The Summer Garden by Paullina Simons
Saika said she found him delightful. Tatiana replied that yes, they all took frequent delight in Oleg, who put up with them for only so long and then spat and ran the other way.
“Not too far, though,” Saika said. “Just under the tree.”
“He wants to save our immortal souls.” Tatiana smiled. “He can’t be doing that all the way from his dacha.”
“Oh, the immortal soul is such a bourgeois concept,” said Saika dismissively. “Oleg,” she said, “what are you afraid of? There will be no war. No one will go to war for little Czechoslovakia.”
“So how big does a country have to be before someone will go to war to defend it from Hitler?” asked Oleg.
Saika laughed. “Bigger than Czechoslovakia.”
“No one will go to war for Austria either.”
“Why would anyone want to?” Saika said. “The Austrians wanted the Germans in. Didn’t you see the results of the referendum they had two months ago? Ninety-nine percent of all Austrians welcomed Hitler.”
“The referendum was rigged,” said Oleg.
A shrugging Saika continued, “And now in the Sudetenland elections, the Germans won many votes. Did you hear what Herr Hitler said when he argued for the annexation of Sudetenland? ‘It is intolerable,’ he said, ‘to think of a large portion of our people exposed to the democratic hordes who threaten us.’ Herr Hitler also has no patience for democracy, like our Comrade Lenin.”
“Czechoslovakia is not his people,” said Oleg, frowning. “And Herr Hitler, as you reverentially call him, is amassing his troops along the Maginot line. Tell me, after Austria and Czechoslovakia, what’s next?”
“France!” Saika happily exclaimed. “Belgium, Holland. Spain will go to Franco soon—he’s winning that silly civil war against the factioned communists.”
“Now there’s a house divided against itself,” said Tatiana.
Saika shrugged. “Never heard of that expression,” she said, “but sounds right. Spain is Franco’s. Italy is already in Germany’s pocket. France will be next.”
“Do you think England will go to war for France?” Oleg asked caustically.
Saika laughed. “Certainly not for France,” she said.
“Exactly. France will fall. And then?”
“And then what?” Saika asked with a benign smile.
“Is Hitler going to be facing west during his entire expansion?” asked Oleg. “You don’t think he’ll turn east? To the Soviet Union?”
“Oh, he might turn east,” Saika said, crouching near Oleg who moved away from her warily. “But so what?”
“When he mobilizes his troops along the Ukraine and Byelorussia, will you still say, so what?”
“Yes, I will still say so what,” said Saika. “He will not step one foot into the Soviet Union. He is afraid of the Red Army. So who cares about what’s going on in the rest of the world?”
“I care,” said Oleg, glancing at Tatiana. “I care that Mussolini is firing Jews from top government posts. I care that the British are reneging on their promise to the Jews for a national home. I care that Anthony Eden quit over what he perceives as Chamberlain’s weakness.”
“Chamberlain is not weak,” said Saika. “He just doesn’t care either— like me. He wants the British boys to stay alive for their mothers. He has seen Verdun—a million young men lost for nothing. He wants no part of another war. Do you? Don’t you want to stay alive for your mother, Oleg?”
“Oleg’s mother died last year,” said Tatiana from behind.
“That explains everything.” Saika got up. “Come, Oleg. Take the load off your shoulders. Let’s go swim. You think because you worry, the generals will behave differently?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Oleg said. “I cannot engage in pointless fun when the world is in chaos. When the future of the world is at stake.”
Tatiana pulled Saika away, and when they were walking back to the bank of the river, she said with an impressed whistle, “How do you know so much?”
Leaning into her, Saika said, “I make it my business, Tania, to know everything.”
Why did that send a small shiver on a hot day down Tatiana’s spine?
