“So many!” Ivan whistled.
Olga narrowed her lovely eyes at him. “Haven’t you heard there’s a war on?” She scowled. “We must all do our part.”
“I’ve told Marya. We’ve a pact with Germany. War does not even dream of Russia. Your sister will be safe in Leningrad.”
“Tfu!” Olga spat. “That’s what you know.” She turned her broad back to him and embraced Marya Morevna once more. “But you must stay the night, refresh your poor horse—what a skinny beast!—eat from my board, drink from my cabinet. You are my sister. What belongs to me belongs to you, even if you are a wicked Delilah with a double ration of men. What is a little bad behavior, among family?”
And so Olga led them to her long ebony table set with bread and pickled peppers and smoked fish, dumplings and beets in vinegar and brown kasha, mushrooms and thick beef tongue and blini topped with little black spoonfuls of caviar and cream. Cold vodka sweated in a crystal decanter. Goose stew bubbled over the hearth. At the head of the table sat a man in a fine black smoking jacket. His head was a glossy-feathered rook, and he snapped cruelly at Marya when she pulled out her chair. Olga kissed his beak and drew him away with her, crooning and chirping to him in the soft, secret language of the wed.
For a moment, left alone, neither Marya nor Ivan moved to eat. Marya’s head hurt. Was it the same food she had eaten so long ago, a child, a nothing, a hungry little wolf? She could not remember. Ivan reached for the vodka with his strong red hand.
“Wait…,” she whispered faintly. “Wait … volchik.” The word thrilled her, rolled off her tongue like something forbidden. Ivan withdrew his fingers. He obeyed her; he trusted her. Marya licked her dry lips. The shape of things moved in her mind. A heat rose in her cheeks. She could hardly speak, so big hung the words in her heart. “Do not speak any more tonight, Ivan Nikolayevich. Instead, listen to me, and do as I say.” Ivan blinked uncertainly and started to protest. Marya clapped a finger over his mouth. She took her hand away. He did not speak. Oh, this is a big thing, she thought. How enormous it feels in me. I did not understand before. “Now.” Her voice quavered a little. She made it firm. “Taste the caviar first.” Marya Morevna cut a thick slab of bread and smeared it with white butter, then spread glistening red roe over it. She held it out to him, and like a child, he ate from her hand. She watched him, distant, a queen on a high chair, but so close to him, so bound to her stolen beauty. “Now, sip your vodka, and then bite one of the peppers—see how the vinegar and the vodka war with one another? This is a rare thing. A winter thing.” Marya’s throat thickened. She spoke around tears. “You can taste summer in this mixture, summer boiled down and soaked in brine. Because that is life, Ivan. Jars on a shelf, bright colors under glass, saved up against the winter, against starving.”
Ivan sighed heavily and put down his glass.
“This is stupid, Marya. I am hungry. Let a man eat in peace.”
He fell to his fish with a passion, and the spell broke messily at her feet. Marya Morevna stared at him, her jaw tightening until she thought her teeth might crack.
* * *
When the dawn lit the great house, Marya and Ivan Nikolayevich found Olga once more atop her rich egg, knitting like a hummingbird, too fast to see.
“Masha, my own, my littlest sister,” the matron called down. “Take this with you.”
She bit off her yarn in her teeth and tossed the red ball to Marya, who caught it and squeezed it like fruit at the market. The yarn was softer than any wool, expertly spun, thick.
“It will always lead you back, to your country, to your home. I make all my children’s stockings with the stuff, so they will know how to come home to their mother.” Olga climbed down the cobalt side of the egg and held out her arms to her sister. When Marya stepped into them, Olga lifted her up and twirled her around. Marya laughed despite herself, as she always had.
“Tell our mother I love her, when you get to Leningrad,” Olga said, and kissed Marya on both cheeks. Olga smelled like coins and mothering, and Marya Morevna held her tight.
* * *
Thus they traveled, into the dawn, into the afternoon. Through the dusk, and into the night. The stars stitched intricate patterns onto the dark hoop above. Still, no pale knife flashed out of the forest to pierce Marya’s heart, nor lift Ivan Nikolayevich’s head from his shoulders.
