Cherry Preserves
by Olga Breydo
Nika called to say that her cherry tree was dying. The following morning I was naked to my waist at her country cottage, thirty kilometers outside of Moscow. Alongside me were two other guys who would do more than chop trees for her that summer. My jeans were sweat-sealed to my thighs as we pushed at the top of the trunk with a pole, straining the cut we’d previously axed closer to the ground.
“Push it down, Jecka,” she urged me, and then to the other guys, “C’mon Sashok, Vetalya, I can hear it cracking!”
“Never been a healthy tree, but this is a sure end,” Nika’s father said, pointing at the fungus that had taken over everything except the miraculous harvest of pale cherry bunches on each branch. He sat, one leg over the other, on their sun-filled veranda. His cigarette smoldered in an ashtray next to an opened newspaper. “Don’t be fooled by the generous fruits,” he said. “What’s important is that the roots are rotten.”
Nika rolled her eyes the way I’d seen her do it at their city apartment over supper. “Sick of his political metaphors,” she’d whisper, and shift closer to me on the sofa they pulled up to the table when they had company.
“Push it down, Jecka,” she urged me, and then to the other guys, “C’mon Sashok, Vetalya, I can hear it cracking!”
“Never been a healthy tree, but this is a sure end,” Nika’s father said, pointing at the fungus that had taken over everything except the miraculous harvest of pale cherry bunches on each branch. He sat, one leg over the other, on their sun-filled veranda. His cigarette smoldered in an ashtray next to an opened newspaper. “Don’t be fooled by the generous fruits,” he said. “What’s important is that the roots are rotten.”
Nika rolled her eyes the way I’d seen her do it at their city apartment over supper. “Sick of his political metaphors,” she’d whisper, and shift closer to me on the sofa they pulled up to the table when they had company.
~
"Everything about the Russian life as portrayed in the movie was ugly, yet beautiful at the same time." |
|
We’d been classmates for years but then found each other in a whole new way four months earlier, mid-March, on Nika’s seventeenth birthday. It was 1988 and everything was changing. Suddenly, Russia had real rock bands, drugs, and sex. Lots of other things began to appear too, like housing cooperatives and some semblance of freedom and information, but given the state of my hormones those things interested me less. Also, those were Russian transformations and I was a Jew with one foot out the door—my family’s exit visas were ready. Soon, we’d be America-bound.
Nika didn’t know any of this about me and was busy adjusting to the new tides. She ditched her school uniform and showed up, instead, in a blue miniskirt and a white sweater which, given the size of her chest, never made it all the way down to her waist. She pulled her hair up in a loose ponytail and let her feather-like bangs cut across her forehead. She started to smoke, added extra piercings for droopy earrings that didn’t always match, and held her neck up in a way that made her entire face a backdrop for the neat line of her nose. When she talked to me there was an experienced, powerful woman in her eyes and I wet-dreamed of attending to her every need, no matter how inappropriate.
We’d met up at Dom Kino, the main movie theater, to watch the premier of Little Vera. The film was a coming-of-age story about a rebellious teenager trying to survive the harsh realities of a provincial Soviet town. Nika’s father, a professor and a liberal intellectual, was the one who’d gotten us in. Then he stumbled out mid-way, just when the portrayal of sex became too explicit. He later smirked that the movie was muddy, vulgar, and overacted. But Nika and I sat holding our breath all the way to the end. Everything about the Russian life as portrayed in the movie was ugly, yet beautiful at the same time. And every scene was loud, even the quietest one.
Hours later we wandered around Gorky Street, looking for the apartment of Nika’s friend’s boyfriend who’d promised to play us something brand new on vinyl. She held on to my forearm as if she were drunk and talked about the picnic scene where the main character, Vera, was belligerent, refusing to lie about her father to the police. Meanwhile, I hoped we were heading to one of those center-of-city flats with decorative ceiling moldings, dusty crystal chandeliers, and long corridors with countless rooms. Some tsarist-era private-mansion-turned-communal-living-rat-nest now rendered semi-vacant by the massive exodus of Jews. I imagined pinning Nika to the wall in one of the deserted rooms, with the sound of our favorite rock band, Nautilus, in the background.
The place was as I’d imagined it, only not deserted in the least. It was packed with university students, hippies, punks, and other factions of the perestroika underground. Nika flirted without mercy and sat so close to me on the floor that I couldn’t keep from getting hard. But contrary to my wild imagination all I got from her were a few kisses so brief I could hardly taste her. And I heard Nautilus, of course, we all did. Their hit new album, Prince of Silence, played until the record player broke and then there were endless acoustic renditions from the guests, with small audience groups gathering around each guitar. Come morning I had the words of their song, “I Want to be with You,” and the map of veins on Nika’s neck committed to memory.
Nika didn’t know any of this about me and was busy adjusting to the new tides. She ditched her school uniform and showed up, instead, in a blue miniskirt and a white sweater which, given the size of her chest, never made it all the way down to her waist. She pulled her hair up in a loose ponytail and let her feather-like bangs cut across her forehead. She started to smoke, added extra piercings for droopy earrings that didn’t always match, and held her neck up in a way that made her entire face a backdrop for the neat line of her nose. When she talked to me there was an experienced, powerful woman in her eyes and I wet-dreamed of attending to her every need, no matter how inappropriate.
We’d met up at Dom Kino, the main movie theater, to watch the premier of Little Vera. The film was a coming-of-age story about a rebellious teenager trying to survive the harsh realities of a provincial Soviet town. Nika’s father, a professor and a liberal intellectual, was the one who’d gotten us in. Then he stumbled out mid-way, just when the portrayal of sex became too explicit. He later smirked that the movie was muddy, vulgar, and overacted. But Nika and I sat holding our breath all the way to the end. Everything about the Russian life as portrayed in the movie was ugly, yet beautiful at the same time. And every scene was loud, even the quietest one.
