Soviet Milk Page 7

  I was sorry that my mother had hidden the clay baby. I thought of it as a magic baby because that evening, coming home from the ceramics workshop, I felt an odd, new pain in my groin. Suddenly I needed to pee. I knelt behind a bush, pulled down my knickers and noticed a streak of blood in them. I wasn’t afraid; my mother had told me that this would happen one day and that afterwards it would happen every month.

  I told my mother that I was menstruating much later. It came with great pain and made me faint a couple of times in school. The clay baby had brought new times.

  *

  My daily walk to the ambulatory centre led past our village’s Lutheran church, which housed a book archive. This church had been lucky: elsewhere churches had been either demolished or reappointed to suit the needs of the kolkhoz – they became storehouses for fertilizers and animal feed. My parents never talked about God. No one talked about Him because it had been clearly announced: He didn’t exist. I had just one childhood story for a proof of His existence.

  Once my grandmother came to visit us and I was left in her care for the evening. She was making a buberts – a sweet concoction of beaten egg, cream of wheat and milk floating in cranberry sauce. While she cooked, she described how, as a child, bundled in blankets and furs, she had been made to sit out in a sleigh on a cold winter night. The small bells fixed to the harness had tinkled and the horse had drawn the sleigh to church. There, still wrapped in blankets, she had been carried into the church. While the minister was preaching, she had seen a man dressed in light, summer clothes in the dark outside the church window. Surely He had been God. Later he had been seen lying in a ditch, under a church window frame with its pane intact. No one had had the courage to go near him to see if he was alive or dead.

  I still haven’t had the opportunity to meet Him. That’s what I in my student naiveté had said to the old professor, who, of course, reported my ambiguous comment to his superiors. As I had responded to my Engels Street interrogator, I didn’t believe in God. But I thought about Him more and more frequently. About whether God was or wasn’t there when Serafima and my other patients became pregnant, lying on this outdated examination chair made of cracked fake leather, their legs in stirrups of cold, uncomfortable metal. No one and nothing gave me the slightest sign that He was there. How could I feel anything of His existence? Everything or almost everything could be explained without His presence.

  She came by chance. It was evening and consulting hours were nearly finished. A quiet knock at my door. ‘Come in,’ I said. She looked very much like Serafima – her head was wrapped in a large shawl and she didn’t speak Latvian. She sat down shyly on the couch. For many months now she had suffered back and lower stomach pains. She had tried not only teas but also ointments and prayers – nothing had helped. She no longer had the strength to tolerate the pain.

  Still in her shawl, she clambered onto the examination chair. I asked her to remove her vest and blouse and to raise her brassiere. Over her breasts she clasped her cross – like the one that Serafima wore – and allowed herself to be examined.

  I had only to see her nipples and all was clear. They had drawn inward. Her right breast and her underarm region were full of lumps. She hadn’t seen a female doctor for almost fifteen years.

  ‘You have to go to the city right away for more detailed tests. These will doubtless be followed by an operation,’ I said.

  ‘Is it cancer?’ she asked.

  ‘Most likely it is, but it could be something else,’ I answered. ‘The sooner you get to a hospital, the better.’

  ‘I’ve never been in a hospital,’ she said as she got dressed. It was impossible to tell her age. Her face naive and childlike, her skin smooth, her hands work-worn and deeply veined.

  ‘Maybe I’ll still try with prayers,’ she said.

  ‘I very strongly recommend you don’t drag this out but go straight to a hospital,’ I said in a strict voice.

  ‘Doctor, do you believe in God?’ she asked.

  ‘I still haven’t had the opportunity to meet Him,’ I repeated. An odd sensation gripped my stomach.

  ‘What a pity. It’s one of the most beautiful meetings in life. Love and fidelity for a lifetime. A friend who always supports and forgives you.’

  What she said seemed to me naive and exaggerated. Through my clairvoyant eyes I saw her cancer-riddled body, which, most likely, could no longer be helped either by an operation or by God.

  ‘Come,’ she said. ‘Through the woods, on a hill above the river, is a small Orthodox church. There are no windows, it’s boarded up, but you can pray quietly there. No one goes there. It’s safe.’

  I had never heard of this small church.

  ‘Come on Sunday morning. I’ll read a prayer.’