Finally, the horse with red ears fell to his knees in a meadow full of spiky, sharp herbs that poked up out of the snow, ringed with birch trees like bones. A smaller house stood in a clearing of hard ice and snow so cold their boots squeaked when they stepped upon it. Half the windows glowed with firelight; horse-breath steamed from half the stables. A great wooden door stood ever-so-invitingly ajar. Marya’s eyes ached. She wanted to close them forever. Instead, she helped Ivan Nikolayevich, his knees shaking from the long ride, across the threshold.
The foyer of the house lay around them, its deep maplewood floor dotted with handsome squares of ash, its candelabras all bone and antler, a hunter’s trophies. And in the center of the shining floor sat a great egg, its warm, freckled brown shell crisscrossed with rose-colored ribbons. Atop the egg sat a sly, ruddy woman, her grey eyes snapping at every fascinating thing. She peered at a basket of apples on her lap over the rims of a pair of glasses, and sliced each one in seven pieces, for pies and tarts and dumplings.
Marya’s heart reeled in surprise. She searched her stomach: Is this magic? Is it chyerti work? But she could not tell. She felt nothing.
“Tatiana!” she cried out. “How is this possible? How can you have come to live here, so far into the wild? How can I have found you, after all that has passed? It is your sister, Masha!” Marya might have wept, but her tears had wrung dry with weariness within her, so long and fast had she flown.
The woman looked up and her face shone, all brown and crimson. She filled like a silk balloon with the sight of her sister. Tucking her knife under one strong arm, she leapt down from her egg and kissed Marya all over her face before turning to Ivan and kissing him, not very chastely at all, on the cheeks. “Marya! Oh, my dearest sister!” she exclaimed. “So much time has passed! Look at you, grown as a goat! Ah! When did we all go blind?” Tatiana tapped her sister’s glasses, tucked into her breast pocket, yet just the same as her own.
Marya longed for Tatiana to rub her head and fuss with her hair as she used to, when they were young together in the house on Gorokhovaya Street.
“Tanya, are you happy? Are you well?”
“Oh, very well! And with my fourth son on the way!” She patted the brown egg fondly. “Marry a bird, wake up in a nest.” She winked. “But then, you always knew he was a bird, didn’t you? And you didn’t tell me. Clever girl. But how goes it with you? Are you happy? Are you well?”
“I am tired,” said Marya Morevna. “Tanya, this is Ivan Nikolayevich. He is not a bird.”
Ivan bowed to Marya’s second-oldest sister.
Tatiana bemusedly pushed her glasses up onto her nose. “Oh, I know who he is. Think lieutenants don’t get around, do you? Gossip is like cups of sugar in these parts. Just look at my sister, a fallen woman, a heartbreaker, and at her age! I’m so proud of you. I’ll have you know I’ve had twice as many lovers as Zuyok since he first took my maidenhead, and I’ve nine sly little chicks to show for it!”
“So many!” Ivan whistled.
Tatiana widened her lively eyes at him. “Haven’t you heard? We’ve cast off the oppressive hierarchies of the old world.” She grinned. “We must all do our parts for modernity.”
“Life is hard enough, I think, without modernity,” Ivan sighed.
“Tfu!” Tatiana spat. “That’s what you know.” But she turned her shapely back to him and embraced Marya Morevna once more. “Of course you must stay the night, refresh your poor horse—what a loyal beast!—eat from my board, drink from my cabinet. You are my sister. What belongs to me belongs to you, even if you are a notorious slattern. We are family; we take after each other!”
&nb
sp; And so Tatiana led them to her long walnut table set with roast swan, vereniki stuffed with sweet pork and apples, pickled melons, cakes piled with cream and pastry. At the head of the table sat a man in a fine brown smoking jacket. His head was a thick-feathered plover, and he snapped suggestively at Marya when she pulled out Ivan’s chair. Tatiana swatted his wing and coaxed him away with her, warbling and clicking to him in the bright, squabbling language of the well-matched.
Ivan devoured the sweet pork and gulped deep red wine.