Hours later we wandered around Gorky Street, looking for the apartment of Nika’s friend’s boyfriend who’d promised to play us something brand new on vinyl. She held on to my forearm as if she were drunk and talked about the picnic scene where the main character, Vera, was belligerent, refusing to lie about her father to the police. Meanwhile, I hoped we were heading to one of those center-of-city flats with decorative ceiling moldings, dusty crystal chandeliers, and long corridors with countless rooms. Some tsarist-era private-mansion-turned-communal-living-rat-nest now rendered semi-vacant by the massive exodus of Jews. I imagined pinning Nika to the wall in one of the deserted rooms, with the sound of our favorite rock band, Nautilus, in the background.
The place was as I’d imagined it, only not deserted in the least. It was packed with university students, hippies, punks, and other factions of the perestroika underground. Nika flirted without mercy and sat so close to me on the floor that I couldn’t keep from getting hard. But contrary to my wild imagination all I got from her were a few kisses so brief I could hardly taste her. And I heard Nautilus, of course, we all did. Their hit new album, Prince of Silence, played until the record player broke and then there were endless acoustic renditions from the guests, with small audience groups gathering around each guitar. Come morning I had the words of their song, “I Want to be with You,” and the map of veins on Nika’s neck committed to memory.
~
She played me like this through the summer and now I pushed at the tree with every frustrated muscle in my body, thinking that this was fitting: topple her tree, give up on her country, take her out back behind this crumpling house and into the depth of the tall grass they don’t bother mowing, get this thing finally over with and then tell her that I’m gone in a week. I wanted to see the regret on her face for having wasted the precious time. Generations of Jewish underdogs within me wanted to feel this brief moment of triumph.
We’d previously chosen the felling direction to be the veranda, just to the left of their oval dining table. That area was raised five steps off the ground and had a tall, wood-carved railing. We stopped pushing and ran around to catch the heavy trunk. The tree moaned, cried, swayed in the air, and landed into our arms—a figure skater into her partner’s embrace.
“Vot tak, a bit to the left,” Nika’s father was directing, still in his chair, his newspaper pushed aside. He wanted us to lean the tree on the railing first, so that the fruit could be easily gathered.
“Polina, come out of the house, will you?” he called his wife. “I can already taste the cherry preserve you’ll make out of all this.” He pushed his chair back so that it balanced on its hind legs.
Nika’s mother came outside, her eyes narrowed at the force of the sunlight. She placed her hand over her forehead and stood very still. Suddenly, I realized she might have looked at that tree all her life and now had to accept its defeat. Nika tucked her hair behind her ear and took a few steps back. Sashok and Vetalya wiped their hands on their clothes and Nika’s father got up, folded his newspaper, and looked at his feet. The moment now felt like a kind of awkward, unplanned funeral. A quiet formation of people around something that was already in the past. I thought of my parents back home, busy with sorting and arranging our stuff, stressing over what to give away and what to pack into the large suitcases lining our hallway. It would be a matter of a few weeks before I would sit with them on our luggage and observe a similarly mute good-bye.
“I’ll get a bucket,” Polina said, cutting through the silence.
There was a little wind and the tree was brought to life for a moment. We heard a rustle—small bit of inaudible gossip passed from one fruit to another.
She turned back inside the house and Nika’s father followed, muttering that he’ll help, though I expected him to come back empty-handed. I’d never seen him lift anything but his hand to prop his chin in thought. Sometimes, he would look at his wife in the kitchen leaning over the cutting board, or behind the sofa with the vacuum, or balancing on the thin windowsill of their Moscow apartment with a mop in her hand. He would wink at me and say, “Now that’s a real woman.” And I understood that to mean ‘a real Russian woman.’ Because my mother, who was Jewish, always said that she was no workhorse, and manual labor at home was divvied up democratically.
We stayed outside, three guys to one girl, and what was left to do but to have a quick smoke? Vetalya fished a crumpled pack of BT out of the back pocket of his jeans. He tapped out four cigarettes but passed around only three when Nika stole a glance back at the house and shook her head, “No.” We sat on the ground, Vetalya sinewy and tanned, Sashok with a chin dimple and long, rocker hair, and Nika with her skirt on the grass and her eyes on me.
“Do I get a jar of that preserve your mama will make?” Sashok asked.
“We’ll see about that,” Nika said, her eyes narrowed and flirty. “But you earned your lunch today. That’s for sure.”
She reached to scratch a mosquito bite on her ankle and her turquoise tank top stretched around her shoulder to reveal a thin, white bra strap. I felt such tightness in my throat that I couldn’t exhale, and a cloud of smoke came out of my nostrils. But then we heard loud clanking as Polina returned with two tin buckets and a large ceramic washbowl. Nika’s father followed, hands in his pockets.
“Cherry-pickin’ time, boys,” he called us.
“Coming,” I said, my voice cracking, and finally let out a cough.
We buried our smokes in the ground, forced our tired legs up the steps of the veranda, and then huddled around the tree on small chairs or step stools. Cherries that were the first to fall into our buckets made noises against the tin, like large summer raindrops beating at the warm pavement. We labored, filling up the containers and walking them to the house to empty into a large washbasin. Sashok whistled a melody between his teeth and every time I tried catching the tune he switched to another. Vetalya found two cherry pairs whose stems were joined and hung them over his ears. They dangled against his cheeks every time he bent over his bucket, which sent Sashok and me into fits of stifled laughter.
Meanwhile, the outdoor burner got cranking. Nika stood at a small prep table with her mother. All I could see were their backs and sometimes a profile of one or the other as they turned to talk. I heard the rhythmic scrape of the metal peeler against raw potato, and then the slicing and dicing as the women leaned over their cutting boards. Polina went into the house with a couple of large pots and out came the rattle of water against the metal. They boiled potatoes and then sausages, and cut up fresh cucumber slices, their knives tapping at the wood.