The Swim Race to the Swift
The lazy day passed, searching for hornets’ nests and playing cat’s cradles, with two football games and one fall from a tree. There was a poetry reading from Blok (“For the last time/old world/we bid you/come.”) and a nap. There was some blueberry eating, there was a war game in the woods, and then it was late afternoon. The boys were arm wrestling, while the girls were braiding each other’s hair. The boys were fishing— with homemade sticks instead of fishing lines. Oleg and Saika engaged in another fiery discussion on whether a command economy—such as National Socialism in Germany or Communism in the Soviet Union— could perform as well in times of peace as it could in times of war (Saika thought it definitely could—and would).
And Pasha said, “Tania, let’s race.”
“Don’t want to.” Tatiana was sitting cross-legged on the ground, playing a cat’s cradle string game with Natasha.
“Does Tatiana even know how to swim?” Saika teased, leaving Oleg alone.
Tatiana didn’t want to explain. She had no bathing suit and didn’t want to be swimming in her underwear and vest today in front of Saika— which was ironic, since she never thought twice about swimming in front of Anton or Misha or Oleg.
But Pasha was coaxing her and Saika was coaxing her and Misha, who didn’t think she could win today, was coaxing her, and then they were all softly laughing, except Saika who was loudly laughing. And so Tatiana, never one to shy away from one of Pasha’s challenges undressed to her underwear and vest. Was she imagining it, or was that a smirk on Saika’s face? The afternoon tide filled the air with fresh water and leaning wet white cherry blossoms, and the sun was high and reluctant in the sky.
Tatiana and Pasha climbed down the slope to the bank. The object was to fling yourself wholeheartedly into the river on “THREE!” and then swim fifty meters to the other side.
And then you raced back.
Tatiana saluted him as they stood facing the Luga. “I’ll see you on the other side, brother,” she said.
He saluted her. “Yes, I’ll look back and there you’ll be.”
“Onetwothree!”
Pasha, oh Pasha, small, strong, swift, laughably competitive, trying to trip his smaller, weaker sister. She wasn’t as strong, not as a runner, not as a swimmer. Her legs were not as muscular. Tatiana had slender girl thighs; she was a tiny lean foal.
They ran in—leaped in—with joy, and then swam as fast as they could, front stroke, breast stroke, frog stroke, doggy-paddle stroke. The current in the afternoon moved swiftly, the river was almost on full, the flow was strong.
Pasha was winning at the twenty-meter mark, but the relentless Tatiana, a few meters behind him, called out, “Don’t forget to breathe, Pasha.”
“Don’t forget to lose, Tania,” he called back, gaining half a meter on her. But at the thirty-meter mark, his lead began to slip. Tatiana didn’t even increase her tempo. Trying not to swallow water, she kept moving. Pasha was slowing down; his kicking, splashing legs were near Tatiana’s head—on purpose, she knew. At the forty-five-meter mark, taking a deep breath, she propelled herself forward past him, touched bottom, and ran out, jumping up and down jubilantly, dripping, panting and breathless, her wet hair clinging to her delighted face.
Pasha was less jubilant. “I cannot tell you how annoying you are,” he said calmly, shaking himself off.
“Says the vanquished.” Tatiana jumped on him, and they fell into the water, and a laughing Pasha said, “Get away from me. I can’t breathe.”
She got off him. “Race back?”
“Forget it.”
“Next time, Pasha.”
“That’s right. Next time, Tania.”
They swam slowly back across, on their backs, just their legs kicking. Tatiana was looking up at the cloudless sky and the distant
“What?”
“Nothing.” She moved to let go. He didn’t let go.
Their friends were gathered in a cluster on the pebbly needly banks. Saika said, “All right, Tania. Now I’ll race you.”
“Yeah, Tania,” said Oleg. “Go ahead. Girls’ war. Sort of like Belgium against France. Even I want to see. Natasha here never races.”
“I’m a reader, not a racer,” said Natasha proudly, clutching her Gogol (Dead Souls). “Besides, the girls can’t win against Tania.”
“We’ll see about that.” Without a word, Saika threw off her dress. And then her bra. And then her underwear. And then she was naked.