“The vineyards that gave us this wine also provide the wine for Comrade Stalin’s table,” Marya said with a solemn, blank expression. “Someone told me once that even when children starve for the sake of righteousness, Papas always have wine at their table.” She sipped the wine herself. “When I was young, it seemed far too sweet. I savored bitterness, the spice of those who have lived long and wildly. Perhaps you, too, should learn to prefer it. After all, when all else is gone, still you may have it.” Marya Morevna drained the glass. “Now, even this candied syrup tastes bitter to my tongue,” she sighed.
* * *
When the dawn pinched the great house’s brown cheeks, Marya and Ivan Nikolayevich found Tatiana once more atop her ribboned egg, slicing apples like a woodsman, too fast to see.
“Masha, my own, my littlest sister,” the plover’s wife called down. “Take this with you.”
She tossed an apple to Marya, its red ball spinning in the air. It was firm and bright as a gem.
“No matter how much you eat, so long as you leave the core, in the morning it will be whole again. I make all my children’s suppers with the stuff, so they will know their mother looks after them, and thinks of the future.” Tatiana climbed down the smooth side of her egg and held out her arms to her sister. When Marya stepped into them, Tatiana stroked her head and fussed with her curls. Marya laughed despite herself, as she always had.
“Tell our mother I love her, when you get to Leningrad,” Tatiana said, and kissed Marya on both cheeks. Tanya smelled like bread and loving, and Marya Morevna held her tight.
* * *
Thus they traveled, into the dawn, into the afternoon, across thrice nine kingdoms, the whole of the world between the Country of Life and Leningrad. Through the twilight, and into midnight. The stars wrote strange names onto the dark papers above. Still, no woven soldiers appeared to seize Marya Morevna, or to shoot Ivan Nikolayevich with rough woolen rifles.
Finally, the horse with red ears fell to his knees in a stony pass smeared with ice, where no flower or tree showed itself. A humble hut stood in a circle of sharp rocks, protected on all sides. One of the windows glowed with firelight; horse-breath steamed from one age-blackened barn. A small iron door stood ajar, as though daring, rather than inviting them. Marya’s fingers throbbed with cold. She helped Ivan, who was coughing hoarsely, his skin flushed and fevered, across the threshold.
The single room of the house lay around them, its hard earthen floor dotted with studs of ice, its candles all tallow, thick and long as arms. And in the center of the compact floor sat a great egg, its shining steel shell studded with iron bolts. Atop the egg sat a slim, gentle young woman, her blush quicker than shadows passing. She peered over a pair of glasses at a basket of keys in her lap, and sorted them, the iron from the copper from the brass, for smelting.
Marya’s heart sang in delight. She had hoped, she had hoped, after the others.
“Anna!” she cried out. “How is this possible? How can you have come to hide here, so high in the mountains? It is your sister, Masha!” And Marya wept, her tears warm and free and glad.
The woman looked up, and her face shone, all pale and bright. She filled like a pail of water with the sight of her sister. Tucking a ring of keys under one slender arm, she leapt down from her egg and kissed Marya all over her face before turning to Ivan and kissing him coldly on the cheeks. “Marya! Oh, my dearest sister!” she exclaimed. “So much time has passed! Look at you, grown as a wolf! Ah! When did we grow so serious?”
Marya longed for Anna to seize her up and dance with her, as she used to when they were young together in the house on Gorokhovaya Street.
“Anyushka, are you happy? Are you well?”
“Oh, very well! And with my second daughter on the way!” She patted the steel egg fondly. “A wife and her husband must be in complete agreement.” She winked. “But then, you always knew he was a bird, didn’t you? And you didn’t tell me. Traitorous girl. But what of yourself? Are you happy? Are you well?”
“I am tired,” said Marya Morevna. “Anya, this is Ivan Nikolayevich. He is not a bird.”
Ivan bowed to Marya’s third-oldest sister.
Anna angrily pushed her glasses up onto her nose. “Oh, I know who he is. Think lieutenants do not inform on each other, do you? Gossip is like ration cards in these parts. Just look at my sister, disloyal, a criminal, at her age! I’ll have you know I have lived with virtue since Zhulan took my conscience, and I’ve two upright little chicks to show for it!”