When the meal was ready, they transferred the food into porcelain serving dishes with blue romantic landscapes glazed on the rims, the kind I’ve only seen in my grandmother’s cupboard under a thick pane of dusty glass. We found our places around the table, eyeing the feast. A pyramid of small potatoes, golden, with green dashes of dill. A plate of sausages oozing water, topped with a large, silver fork. A heap of green onions, their tails tangled. A pattern of cut cucumber, salami, and Swiss cheese. A saucer with butter. A basket with thick slices of rye bread. A bottle of vodka and a set of small crystal glasses.
Polina sat closest to the small kitchenette tucked inside the house. She seemed light on her chair, often disappearing inside to bring out a forgotten utensil, a napkin, or a glass of water. And I watched Nika as she manned the dishes, her torso leaning over the table, a smile softening the corners of her mouth. She spooned the potatoes onto Sashok’s plate:
“A little more?” she asked.
“Spasibo,” he replied, and I noticed his gaze slide from her face down the line of her neck. I dug my fingernails into my fists, clenched under the table.
We struggled to make conversation. Nika’s father wanted to discuss ‘Three Comrades,’ a novel I vaguely knew to have been written by Enrich Maria Remarque. A grey-bound collection of his works lined my parents’ bookshelf, otherwise bare. I stayed on topic as much as I could and hated myself for only ever leafing through it. But Vetalya, assuming the title was Nika’s father’s reference to the state of our friendship, kept saying that the three of us weren’t that close. If he were more honest, he’d admit that we were rivals, competing for the same girl.
Nika sat holding her arms over her chest; her cheeks were flushed. She kept taking big breaths, as though she was about to speak, but then she would cut herself short.
“It’s a love story, this book,” she finally said.
“Sure, but that’s not everything,” her father began his reply, and it was clear that a monologue on literary criticism would follow.
But Nika didn’t let him finish his thought. “Love is everything,” she said and I buried my eyes in my plate, both scared and hopeful that she was speaking to me.
A moment passed. Sashok shifted in his chair. Leaves brushed against each other in the wind. I wished someone would kill the gap in the conversation.
“You’re young and romantic,” Polina said with a hint of cynicism in her voice.
Nika’s father crushed a slice of cucumber in his mouth and nodded, a sideways smile tucked into his cheek.
We’d previously chosen the felling direction to be the veranda, just to the left of their oval dining table. That area was raised five steps off the ground and had a tall, wood-carved railing. We stopped pushing and ran around to catch the heavy trunk. The tree moaned, cried, swayed in the air, and landed into our arms—a figure skater into her partner’s embrace.
“Vot tak, a bit to the left,” Nika’s father was directing, still in his chair, his newspaper pushed aside. He wanted us to lean the tree on the railing first, so that the fruit could be easily gathered.
“Polina, come out of the house, will you?” he called his wife. “I can already taste the cherry preserve you’ll make out of all this.” He pushed his chair back so that it balanced on its hind legs.
Nika’s mother came outside, her eyes narrowed at the force of the sunlight. She placed her hand over her forehead and stood very still. Suddenly, I realized she might have looked at that tree all her life and now had to accept its defeat. Nika tucked her hair behind her ear and took a few steps back. Sashok and Vetalya wiped their hands on their clothes and Nika’s father got up, folded his newspaper, and looked at his feet. The moment now felt like a kind of awkward, unplanned funeral. A quiet formation of people around something that was already in the past. I thought of my parents back home, busy with sorting and arranging our stuff, stressing over what to give away and what to pack into the large suitcases lining our hallway. It would be a matter of a few weeks before I would sit with them on our luggage and observe a similarly mute good-bye.
“I’ll get a bucket,” Polina said, cutting through the silence.
There was a little wind and the tree was brought to life for a moment. We heard a rustle—small bit of inaudible gossip passed from one fruit to another.
She turned back inside the house and Nika’s father followed, muttering that he’ll help, though I expected him to come back empty-handed. I’d never seen him lift anything but his hand to prop his chin in thought. Sometimes, he would look at his wife in the kitchen leaning over the cutting board, or behind the sofa with the vacuum, or balancing on the thin windowsill of their Moscow apartment with a mop in her hand. He would wink at me and say, “Now that’s a real woman.” And I understood that to mean ‘a real Russian woman.’ Because my mother, who was Jewish, always said that she was no workhorse, and manual labor at home was divvied up democratically.
We stayed outside, three guys to one girl, and what was left to do but to have a quick smoke? Vetalya fished a crumpled pack of BT out of the back pocket of his jeans. He tapped out four cigarettes but passed around only three when Nika stole a glance back at the house and shook her head, “No.” We sat on the ground, Vetalya sinewy and tanned, Sashok with a chin dimple and long, rocker hair, and Nika with her skirt on the grass and her eyes on me.
“Do I get a jar of that preserve your mama will make?” Sashok asked.
“We’ll see about that,” Nika said, her eyes narrowed and flirty. “But you earned your lunch today. That’s for sure.”
She reached to scratch a mosquito bite on her ankle and her turquoise tank top stretched around her shoulder to reveal a thin, white bra strap. I felt such tightness in my throat that I couldn’t exhale, and a cloud of smoke came out of my nostrils. But then we heard loud clanking as Polina returned with two tin buckets and a large ceramic washbowl. Nika’s father followed, hands in his pockets.
“Cherry-pickin’ time, boys,” he called us.
“Coming,” I said, my voice cracking, and finally let out a cough.
We buried our smokes in the ground, forced our tired legs up the steps of the veranda, and then huddled around the tree on small chairs or step stools. Cherries that were the first to fall into our buckets made noises against the tin, like large summer raindrops beating at the warm pavement. We labored, filling up the containers and walking them to the house to empty into a large washbasin. Sashok whistled a melody between his teeth and every time I tried catching the tune he switched to another. Vetalya found two cherry pairs whose stems were joined and hung them over his ears. They dangled against his cheeks every time he bent over his bucket, which sent Sashok and me into fits of stifled laughter.
