, handsome, not a single gray streak in his great head of hair, blond like hers. And I am proud of you. You are the most important person in my life. The only one I love. But she did not say it aloud.
Eager to unwrap them, she unloaded the packages on the table and found a piece of smoked sturgeon, a salami stick, a bunch of reddish and green onions, canned crabs, a little carton box of cocoa, a wheat flour loaf, still warm. She brought it to her face and inhaled. “Ooh, as though just from the oven.” When she opened a small carton box, she couldn’t help but exclaim, “Vati! My favorite pastry!” She suppressed the urge to send the shortcake with custard and the little wild strawberries on top of it right into her mouth. “Where did you get all these delicacies from?”
“Why do you think I was late? Went to Saratov and stood an hour in the queue at Struzhkin bread-baking factory then stopped by the Central Market.”
While Ulya set the table, he disappeared into his study and returned with a bottle of Ararat brandy. “Take two glasses.” He gave her a wink, responding to her probing stare. “Today, it’s permitted.”
“I prefer tea,” she retorted.
They both loved the evening meals together. That was when they shared their news and plans.
After enjoying delicacies, they drank tea. Ulya took the old Meissen china from their fine glass-fronted cabinet and placed a pastry on each plate.
“All is yours.” He shook his head and moved his plate closer to her. “So, what’s next, Schätzchen?” His mouth curved into a relaxed smile.
How could Ulya wait any longer to taste her favorite sweets? She took a bite, which was a half of the piece, and closed her eyes, letting her father wait for her answer. “Next Friday, I’ll get my work placement.”
“I hope they give you a position somewhere not far away from home.”
Ulya cocked her head. “I wouldn’t mind going somewhere. I so much would like to visit different places, rather than be stuck here for my whole life.” She noticed how her father’s face stiffened but he, himself, had taught her to express what was on her mind without fear. “I must confess, Vati, that since the seventh grade when we learned about it in the geography lesson, I fancied visiting Lake Baikal. Living there would be my wish come true. It’s so beautiful there, in Siberia.”
“Not everywhere in Siberia is beautiful,” her father countered.
“But that’s just my dream,” Ulya hastened to say.
Despite noticing how her father’s eyes saddened at the revelation of her wish, later, in bed, she could not deny herself fantasizing about Baikal, though she did not know what it was that fascinated her about the lake and the place.
The next day, she met Rita at the dock on her side of the Volga, and they set off for the beach. Though not yet the middle of June, the merciless sun scorched their heads and the sand burned their feet. Most of the vacationers preferred to stay in the water, both grownups and children, playing splashy-splashy close to the shore. A group of young men attempted to play volleyball, but soon, throwing the ball away, ran into the water to cool off.
Ulya and Rita found a bit of shade in a cluster of old poplars and flopped onto their towels. Worn out by the heat, they did not talk.
A steamboat sailed by, blasting a song from the Volga-Volga movie, bringing a memory, which now was colored with indifference. She’d crossed Konstantin from her mind and heart, but suddenly caught herself on the thought that since she hadn’t seen him, the sensation of being watched had ceased.
Taking a bit of a tree shade nearby, three young mothers with a gang of small children laid out their picnic rugs and sat down, letting their offspring play in the sand.
“Are they speaking German?” Rita’s voice broke their silence.
Ulya nodded.
“Do you understand everything they say?”
“But of course I do. I’m German.” Ulya snickered, suppressing a laugh. “I’m German in fifth generation.”
“You have never told me about your ancestors.”
“There is not much to tell. From what little I learned from my father, his forefathers came with the first settlers in 1772 and they worked on the