“So few!” Ivan whistled.
Anna slitted her plain eyes at him. “Haven’t you heard? It is wicked to have more than your neighbors possess.” She grinned. “We must all do our parts for the Party.”
“Of course,” said Ivan.
“Tfu!” Anna spat. “That’s what you know, both of you.” But she turned her elegant back to him and embraced Marya Morevna once more. “But you must stay the night, refresh your poor horse—what an earnest beast! But your prisoner looks sick. He would throw up anything you fed him. You are my sister. What belongs to me belongs to you, even if you are an exile. We are family. But you mustn’t tell anyone I harbored you.”
And so Anna led them outside, through the silver ice to a little bathhouse, hardly bigger than one of Olga’s closets. A man in a threadbare grey coat exited the banya with a puff of steam. His head was a lean shrike’s, and he would not look at Marya as he passed her by. Anna smiled at him, her face lighting like an oil lamp, took his wing and walked back towards the house, croaking and cawing to him in the strident, ordered language of the incorruptible.
Marya Morevna refused to let Ivan speak. This time she made her will iron, flexing it, testing it. Ivan submitted to her, and there was gratitude in his submission. You are spoiled, she thought. All that rich food and you have kept it all in your belly, enjoyed every bite. But you are sick now, and must yield. She seated him in the bathhouse. On a little paint-scraped table rested a mug of vodka.
Marya stood very still. She felt as though she were two women: one old and one young; one innocent and one knowing, strange, keen. Marya undressed Ivan Nikolayevich, and her hands seemed to move twice for each motion, to unbutton his shirt now, and to unbutton her own then. His eyes rolled and his red brow sweated. He nearly called out her name, but remembered to be silent, and she kissed him for it. Marya Morevna rubbed his skin with her long, hard fingers. Her golden boy nearly fell asleep sitting up, calmed by her hands and her soft, sad little singing, melodies half-remembered, about biting wolves and uncareful girls. Soon both sweat and tears rolled down Marya’s face, and she wished Koschei were with her to show her how to tend to this sick human, the care of whose body was now inexplicably hers. But gone is gone. There could be no more Koschei. Only Marya remained.
“Drink, Ivanushka.” She clucked gently, like a mother, and put the mug to his lips. “Your lungs want vodka.” Obediently, he drank, and coughed, and drank once more.
Marya Morevna sank his clammy feet in her sister’s shallow tub. She held a handful of water to his nose and ordered him to breathe it in. Ivan spluttered, and gagged, but did it anyway, so accustomed was he now to her voice, her command. Finally, she made him stand. She reached into the foggy corner of the banya, knowing with all of her marrow that a long white birch branch would rest there.
But Ivan had drifted away into his fever, and slept curled on the floor of the banya like a hound.
Marya let go of the birch branch slowly. She watched him in t
he dark without a sound.
* * *
When the dawn roused the humble hut’s household to work, Marya and Ivan Nikolayevich found Anna once more atop her steel egg, sorting keys like an engine, too fast to see.
“Masha, my own, my littlest sister,” the shrike’s wife called down. “Take this with you.”
She tossed a key to Marya, with brass teeth. It glowed dimly in her hand, catching the sun.
“It is the key to our old house, on Gorokhovaya Street. But of course it is Dzerzhinskaya Street now. One of us should still live there. One of us should be young again.” Anna climbed down the grey side of her egg and held out her arms to her sister. When Marya stepped into them, Anna pressed her face to her sister’s breast, took up her hand, and began to dance with her, a gentle, slow circle around the little hut. Marya laughed despite herself, as she always had. She remembered, as if through a glass, having laughed like that, a lifetime ago. She kissed Anna’s forehead with passion.
“When our mother died,” Anna said, “the Housing Ministry sent the keys to me. I was the only one they could find. We keep our registrations current.” Then Anna kissed Marya on both cheeks. She smelled like iron and strength, and Marya Morevna held her tight.
PART 4
There Are No Firebirds in Leningrad
And always in the frigid, prewar air,
The lascivious, menacing darkness
There lived a kind of future clanging …
But then, you could hear it only softly, muffled,
It could scarcely cloud the soul