Meanwhile, the outdoor burner got cranking. Nika stood at a small prep table with her mother. All I could see were their backs and sometimes a profile of one or the other as they turned to talk. I heard the rhythmic scrape of the metal peeler against raw potato, and then the slicing and dicing as the women leaned over their cutting boards. Polina went into the house with a couple of large pots and out came the rattle of water against the metal. They boiled potatoes and then sausages, and cut up fresh cucumber slices, their knives tapping at the wood.
When the meal was ready, they transferred the food into porcelain serving dishes with blue romantic landscapes glazed on the rims, the kind I’ve only seen in my grandmother’s cupboard under a thick pane of dusty glass. We found our places around the table, eyeing the feast. A pyramid of small potatoes, golden, with green dashes of dill. A plate of sausages oozing water, topped with a large, silver fork. A heap of green onions, their tails tangled. A pattern of cut cucumber, salami, and Swiss cheese. A saucer with butter. A basket with thick slices of rye bread. A bottle of vodka and a set of small crystal glasses.
Polina sat closest to the small kitchenette tucked inside the house. She seemed light on her chair, often disappearing inside to bring out a forgotten utensil, a napkin, or a glass of water. And I watched Nika as she manned the dishes, her torso leaning over the table, a smile softening the corners of her mouth. She spooned the potatoes onto Sashok’s plate:
“A little more?” she asked.
“Spasibo,” he replied, and I noticed his gaze slide from her face down the line of her neck. I dug my fingernails into my fists, clenched under the table.
We struggled to make conversation. Nika’s father wanted to discuss ‘Three Comrades,’ a novel I vaguely knew to have been written by Enrich Maria Remarque. A grey-bound collection of his works lined my parents’ bookshelf, otherwise bare. I stayed on topic as much as I could and hated myself for only ever leafing through it. But Vetalya, assuming the title was Nika’s father’s reference to the state of our friendship, kept saying that the three of us weren’t that close. If he were more honest, he’d admit that we were rivals, competing for the same girl.
Nika sat holding her arms over her chest; her cheeks were flushed. She kept taking big breaths, as though she was about to speak, but then she would cut herself short.
“It’s a love story, this book,” she finally said.
“Sure, but that’s not everything,” her father began his reply, and it was clear that a monologue on literary criticism would follow.
But Nika didn’t let him finish his thought. “Love is everything,” she said and I buried my eyes in my plate, both scared and hopeful that she was speaking to me.
A moment passed. Sashok shifted in his chair. Leaves brushed against each other in the wind. I wished someone would kill the gap in the conversation.
“You’re young and romantic,” Polina said with a hint of cynicism in her voice.
Nika’s father crushed a slice of cucumber in his mouth and nodded, a sideways smile tucked into his cheek.
~
By the third round Polina worried about us getting too drunk and pulled her husband’s forearm when he reached for the bottle.
“They’re barely old enough,” she said, under her breath, though we all heard it.
Sashok and Vetalya were happy—I could tell they drank often. And I wanted to allow myself to enjoy it too. I wanted to lean back in my chair, cross my legs the way Nika’s father did, and fan myself with the newspaper. But the alcohol sharpened what I was already feeling. I could sit at their table, drink their liquor, eat their food, and even dream about being with their daughter. Yet I knew that as a Jew in Russia, I would always remain different. Whatever their birthright offered might not be available to me. Years later, I would continue to feel this isolation as a Soviet immigrant in America. But at least it would be justified.
“They’re barely old enough,” she said, under her breath, though we all heard it.
Sashok and Vetalya were happy—I could tell they drank often. And I wanted to allow myself to enjoy it too. I wanted to lean back in my chair, cross my legs the way Nika’s father did, and fan myself with the newspaper. But the alcohol sharpened what I was already feeling. I could sit at their table, drink their liquor, eat their food, and even dream about being with their daughter. Yet I knew that as a Jew in Russia, I would always remain different. Whatever their birthright offered might not be available to me. Years later, I would continue to feel this isolation as a Soviet immigrant in America. But at least it would be justified.
~
It must have been late afternoon when Nika made this gesture—small, yet impossible to miss. A little half yawn, the back of her hand to her mouth, a sideways shift of her body toward the veranda steps, a faraway look beyond the cherry tree and over the sagging gates of their property. I remembered my mother then, also an expert in these little hints. Like Nika, she possessed the magic wand that ushered away unsuspecting visitors who’d over-stayed their welcome. The three of us got up and though Nika’s father fussed that it was too early yet to leave, Polina began to clear the dishes off the table.
We started down the path away from their cottage, Nika tagging along for a bit:
“I’ll turn back at the corner,” she said to Vetalya, who didn’t think she should be walking three tough guys to the train station.
When I glanced back at the house, her father stood leaning on the fence, barefoot, the cuffs of his pants rolled up to just below his knees. He gave me a look. At least I thought he did. It might have been just drunken stupor, or a longing to also be walking away towards something. But for a moment I worried that he could see through me, that he knew my true intentions.
We started down the path away from their cottage, Nika tagging along for a bit:
“I’ll turn back at the corner,” she said to Vetalya, who didn’t think she should be walking three tough guys to the train station.
When I glanced back at the house, her father stood leaning on the fence, barefoot, the cuffs of his pants rolled up to just below his knees. He gave me a look. At least I thought he did. It might have been just drunken stupor, or a longing to also be walking away towards something. But for a moment I worried that he could see through me, that he knew my true intentions.
We turned the corner and the grass changed to gravel, a cloud of dust forming around our feet. Sashok and Vetalya passed ahead of us. They chatted while reaching into bags full of gathered cherries. It would get quiet when they chewed and then a pit would go flying left and right as they spat. Nika and I made a game of it. We guessed which way a pit would fly and then giggled if it went in the other direction. I expected them to acknowledge us, somehow. But they paid us no attention, the distance between us widening. Once, I noticed Sashok give me a quick glance. Maybe he was annoyed. If you’re going to do it, get to it already, he was probably thinking.
