The Summer Garden by Paullina Simons
Was it true that they came from Turkmenistan? Sometimes. Georgia? Occasionally. The Kantorovs answered all questions with vagueness.
Usually new people were friendlier, not as watchful or silent. Dasha tried. “I’m a dental assistant. I’m twenty-one. What about you, Stefan?”
Dasha was already flirting! Tatiana coughed loudly. Dasha pinched her. Tatiana wanted to make a joke, but there didn’t seem to be any room for jokes in the crowded dark room where too many people stood awkwardly. The sun was blazing outside, yet inside, the unwashed curtains were drawn over the filthy windows. The Kantorovs had not unpacked their suitcases. The house had been left furnished by the Pavlovs, who seemed not so much to have left as to have stepped out.
There were some new things on the mantel. Photos, pictures, strange sculptures and small gilded paintings, like icons, though not of Jesus or Mary . . . but of things with wings.
“Did you know the Pavlovs?” asked Tatiana.
“Who?” the father said gruffly.
“The Pavlovs. This was their house.”
“Well, it’s not their house anymore, is it?” said the raven mother.
“They won’t be back,” said Murak. “We have papers from the Soviet. We are registered to stay here. Why so many questions from a child? Who wants to know?” He pretended to smile.
Tatiana pretended to smile back.
When they were outside, Dasha hissed, “Stop it! I can’t believe you’re already starting with your inane questions. Keep quiet, or I swear I’ll tell Mama when she comes.”
Dasha, Stefan, Tatiana and Saika stood in the sunlight.
Tatiana said nothing. She wasn’t allowed to ask questions.
Finally Stefan smiled at Dasha.
Saika watched Tatiana guardedly.
It was at that moment that Pasha, little and fast, ran up the steps of the house, shoved a bucket with three striped bass into Tatiana’s body and said loudly, “Ha, little smart Miss Know-it-nothing, look what I caught today—”
“Pasha, meet our new neighbors,” interrupted Dasha. “Pasha—this is Stefan, and Saika. Saika is your age.”
Now Saika smiled. “Hello, Pasha,” she said.
Pasha smiled broadly back. “Well, hello, Saika.”
“And how old are you?” Saika said, appraising him. “Well, I’m the same age as this one over here.” Dark-haired Pasha pulled hard on Tatiana’s blonde braid. She shoved him. “We’re fourteen soon.”
“You’re twins!” exclaimed Saika, looking at them intently. “What do you know. Obviously not identical.” She smirked. “Well, well. You seem so much older than your sister.”
“Oh, he is so much older than me,” said Tatiana. “Nine minutes older.”
“You seem older than that, Pasha.”
“How much older do I seem, Saika?” Pasha grinned. She grinned back.
“Like twelve minutes older,” Tatiana grumbled, stifling the desire to roll her eyes, and “accidentally” tripping over the bucket, spilling his precious fish onto the grass. Pasha’s attention was loudly and properly diverted.
To wake up and be still with the morning, to wake up and feel the sun, to not do, to not think, to not fret. Tatiana lived in Luga unbothered by the weather, for when it rained she read, and when it was sunny she swam. She lived in Luga unbothered by life: she never thought about what she wore, for she had nothing, or what she ate, because it was always adequate. She lived in Luga in timeless childhood bliss without a past and without a future. She thought there was nothing in the world that a summer in Luga could not cure.
The Last Snow, 1946
“Mama, Mama!”
Shuddering she came to and swirled around. Anthony was running, pointing to the sloping hill, down which walked Alexander. He was wearing the clothes he left in.
Tatiana got up. She wanted to run to him, too, but her legs wouldn’t carry her. They couldn’t even support her standing. Anthony, the brave boy, jumped straight into his father’s arms.
Carrying his son, Alexander walked to Tatiana on the pebbled beach and set him down.
“Hey, babe,” he said.
“Hey,” she said, barely able to keep her composed face.