The children for a moment stopped playing. Even Natasha looked up from Councilor Chichikov’s exploits with the souls of the deceased village peasants. Tatiana quickly averted her eyes but not before she noted Saika’s well-developed body, the sloping breasts, the dark nipples, the prominent mound of thick black hair, the widening hips. She had hair under her arms, and Tatiana just began to think that Saika at fifteen looked as advanced as Dasha at twenty-one when Saika turned around to walk to the river, and the boys and girls inhaled in a collective gasp.
Saika’s back was ruined with raised thick coiled white scars, crisscrossing her back like ropes from her shoulder blades into the small of her spine.
Tatiana’s quickened breath must have given her away. Saika stopped walking and turned around. “What?”
It was Pasha who broke the shocked and nervous silence. “What happened to your back, Saika?”
“What? Oh, that? Nothing.”
“Must have gone and done something pretty bad,” said Oleg.
“I must have. Tania, are you just going to stand there gaping or are you going to race?”
Tatiana gave her brother a troubled look before going down to the waterline. She no longer thought about her vest or her smallness. Racing suddenly seemed offensive. “Saika, maybe we should do this another day.”
“Why? Another day my back will be just as scarred.” There was no emotion in her voice.
Tatiana looked back at Pasha, Anton, Oleg, Natasha, Misha, Kirill, Volodya. No one knew what to feel. They were embarrassed and uncomfortable. Tatiana frowned.
“If you’re not up to it . . .” Saika drew out.
“No, no, I’m always up to it,” Tatiana said. “On three then?”
“On three.”
But it wasn’t quite on three. It was more on two and a half. Before Tatiana could utter the word “three” Saika ran into the water, all shaking flesh and hair.
Tatiana sprinted and dived in head first, literally flying past Saika, who stopped instantly and said, “Wait, that’s not fair.”
Tatiana stopped reluctantly.
“I didn’t know you could leap in like that.”
“I didn’t know on three meant right before three,” Tatiana rejoined, swimming back. “You didn’t hear me complaining.”
“Well, you should’ve complained if you didn’t like it.”
“It didn’t matter.”
“It’s not fair,” Saika repeated, rubbing her wet breasts.
“All right,” said Tatiana. “Let’s do it again.”
They did it again. This time almost on three, and this time, Tatiana didn’t long-jump in.
Saika was strong and she was fast. But she was also heavier than Tatiana, and that body must have weighed her down, because Tatiana had to slow down at the twenty-meter mark, and again at the thirty-meter mark, and by the time they were at forty meters, Tatiana was swimming so slowly that she thought she could float on her back faster than Saika was swimming, spluttering in the water, out of breath, panting, wheezing. Tatiana stopped using her arms. Then she started dog-paddling but stopped using her legs. Her breathing was three beats above normal. Finally she let Saika stagger out of the water first and collapse on the shore. “That was hard won,” Saika panted. “But a good race.”
Still in the water, Tatiana bent backwards and dunked her head to slick back her hair and then came out and sat next to Saika.
Saika said, “You did really well for such a small thing.” She couldn’t get her breath.
“Thank you,” Tatiana said quietly.
“When you’re ready we’ll swim back.”
“How’s now then?”
“Let’s wait a second.” Saika was still panting.
It took them a long time to make it back. Saika could barely move her legs and kept floating downriver in the current.
“Saika, if you’re not careful, you’ll end up in the Baltic Sea,” Tatiana said. “Look how far we’ve gotten away from the others. Let’s swim a little harder.”
Saika couldn’t swim a little harder.
The first thing Pasha said when they finally stepped on the bank was, “Tania, what happened to you in that race? You looked like you died out there.”
Saika swirled to look at Tatiana for one dark and icy blink. The unholy expression fast passed from Saika’s face but not from Tatiana’s memory.
“Put on your clothes, Saika,” Tatiana said, turning away. “I have to go home.”
Something about Tatiana
Walking back home from the river, wet, hungry and tired, they passed a flock of old women in long robes, Bibles in their hands. The women’s faces lit up at Tatiana, who smiled, sighed slightly and hid behind Pasha.