I slowed down my pace and Nika turned back, her expression questioning. The wind blew at her clothes and whipped her hair back. A shadow passed across her face as the sun gave way to clouds. Just then we both smelled something—the gentle scent of raw mushrooms, of damp soil and potato sprouts, of campfire and pine bark. That smell of rain that is uniquely Russian, that I would never find again under the tropical downpours of the American Midwest.
“Catch up to them,” Nika said, motioning to Sashok and Vetalya. “If you hurry to the station you won’t get soaked.”
Around us were oak trees, birches, and evergreens. Thick gooseberry bushes and green picket fences. Triangular house roofs with ornate woodwork at the crowns. Low rectangles of windows with white curtains behind dust-covered glass panes. I looked everywhere and avoided Nika’s eyes. I was scared. I wouldn’t understand this until later, until I was far enough removed in time and space to see that day as something that happened when I was just a boy, in a place that I would never return to. Yet in the moment, I was scared of how firm Nika stood on her ground, how her figure seemed almost taller than mine, how her eyes looked down on me, how her chest was calm while my heart pounded. This was going to happen, I could feel it, but on her terms, in her country, on her soil. It had been a delusion to think that being there with her was my doing. It had been a delusion, also, to think that my family’s future journey was what we actually wanted. Nonsense. We weren’t leaving because we freed ourselves. We were leaving because we were finally let go. The encounter with Nika was imminent, a matter of finding a tall enough bush, a thick enough tree to hide behind, or someone’s abandoned garage. This was going to happen, but not because she wanted me. This was going to happen because she would finally allow me to be with her.
I slowed down my pace and Nika turned back, her expression questioning. The wind blew at her clothes and whipped her hair back. A shadow passed across her face as the sun gave way to clouds. Just then we both smelled something—the gentle scent of raw mushrooms, of damp soil and potato sprouts, of campfire and pine bark. That smell of rain that is uniquely Russian, that I would never find again under the tropical downpours of the American Midwest.
“Catch up to them,” Nika said, motioning to Sashok and Vetalya. “If you hurry to the station you won’t get soaked.”
Around us were oak trees, birches, and evergreens. Thick gooseberry bushes and green picket fences. Triangular house roofs with ornate woodwork at the crowns. Low rectangles of windows with white curtains behind dust-covered glass panes. I looked everywhere and avoided Nika’s eyes. I was scared. I wouldn’t understand this until later, until I was far enough removed in time and space to see that day as something that happened when I was just a boy, in a place that I would never return to. Yet in the moment, I was scared of how firm Nika stood on her ground, how her figure seemed almost taller than mine, how her eyes looked down on me, how her chest was calm while my heart pounded. This was going to happen, I could feel it, but on her terms, in her country, on her soil. It had been a delusion to think that being there with her was my doing. It had been a delusion, also, to think that my family’s future journey was what we actually wanted. Nonsense. We weren’t leaving because we freed ourselves. We were leaving because we were finally let go. The encounter with Nika was imminent, a matter of finding a tall enough bush, a thick enough tree to hide behind, or someone’s abandoned garage. This was going to happen, but not because she wanted me. This was going to happen because she would finally allow me to be with her.
"We weren’t leaving because we freed ourselves. We were leaving because we were finally let go." |
|
“Nu, che dymaesh?” Nika asked. “What’s on your mind?”
The rain fell before I could respond. Thick drops began to murmur, softening the soil under my feet.
“C’mon,” I said, and took her by the hand, but she didn’t move. Then I cradled her waist in my forearm. Her clothes were already drenched and her body shivered.
“Pobezhali, let’s go,” I insisted, leading her back toward her house, but she was all resistance, pulling me in the opposite direction.
I understood and allowed her to lead the way. We began to move in unison, almost running. Nika ducked under tree branches and I followed, my feet sometimes sinking into the dirt, her skirt swatting at my thighs, her face half-turned with a slight smile appearing and
reappearing from behind the wall of falling rain.
Nika turned behind a lone car parked on the road, and I did the same. We forced open someone’s gate and the rusted metal made a lazy creak. Everything quickened. I could hear my own breathing echo inside my ears. We entered the yard. A glance at the house: unattended, tall grass, dirt, darkened windows. A car tire, a shovel, a chair balancing on three legs, a willow tree touching ground, a dog barking but too far to matter. There was a shed in the distance, and then we came closer. A wall. Rough wood, exposed nail-heads, narrow slits into the dark void of the inside, the smell of old tools and pigeons and mice. Nika’s neck, the warmth of her mouth, the tangle of her clothes. Water, everywhere, but also the heat. My hands, suddenly big enough to feel all of her at once. My chest over hers, the taste the movement, the rhythm. And then a darkness across my eyes and nothing in me but the urge.
The rain fell before I could respond. Thick drops began to murmur, softening the soil under my feet.
“C’mon,” I said, and took her by the hand, but she didn’t move. Then I cradled her waist in my forearm. Her clothes were already drenched and her body shivered.
“Pobezhali, let’s go,” I insisted, leading her back toward her house, but she was all resistance, pulling me in the opposite direction.
I understood and allowed her to lead the way. We began to move in unison, almost running. Nika ducked under tree branches and I followed, my feet sometimes sinking into the dirt, her skirt swatting at my thighs, her face half-turned with a slight smile appearing and
reappearing from behind the wall of falling rain.