Unshaven and unclean, Alexander stood and stared at her with gaunt black rings under his eyes, with a barely composed face of his own. Tatiana forgot about herself and went to him. He bent deeply to her, his face pressed into her neck, into the braids of her hair. Her feet remained on the ground and her arms were around him. Tatiana felt such black despair coming from Alexander that she started to convulse.
Gripping her tighter, his arms surrounding her, he whispered, “Shh, shh, come on, the boy . . .” When he released her, Tatiana didn’t look up, not wanting him to see the fear for him in her eyes. There was no relief. But he was with her.
Tugging on his father’s arm, Anthony asked, “Dad, why did you take so long to come back? Mama was so worried.”
“Was she? I’m sorry Mommy was worried,” Alexander said, not looking at her. “But, Ant, toy soldiers aren’t easy to come by.” He took out three from his bag. Anthony squealed.
“Did you bring Mama anything?”
“I didn’t want anything,” said Tatiana.
“Did you want this?” He took out four heads of garlic.
She attempted a smile.
“What about this?” He took out two bars of good chocolate.
She attempted another smile.
As they were walking up the hill, Alexander, carrying Anthony, gave Tatiana his arm. Putting her arm through his, she pressed herself against him for a moment before walking on.
Alexander was cleaned, bathed, shaved, fed. Now in their little narrow bed she was lying on top of him, kissing him, cupping him, caressing him, carrying on, crying over him. He lay motionless, soundless, his eyes closed. The more clutching and desperate her caresses became, the more like a stone he became, until finally, he pushed her off himself. “Come on now,” he said. “Stop it. You’ll wake the boy.”
“Darling, darling . . .” she was whispering, reaching for him.
“Stop it, I said.” He took her hands off him.
“Take off your vest, darling,” Tatiana whispered, crying. “Look, I’ll take off my nightgown, I’ll be naked, like you like...”
He stopped her. “No, I’m exhausted. You’ll wake the boy. The bed creaks too much. You’re making too much noise. Stop crying, I said; stop carrying on.”
She didn’t know what to do. Caressing him until he was swollen in her hands, she asked if he wanted something from her. He shrugged.
Trembling, she put him in her mouth but couldn’t continue; she was choking, she was so sad. Alexander sighed.
Getting off the bed, he brought her down to the plank wood floor, turned her on her hands and knees, told her to keep quiet, and took her from behind, holding her at the small of her back with one hand and at her hip with the other to keep her steady. When he was done, he got up, got back into bed, and never made a sound.
After that night, Tatiana lost her ability to talk to him. That he wouldn’t just tell her what was going on with him was one thing. But the fact that she couldn’t find the courage to ask was wholly another. The silence between them grew in black chasms.
For three subsequent evenings, Alexander wouldn’t stop cleaning his weapons. That he had the weapons was troubling enough, but he wouldn’t part with any of the ones he brought back from Germany, not the remarkable Colt M1911 .45 caliber pistol she had bought for him, not the Colt Commando, not even the 9mm P-38. The M1911, the king of pistols, was Alexander’s favorite—Tatiana could tell by how long he cleaned it. She would go to put Anthony to bed, and when she returned outside, he would still be sitting in the chair, sliding the magazine in and out, cocking it, putting the safety on it and back again, wiping all the parts with cloth.
For three subsequent evenings Alexander wouldn’t touch her. Tatiana, not knowing, not understanding, but desperately wanting to make him happy, stayed away, hoping
He evolved a little but never explained anything in the dark, in their little room with Anthony sleeping.
The days became cooler, the mosquitoes left. The leaves started changing. Tatiana didn’t think there was breath left in her body to sit on the bench and watch the hills of cinnabar and wine and gold reflect off the still water.
“Anthony,” she whispered. “Is this so beautiful or what?”
“It’s or what, Mama.” He was wearing his father’s officer’s cap, the one Dr. Matthew Sayers had given her years ago off a supposedly dead Alexander’s head. He has drowned, Tatiana, he is dead in the ice, but I have his cap; would you like it?