“What’s wrong?” asked Saika, but before she could say anything else, the old women were upon them. They extricated Tatiana from Pasha, their crinkled hands all over her, stroking her hair, putting the sign of the cross on her forehead, kissing her hands.
“Tanechka,” they cooed, “how is our darling this evening?”
“Your darling is fine,” answered Pasha for Tatiana, yanking her away.
Tatiana introduced Saika. The women nodded but did not shake hands with the girl, nor did Saika offer her own hand. They stood awkwardly, Tatiana still in their midst, in their fold, in their skirts.
Pasha explained to Saika that these women had baptized him and Tania in 1924.
“Baptism is so provincial, ladies,” said Saika to the women. “Our new laws of 1929 clearly state—no religious instruction of young children until they are of age. Do you still go around baptizing children who cannot choose for themselves?” Everyone fell quiet. “Do you?” she repeated, undaunted by their silence.
“Well, no, not anymore,” replied one of the women.
After an unsuitable silence, Tatiana spoke. “Are you baptized, Saika?”
“No, I do not belong to the cult of Christ,” Saika replied. “My ancestors used to be something called the Yezidi. We did not baptize.”
The women’s mouths opened. “Not the Yezidi!”
“Ah, informed village women,” said Saika. “Well, well. Yes, but I’m not really part of that anymore, ladies. Now I’m a Pioneer.”
“Are you in a League of Militant Atheists?” Pasha smiled. “Or are you a member of the Group of Godless Youth?”
“No, but when I turn eighteen I will become a Comsomol—a vigorous, modern, free-thinking member of the new world.”
Immensely curious, Tatiana pulled herself away, calling for Saika, who stared down the old women before she caught up to the Metanovs, kicking up the dirt road with her worn brown sandals as they walked in silence. “What is it, Tania?” Saika asked. “Why are the old so enamored with you? That Berta this morning couldn’t keep her hands off you, why?”
“Tell her, Tania.”
“Pasha, shut up.”
“All the old people in Luga think Tania can save them from death.”
“Pasha, shut up!”
Pasha was, as always, undeterred. “Saika, seven years ago, there was a fire in one of the village huts. Blanca Davidovna, the oldest person in the village, was alone in it. Her daughter Berta, whom you saw this morning pawing Tania, was in Leningrad. And our Tania ran into that house and got Blanca out, while the hut burned to the grou
“Pasha, will you please stop it,” Tatiana said in a stern voice.
“How did you get her out, Tania?” asked Saika.
“I don’t know. I don’t remember. I was barely seven.”
“But why did you go in there in the first place?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember. I was barely seven. I thought I heard her calling.”
“Yes—from the other side of the village!” Pasha laughed. “You should hear Blanca Davidovna tell that story.” Pasha’s eyes went all aglow as he mimicked the older woman. “Oh, our Taaaaanechka, she just took my hand and led me—led me, I tell you, out of my burning house! If you think those old women were bad, wait till you see Blanca with Tania.”
“Pasha, I swear, if you don’t stop it...”
Telling Saika about the incident filled Tatiana with uncharacteristic anxiety. The mystery of the fire, of her seven-year-old self running into that house, had been bizarre even to her, considering how easily frightened she was of all kinds of uncontrollable things. She didn’t like to talk about it, she didn’t like to think about it, and she certainly didn’t like the way Saika kept staring at her. Tatiana firmly felt that she didn’t want Saika knowing things about her that Tatiana couldn’t understand or explain, even to herself.
Something About Saika
That evening in the hammock in their small weed-covered yard, Saika played the lute for them. It made Pasha speechless. Saika was a girl of many talents, Tatiana was realizing. Saika held the three-string panduri, and played it as if she were born to it. She played them national Georgian tunes they’d never heard of, many Azeri melodies, and then some Soviet war marches.
“Very fine, Saika,” said Pasha with a whistle. “Very fine indeed.”
Saika laughed coquettishly. Tatiana glanced at Pasha. Could her brother still be besotted with a malodorous girl who couldn’t swim and had such marks on her back? No, she decided. He didn’t look particularly besotted anymore.