Nika turned behind a lone car parked on the road, and I did the same. We forced open someone’s gate and the rusted metal made a lazy creak. Everything quickened. I could hear my own breathing echo inside my ears. We entered the yard. A glance at the house: unattended, tall grass, dirt, darkened windows. A car tire, a shovel, a chair balancing on three legs, a willow tree touching ground, a dog barking but too far to matter. There was a shed in the distance, and then we came closer. A wall. Rough wood, exposed nail-heads, narrow slits into the dark void of the inside, the smell of old tools and pigeons and mice. Nika’s neck, the warmth of her mouth, the tangle of her clothes. Water, everywhere, but also the heat. My hands, suddenly big enough to feel all of her at once. My chest over hers, the taste the movement, the rhythm. And then a darkness across my eyes and nothing in me but the urge.
~
We came back to the house after the rain, laughing our way through the awkwardness of how it had ended. After I swallowed my pride at the realization that I wasn’t her first. After we wrangled with our damp clothes and Nika wiped away her smudged lipstick and tried to run unsteady fingers through her hair. After she kissed the corner of my mouth and said that she couldn’t imagine me taking the train home that night. After we pretended to be lost for a while, after we walked and walked, unaware of the time passing until we noticed the windows light up and heard the evening rattle of pots and cutlery.
Her cottage looked and sounded different as we approached. There was a Lada station wagon, still warm, partially blocking the gate; its wheels left a dark semicircle of mud tracing the path from the road onto the grass. On the veranda we could make out a huddle of figures, perhaps in an embrace, backlit by the house lights. We could hear the high pitch of female voices—one of them Polina’s. As we made our way up the steps, a large suitcase that stood in the middle of the floor toppled from its upright position. The noise startled the group and Polina separated herself from the other woman’s embrace. We noticed a young girl standing between them. Here Nika pushed past me, her arms wide--
“Asya!” She scooped up the girl into her arms and spun her around. “Kogda? When? I had no idea you were coming,” she said.
They held each other a while, Asya’s head coming up to Nika’s chest—she was still a kid. Nika ran her fingers through Asya’s curls, which looked like strands of gold in the darkness. The girl looked up and I could see the resemblance in their profiles, except everything about Asya was light and delicate. She had a tall forehead and seemed, even amid the intensity of that moment, to be deep inside her own thoughts.
I waited, wondering if I should quietly slip away and head back to the station. But Polina noticed my hesitation and hurried with the introductions.
“Meet Mila, my sister from Ukraine,” she said, still holding on to the woman’s forearm. “And this is Jecka,” she added, motioning in my direction, “Nika’s boyfriend.” She said this with no deliberation or pause, with as much confidence as though this was a known fact. Boyfriend. I hoped the night would conceal the spots of shame that moved across my face. Had they talked about me? Had they discussed my candidacy over tea and biscuits? Had they agreed that I was good enough for now?
Her cottage looked and sounded different as we approached. There was a Lada station wagon, still warm, partially blocking the gate; its wheels left a dark semicircle of mud tracing the path from the road onto the grass. On the veranda we could make out a huddle of figures, perhaps in an embrace, backlit by the house lights. We could hear the high pitch of female voices—one of them Polina’s. As we made our way up the steps, a large suitcase that stood in the middle of the floor toppled from its upright position. The noise startled the group and Polina separated herself from the other woman’s embrace. We noticed a young girl standing between them. Here Nika pushed past me, her arms wide--
“Asya!” She scooped up the girl into her arms and spun her around. “Kogda? When? I had no idea you were coming,” she said.
They held each other a while, Asya’s head coming up to Nika’s chest—she was still a kid. Nika ran her fingers through Asya’s curls, which looked like strands of gold in the darkness. The girl looked up and I could see the resemblance in their profiles, except everything about Asya was light and delicate. She had a tall forehead and seemed, even amid the intensity of that moment, to be deep inside her own thoughts.
I waited, wondering if I should quietly slip away and head back to the station. But Polina noticed my hesitation and hurried with the introductions.
“Meet Mila, my sister from Ukraine,” she said, still holding on to the woman’s forearm. “And this is Jecka,” she added, motioning in my direction, “Nika’s boyfriend.” She said this with no deliberation or pause, with as much confidence as though this was a known fact. Boyfriend. I hoped the night would conceal the spots of shame that moved across my face. Had they talked about me? Had they discussed my candidacy over tea and biscuits? Had they agreed that I was good enough for now?
Nika’s father came out from the house carrying a pack of cigarettes and several folded bills. Only then did I notice another man tucked into the shadows at the corner of the veranda. The driver accepted his gifts and walked away whistling. Soon, we heard the engine start up and the headlights danced across the yard as he backed up.
“Tak, vse, that’s it—we’re setting the table!” Nika said, and took Asya into the house. I could see their heads over the sink in the kitchenette.
Polina and Mila began to fuss over supper. They spread a white tablecloth over the table, and set out bread, butter, salami and Swiss cheese, a jar of pickled tomatoes and cabbage, and several cans of sprats.
“I didn’t know when you’d arrive,” Polina apologized to Mila. “So all we’ve got are cold cuts.” She looked at me, as though I could be expected to find, kill, and roast a chicken right there and then. In the absence of a better idea, I took an empty bowl from the table and turned to the tree that was still leaning over the veranda fence. I remembered how full of life it seemed just a few hours earlier and now it was a sagging, forgotten shadow, most of its fruits gone. I picked enough to fill the bowl and set it in the middle, right next to the canned fish and salami.
“Brilliant.” Nika’s father said, sitting down. “Salami sandwiches and cherries. Not a scant living, ha?” he added, smiling. “Come.” He motioned to the chair next to his.
I obeyed, but had no idea what to say. What if he noticed? What if he could see it in the corner of my eyes, around the contour of my mouth, at the back of my ears, in the folds of my clothes? If he knew what I had just done with his daughter, would he have me sit next to him like that? Would he pour me his vodka?