The beige cap with a red star, too big for Anthony, made Tatiana think of herself and her life in the past tense instead of in the present. Sharply regretting having given it to the boy, she tried to take it from him, to hide it from him, to put it away, but every morning Anthony said, “Mama, where is my cap?”
“It’s not your cap.”
“It is so. Dad told me it was mine now.”
“Why did you tell him he could have it?” she grumbled to Alexander one evening as they were ambling down to town.
Before he had a chance to reply, a young man, less than twenty, ran by, lightly touching Tatiana on her shoulder, and said with a wide, happy smile, “Hi there, girly-girl!” Saluting Alexander, he continued downhill.
Slowly Alexander turned his head to Tatiana, who was next to him, her arm through his. He tapped her hand. “Do I know him?”
“Yes, and no. You drink the milk he brings every day.”
“He’s the milkman?”
“Yes.”
They continued walking.
“I heard,” Alexander said evenly, “that he’s had it off with every woman in the village but one.”
“Oh,” Tatiana said without missing a beat, “I bet it’s that stuck-up Mira in house number thirty.”
And Alexander laughed.
He laughed!
He laughs!
And then he leaned to her and kissed her face. “Now that’s funny, Tania,” he said.
Tatiana was pleased with him for being pleased. “Will you explain to me why you don’t mind the boy wearing your cap?” she asked, squeezing his arm.
“Oh, it’s harmless.”
“I don’t think it’s so harmless. Sometimes seeing your army cap prevents me from seeing Stonington. That isn’t harmless, is it?”
And what did her inimitable Alexander say to that, strolling down a sublime New England autumn hill overlooking the crystal ocean waters with his wife and son?
He said, “What’s Stonington?”
And a day later Tatiana finally figured out why this place was so close to her heart. With its long grasses and sparkling waters, the field flowers and the pines, the deciduous smells coupled with the thinness in the air—it reminded her of Russia! And when she realized this—the minutes and hours of claret and maroon maples, the gold mountain ash and swaying birches piercing her heart—she stopped smiling.
When Alexander came home from the boat that evening and went up to her, as usual sitting on the bench, and saw what must have been her most unresponsive face, he said with a nod, “Ah. And there it finally is. So... what do you think? Nice to be reminded of Russia, Tatiana Metanova?”
She said nothing, walking down to the dock with him. “Why don’t you take the lobsters, go on up?” he offered. “I’ll keep the boy while I finish.”
Tatiana took the lobsters and flung them in the trash.
Alexander bit his amused lip. “What, no lobsters today?”
She strode past Alexander to the boat. “Jim,” she said, “instead of lobsters, I made spaghetti sauce with meatballs. Would you like to come have dinner with us?”
Jimmy beamed.
“Good.” Tatiana turned to go, and then, almost as an afterthought, said, “Oh, by the way, I invited my friend Nellie from Eastern Road to join us. She’s a little blue. She just found out she lost her husband in the war. I hope you don’t mind.”
Jimmy, as it turned out, didn’t mind. And neither did a slightly less blue Nellie.
Mrs. Brewster was beaten for her rent money again. Tatiana was cleaning the cut on her hand for her, while Anthony’s eyes, as somber as his father’s, stared at his mother from the footstool at her feet.
“Mama was a nurse,” said Anthony reverentially.
Mrs. Brewster watched her. There was something on her mind. “You never told me where you come from, the accent. It sounds—”
“Russian,” said the three-year-old whose father wasn’t there to stop him.
“Ah. Your husband a Russki, too?”
“No, my husband is American.”
“Dad is American,” said Anthony proudly, “but he was a captain in the—”
“Anthony!” Tatiana yanked his arm. “Time to go get Dad.”
