Then, the first opponent takes the floor. “The studies have shown . . .” She listens to his comments, then a praising conclusion. The next opponent starts with, “She carried extensive research . . . The finds uncovered . . .”
Natashen’ka tries to concentrate on their analysis, but her thoughts are miles away, lost in the recent past.
In front of her mental eye there was that old woman, Anna Il’inichna Brekhova. She opened her door at Natashen’ka’s knock and invited her inside. “Are you from a school?”
Natashen’ka shook her head. “Anna Il’inichna, my name is Natasha. I’m writing a thesis on the Partisan movement in Byelorussia.”
“Ah, call me Il’inichna.” She waved her hand in a gesture of dismissal. “I thought pupils from a school are coming. They like to listen to my stories. Or maybe their teachers compel them. They are good children anyway. Some go to a store to buy food for me, some chop firewood, in the spring and autumn, they dig up my vegetable garden. Now, what do you want me to tell you?”
“Could you please tell me about your fellow-Partisans?” Natashen’ka asked, looking into the cloudy eyes of the woman whose face carried signs of hard labor and sorrow, yet lighted up at Natashen’ka’s question, “Do you remember?”
“Of course, I do.” She started in a low voice, full of undistinguishable reverence. “Nikifor Petrovich, Ameliy Ivanich, Klement Sergeyevich . . .” Natashen’ka distinguished Klement—her patronymic name and sat a little forward in her chair, intrigued. “Semyon, Pasha, Gavryushka, Artem . . .” Names and more names. Then, among them, Lyubochka.
“And this Lyubochka, what was her last—”
“Zalesskaya.” Il’inichna interrupted her. “She was a lovely girl. First, like a princess, didn’t know how to do our things. A beautiful, a bashful girl, yet proved to be brave.” She heaved a deep sigh. “Our commanders once sent her to Polotsk. On a mission. She didn’t return. First, we thought, Germans arrested and executed her.” Another sigh escaped her. It rose from deep within, on the tide of the memories and feelings Natasha thought she has stirred up by her probing. “Later we learned through our people in the Civil Council she was captured and deported to Germany. The accursed fascists transported many young people to Germany then. To work for them. Uhh, Harods.” She shook a fist in anger.
“What happened to her daughter?” Natashen’ka’s heart skipped a beat before she uttered the question.
“A daughter? Hmm. Oh, yes, yes, she had one before she joined our Partisan unit,” Il’inichna said with a few quick shakes of her head. “The little one, I think she was five or six years old, perished with Lyuba’s mother in the first day of war. The Germans bombed their train. Anyway, Klement Sergeyevich, our Commissar, would not allow her to bring a child with her. In other Partisan detachments, they accepted mothers with children. Not in ours. The Commissar hated having young women in his Partisan unit.”
She continued telling the stories about their everyday life in the forests, and it was obvious she did it often. When Natashen’ka saw Il’inichna getting tired either of the painful memories or just of so much talking, she got up to leave. “No, girl, without us drinking tea, I won’t let you go.” So, they drank an herbal tea “of black currant leaves” as her hostess admitted. With confusion from the revelation about her mother’s hidden past, Natashen’ka bid farewell to the old woman.
Walking down the Polotsk quiet streets to the train station, she felt like crying. Her lead took her to a dead end. But why did her mother lie to her? Why did she give her the patronymic name of their Commissar? What if the answer lay somewhere close, and she’d just missed the hint? Something prompted her to think about Lipetsk. I must find that Natasha Ivanova after whom Mama named me.
She telegraphed her research advisor asking for permission to go to Lipetsk and getting it, the next day, with the address scribbled on a sheet of paper from an information office clerk, Natashen’ka headed to the Stone Log settlement.
A woman, perhaps between sixty and seventy, beautiful despite her age, answered the doorbell. Her eyes widened in shock and her hands flew to her mouth to silence the yelp that escaped her throat. Perhaps sobered by Natashen’ka’s undisguised surprise, she uttered, “Your eyes. Sorry, for a second, I thought you were my stepdaughter.” After a moment’s silence, and still staring at Natashen’ka as though in confusion, she continued, “Are you from the neighborhood committee? Regarding the gas pipeline?”
“No, I’m looking for Natasha Ivanova.”
“Natasha. She was my stepdaughter. I’m Svetlana Andreyevna.” She signaled to Natashen’ka to come in. “It is as cheap sitting as standing. Would you like to stay for a visit?” Motioning to the chair at the well-used wooden table, she lowered herself opposite Natashen’ka, searching her face and shaking her head as if still in shock. “Why are you asking about my stepdaughter? She is no longer with us.” A veil of mist in her eyes betrayed her sadness.
“She was my mother’s best friend in the school. Lyuba Zalesskaya. Did you know her?” Natashen’ka placed on the table the halved picture of four youths.
“That must be her.” Svetlana Andreyevna poked her finger at Natashen’ka’s mother. “I have never met her though. She was from an old aristocratic family as you must know, and Natasha was uncomfortable inviting her friend to our shed.” She moved her eyes to the taller of the two young men. “I have never seen him. But this one is Stepan. He was a pilot, came often to visit Natasha. She was in love with him. But your mother—”
Natashen’ka gave her a questioning look.
“So, she called you after my stepdaughter.” She shook her head, giving the impression she still was in disbelief. After a long moment of silence as though Svetlana Andreyevna hesitated about revealing something, she uttered, “Your mother broke them up, as much as I know from my stepdaughter. She