Once everyone was at the table, the glasses were filled. Even Asya got a taste. A small bit of silence followed. Polina adjusted her hair with a safety pin and wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. Mila shifted her chair closer to her daughter and looked over to check that Asya had everything she needed. I would later think back to that table, to our dark figures sitting in an oval formation, only our eyes and our crystal glasses lighting up from time to time, to the mosquitos buzzing in our ears—an incomprehensible choir. I would later remember how I sat there, feeling everything at once. The satisfaction of having been with Nika and the fear that it may have been our last encounter; the warmth of her family and the certitude that I was still an outsider among them. And I felt, also, a certain foreboding, a strange sense of something that was yet to come.
Polina picked up her glass. “Milochka,” she said to her sister. “Life kept us apart most of the time. Still...you were always a train ride away. And now...” She wanted to say something else but hesitated. Polina looked at her husband, then at me, and then back.
“There’s only family at this table,” Nika’s father said, as if assuring her that she may continue. He patted me on the shoulder.
“And now you’re leaving.” Polina continued. “Going farther away than birds could fly.” Her voice cracked. She shook her head, raised her glass, and sat back down.
“Nu, s bogom, may God be with you,” Nika’s father said, and nodded for everyone to drink.
My insides burned from both the alcohol and the truth. Suddenly everything made sense. The spontaneity of the visit. The large suitcase. The emotions. I wasn’t the only one at this table who was going to America. But if that was the case, then I was also not the only Jew.
“Please, no drama,” Mila said to Polina, reaching for the can of sprats. She used her fork to transfer the fish onto her plate, where it lay oozing in a semicircle of oil. “Someone always has to dare to be first. I’m not afraid,” she said, and took a slice of rye bread, dipped it into the oil, and bit into it. “If immigration gets tough, well, I’ve got my daughter to help me, right?” She looked at Asya, who was tracing the rim of her glass with her index finger.
Nika elbowed her cousin gently and Asya agreed with a rehearsed sort of nod, the one she probably reserved for when her mother caught her daydreaming. And then suddenly, as though waking up, she perked up and said:
“Aunt Polina, you’re also Jewish. Why aren’t you and Nika leaving?”
Silence.
I looked at Nika, at the dark features of her face, at her eyes under the shadow of her lids. She wouldn’t dare look back at me. My mind raced through our long history of being classmates. I suppose it was never written across our foreheads, but everyone knew who the Jewish kids were. And she wasn’t one of them.
“Think before you speak, Asya, why don’t you?” Mila said to her daughter. She held out her glass for Nika’s father to fill.
Asya whispered that she was sorry and folded her hands across her chest.
“I wanted to emigrate the moment the gates opened,” Mila continued. “But last summer I made myself a promise that I would do this.” Now she placed several ovals of salami over buttered bread. “I slaved away as a camp counselor in Crime so that she could get some sun.” She pointed at Asya and took a moment to chew. “Close to the end of the session I was able to find her a fresh peach. Imagine that? And don’t get me started, it was impossible to get.”
Polina nodded but Nika’s father didn’t share the sentiment. “No shortage of fruit in Moscow! Just look at these cherries,” he said. His wife shrugged him off and motioned for her sister to continue.
“Of course I had to feed this peach to my daughter in the middle of the night,” Mila said. “And in the bathroom, lest someone found out and made me cut it into a hundred little pieces to share with all the campers. That’s when I knew it—I had to take my daughter out of there. Out of here.” Mila set her elbow on the table and waved her index finger. “Asya is not growing up in the gutter if I can help it,” she said.
Ah, talk of the gutter, I thought. The topic would often hijack our conversations at home. Soviet buildings crumbled, my parents would say. Roads deteriorated, pipes rotted, the food supply dwindled. And what was worse, we weren’t welcome. As Jews, we were second rate citizens, routinely subjected to discrimination by the likes of Nika and her family. I chugged the last of my drink. Well, half of Nika’s family, perhaps.
I spent the rest of the night waiting for her to look at me. I wanted a furrowed brow, a nod, a deep sigh. Anything that showed her remorse for misleading me, for wearing the Slavic features on her face so bravely, for blending into the privileged class with such ease. But then she came to me after everyone had gone to bed, after her father and I had spread thick blankets on the floor of the veranda, having let the women share the small room inside. She came long after the lights had gone out, after her father had given in to sleep, and after my own thoughts had become tired and measured. She came barefoot, wrapped into a long scarf, and sat on her heels by my head. She traced my eyebrows with her index finger and it tickled so much that I almost laughed. Then she lowered her face to my ear, her hair falling over mine.
“Don’t be mad,” she whispered. “My family won’t leave, so...you’re stuck with me.” She brushed her nose against my cheek and tiptoed back into the house.
I wanted to overcome my shame and tell her that I would be emigrating soon, and that I was sorry. But instead I stayed awake, a burden of regret pressing down on me. Deceit was everywhere. We were a whole nation—a culture—of lying. I thought back to the rain, to the abandoned shed, to Nika’s body in my hands. And all I wanted was that moment back, so that I could be with her for the right reasons.
“Tak, vse, that’s it—we’re setting the table!” Nika said, and took Asya into the house. I could see their heads over the sink in the kitchenette.
Polina and Mila began to fuss over supper. They spread a white tablecloth over the table, and set out bread, butter, salami and Swiss cheese, a jar of pickled tomatoes and cabbage, and several cans of sprats.
“I didn’t know when you’d arrive,” Polina apologized to Mila. “So all we’ve got are cold cuts.” She looked at me, as though I could be expected to find, kill, and roast a chicken right there and then. In the absence of a better idea, I took an empty bowl from the table and turned to the tree that was still leaning over the veranda fence. I remembered how full of life it seemed just a few hours earlier and now it was a sagging, forgotten shadow, most of its fruits gone. I picked enough to fill the bowl and set it in the middle, right next to the canned fish and salami.
“Brilliant.” Nika’s father said, sitting down. “Salami sandwiches and cherries. Not a scant living, ha?” he added, smiling. “Come.” He motioned to the chair next to his.