The next day Mrs. Brewster expressed the opinion that the Soviets were nasty communists. This was her son’s view. She wanted another seven dollars for the water and electric. “You’re cooking all the time on my stove there.”
Tatiana was rattled at the shakedown. “But I make dinner for you.”
Mrs. Brewster said, patting the bandage Tatiana had wrapped around her hand, “And in the spirit of communism, my son says he wants you to pay thirty dollars a week for the room, not eight. Or you can find another collective to live on, comrade.”
Thirty dollars a week! “All right,” said Tatiana through her teeth. “I’ll pay you another twenty-two a week. But this is just between us. Don’t mention it to my husband.” As Tatiana walked away, she felt the glare of someone who’d been beaten by her son for rent money and yet still trusted him more.
No sooner had they met Alexander on the dock than Anthony said, “Dad, Mrs. Brooster called us nasty communists.”
He glanced at Tatiana. “She did, did she?”
“She did, and Mama got upset.”
“She did, did she?” He sidled up to her.
“No, I didn’t. Anthony walk ahead now, I have to talk to your father.”
“You did, you did,” Anthony said. “You get that tight mouth when you get upset.” He tightened his mouth to show his father.
“Doesn’t she just,” said Alexander.
“All right you two,” Tatiana said quietly. “Will you go on ahead, Anthony?”
But he lifted his arms to her, and she picked him up. “Dad, she called us communists!”
“I can’t believe it.”
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“What are communists?”
That night before dinner, of lobsters (“Oh, not again!”) and potatoes, Anthony said, “Dad, is twenty-two dollars a lot or a little?”
Alexander glanced at his son. “Well, it depends for what. It’s a little money for a car. But it’s a lot of money for candy. Why?”
“Mrs. Brooster wants us to pay twenty-two more dollars.”
“Anthony!” Tatiana was near the stove; she didn’t turn around. “No, the child is impossible. Go wash your hands. With soap. Thoroughly. And rinse them.”
“They’re clean.”
“Anthony, you heard your mother. Now.” That was Alexander. Anthony went.
He came up to her by the sink. “So what’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s time to go, don’t you think? We’ve been here two months. And soon it’s going to get much colder.” He paused. “I’m not even going to get started on the communists or the twenty-two dollars.”
“I wouldn’t mind it if we never left here,” she said. “Here on the edge of the world
Alexander was quiet. “Is someone... looking for us?”
“No, no. Of course not.” She spoke so quickly.
He placed two fingers under her chin and lifted her face to him. “Tania?”
She couldn’t return his serious gaze. “I just don’t want to go yet, okay?” She tried to move away from his hand. He didn’t let her. “That’s all. I like it here.” She raised her hands to hold on to his arms. “Let’s move to Nellie’s. We’ll have two rooms. She has a bigger kitchen. And you can go for a drink with your pal Jimmy. As I understand, he’s been coming around there a little.” She smiled to convince him.
Letting go of her, Alexander put his plate in the sink, clanging it loudly against the cast aluminum sides. “Yes, let’s,” he said. “Nellie, Jimmy, us. What a fine idea, communal living. We should have more of it.” He shrugged. “Oh, well. Guess you can take the girl out of the Soviet Union, but you can’t take the Soviet Union out of the girl.”
At least there was some participation. Though, like Tatiana kept saying, not great.
They moved to Nellie’s. The air turned a little chilly, then a lot chilly, then cold, particularly in the night, and Nellie, as they found out, was Dickensianly cheap with the heat.
They may have paid for two rooms, but it was all never mind to Anthony, who had less than no interest in staying in a room all by himself. Alexander was forced to drag his twin bed into their room, and push the beds together—again. They paid for two rooms and lived in one.
They huddled under thick blankets, and then suddenly, in the middle of October, it snowed! Snow fell in balls out of the sky, and in one night covered the bay and the barely bare trees in white wool. There was no more work for Alexander, and now there was snow. The morning snow fell, they looked out the window and then at each other. Alexander smiled with all his teeth.