I obeyed, but had no idea what to say. What if he noticed? What if he could see it in the corner of my eyes, around the contour of my mouth, at the back of my ears, in the folds of my clothes? If he knew what I had just done with his daughter, would he have me sit next to him like that? Would he pour me his vodka?
Once everyone was at the table, the glasses were filled. Even Asya got a taste. A small bit of silence followed. Polina adjusted her hair with a safety pin and wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. Mila shifted her chair closer to her daughter and looked over to check that Asya had everything she needed. I would later think back to that table, to our dark figures sitting in an oval formation, only our eyes and our crystal glasses lighting up from time to time, to the mosquitos buzzing in our ears—an incomprehensible choir. I would later remember how I sat there, feeling everything at once. The satisfaction of having been with Nika and the fear that it may have been our last encounter; the warmth of her family and the certitude that I was still an outsider among them. And I felt, also, a certain foreboding, a strange sense of something that was yet to come.
Polina picked up her glass. “Milochka,” she said to her sister. “Life kept us apart most of the time. Still...you were always a train ride away. And now...” She wanted to say something else but hesitated. Polina looked at her husband, then at me, and then back.
“There’s only family at this table,” Nika’s father said, as if assuring her that she may continue. He patted me on the shoulder.
“And now you’re leaving.” Polina continued. “Going farther away than birds could fly.” Her voice cracked. She shook her head, raised her glass, and sat back down.
“Nu, s bogom, may God be with you,” Nika’s father said, and nodded for everyone to drink.
My insides burned from both the alcohol and the truth. Suddenly everything made sense. The spontaneity of the visit. The large suitcase. The emotions. I wasn’t the only one at this table who was going to America. But if that was the case, then I was also not the only Jew.
“Please, no drama,” Mila said to Polina, reaching for the can of sprats. She used her fork to transfer the fish onto her plate, where it lay oozing in a semicircle of oil. “Someone always has to dare to be first. I’m not afraid,” she said, and took a slice of rye bread, dipped it into the oil, and bit into it. “If immigration gets tough, well, I’ve got my daughter to help me, right?” She looked at Asya, who was tracing the rim of her glass with her index finger.
Nika elbowed her cousin gently and Asya agreed with a rehearsed sort of nod, the one she probably reserved for when her mother caught her daydreaming. And then suddenly, as though waking up, she perked up and said:
“Aunt Polina, you’re also Jewish. Why aren’t you and Nika leaving?”
Silence.
I looked at Nika, at the dark features of her face, at her eyes under the shadow of her lids. She wouldn’t dare look back at me. My mind raced through our long history of being classmates. I suppose it was never written across our foreheads, but everyone knew who the Jewish kids were. And she wasn’t one of them.
“Think before you speak, Asya, why don’t you?” Mila said to her daughter. She held out her glass for Nika’s father to fill.
Asya whispered that she was sorry and folded her hands across her chest.
“I wanted to emigrate the moment the gates opened,” Mila continued. “But last summer I made myself a promise that I would do this.” Now she placed several ovals of salami over buttered bread. “I slaved away as a camp counselor in Crime so that she could get some sun.” She pointed at Asya and took a moment to chew. “Close to the end of the session I was able to find her a fresh peach. Imagine that? And don’t get me started, it was impossible to get.”
Polina nodded but Nika’s father didn’t share the sentiment. “No shortage of fruit in Moscow! Just look at these cherries,” he said. His wife shrugged him off and motioned for her sister to continue.
“Of course I had to feed this peach to my daughter in the middle of the night,” Mila said. “And in the bathroom, lest someone found out and made me cut it into a hundred little pieces to share with all the campers. That’s when I knew it—I had to take my daughter out of there. Out of here.” Mila set her elbow on the table and waved her index finger. “Asya is not growing up in the gutter if I can help it,” she said.
Ah, talk of the gutter, I thought. The topic would often hijack our conversations at home. Soviet buildings crumbled, my parents would say. Roads deteriorated, pipes rotted, the food supply dwindled. And what was worse, we weren’t welcome. As Jews, we were second rate citizens, routinely subjected to discrimination by the likes of Nika and her family. I chugged the last of my drink. Well, half of Nika’s family, perhaps.
I spent the rest of the night waiting for her to look at me. I wanted a furrowed brow, a nod, a deep sigh. Anything that showed her remorse for misleading me, for wearing the Slavic features on her face so bravely, for blending into the privileged class with such ease. But then she came to me after everyone had gone to bed, after her father and I had spread thick blankets on the floor of the veranda, having let the women share the small room inside. She came long after the lights had gone out, after her father had given in to sleep, and after my own thoughts had become tired and measured. She came barefoot, wrapped into a long scarf, and sat on her heels by my head. She traced my eyebrows with her index finger and it tickled so much that I almost laughed. Then she lowered her face to my ear, her hair falling over mine.
“Don’t be mad,” she whispered. “My family won’t leave, so...you’re stuck with me.” She brushed her nose against my cheek and tiptoed back into the house.
I wanted to overcome my shame and tell her that I would be emigrating soon, and that I was sorry. But instead I stayed awake, a burden of regret pressing down on me. Deceit was everywhere. We were a whole nation—a culture—of lying. I thought back to the rain, to the abandoned shed, to Nika’s body in my hands. And all I wanted was that moment back, so that I could be with her for the right reasons.
Olga Breydo teaches writing at Eugene Lang College of Liberal Arts in New York. She received her M.F.A. in Creative Writing from The New School. Her work appears in Slice Literary, Joyland, Bodega Magazine, Los Angeles Review, and Cagibi Literary Journal. Her short stories “Torre Flavia” and “Prelude” were nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her short story “Not a Star” was a finalist in the 2018 Missouri Review Editors’ Prize.
A 2020 Pushcart Prize nominee, Breydo's story can be found in Issue 19 of Glassworks.