  It was an empty Sunday without my daughter. It had snowed heavily and the walk through the woods was not easy. We never walked in that direction. A path trampled by animals led along the edge of the forest. It gradually narrowed to no more than a snow-covered trail. On the other side of the trail nestled a river in its winter sleep. It seemed incredible that a church could be here. Soon its silhouette rose through the trees. Two small, round cupolas. Effectively there were no windows, as they’d been boarded up. The door was half-open. In the darkness inside, lit by flames from tapers, a subdued voice was chanting. A candlelit icon was propped up high on the dilapidated altar: the Mother of God, with a halo of light around her head and a child in her arms. A woman stood facing the icon and chanting from a small book. I didn’t understand the words. They washed over me like a wave:

  О, Пресвятая и Преблагословенная Мати Сладчайшаго Господа нашего Иисуса Христа! Припадаем и поклоняемся Тебе пред святою и пречестною иконою Твоею, еюже дивны и преславны чудеса содеваеши, от огненнаго запаления и молниеноснаго громе жилища наша спасавши, недужныя исцеляеши и всякое благое прошение наше во благо исполняеши. Смиренно молим Тя, всесильная рода нашего Заступнице, сподоби ны немощныя и грешныя Твоего Матерняго участия и благопопечения…

  Then something slipped into place. I did understand:

  O most holy Virgin Mary, I praise thy mercy and I pray to thee: purify my mind, teach me to walk the straight path set by Christ’s commandments. Grant me strength, so I may awake, sing and banish heavyhearted sleep. In your prayers, Bride of God, deliver me who am fettered by sin. Protect me night and day, save me from my enemies, who war against me. Giver of Life, Mother of Christ, grant a new life to me, whom earthly passions have vanquished. Thou, who hast given birth to the never-waning Light, light my darkened soul. Heavenly Father, our Redeemer, make me the dwelling of the Divine Spirit. Thou, who hast given birth to the Healer, heal my soul of yearning and sinful passions. Tossed in life’s storms, lead me to the port of penitence. Save me from eternal fire, the evil worm and hell.

  *

  It was almost summer. Over the past winter something had changed. My mother appeared calm and balanced. My persistent fear had abated. On several evenings my mother had supper prepared for me. In free moments, we would read together or work in the garden. We raked leaves and fallen branches under which energetic green shoots were edging upwards. It was the loveliest time in our small garden. Soon everything would be in blossom. The old trees were still vigorous. The apple trees blossomed every second year or so, but the cherry trees and the pear still every year. Later into full summer, the roses would add their perfume, then the jasmine.

  One more year and our life would have to change. The nearest secondary school, where I was to continue my schooling, was far away. I wouldn’t be able to walk to and from classes. I would have to move and board during the week.

  On the day we received our report
cards my mother came home from work on time. She had managed to get a couple of éclairs and some cream-filled trubochka. I brewed tea. In the garden under the old cherry tree, we set out a small table and two chairs. Coolness still rose from the ground, but the air was fragrant and warm. My mother smiled when I opened my report card. There was only one 4 there – for physical education. The rest were 5s – the highest mark possible. She patted my head. I leaned down and kissed her cheek.

  We knew that we wouldn’t see each other for at least two months. My grandmother and step-grandfather were taking me on a holiday to the Black Sea. We had to take a train for several days to Simferopol, and from there still further to Alushtai, which was right on the seashore.

  I was sorry my mother had to remain on her own.

  ‘But don’t you worry,’ I said. ‘I’ll return in time to go mushrooming.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ my mother said. ‘Get some sun, swim and eat a lot of fruit.’

  The May evening embraced us.

  ‘Mamma,’ I said, and was frightened, for I had never addressed my mother like that. ‘Mamma, after the eighth grade I would like to go back to my grandparents in the city. There’s a secondary school very close by our flat, you know.’

  There it was, out in the open. A great stone rolled off my chest.

  My mother took out a cigarette packet. She lit a match, then a cigarette.

  ‘Probably that’s the right thing to do,’ she said. She looked so sad and vulnerable that a lump formed in my throat.

  ‘I’ll come and visit you often, and we still have a whole year ahead of us.’ I was talking for the sake of talking.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘But eat your éclair or the cream pastry. You’ve more than earned it. You’re like me in my dream,’ she said. ‘Outdoors, in the middle of a circle, where you’re being pulled on both sides, and it hurts.’

  I didn’t understand this dream. But yes, each time these partings hurt. I tried to get accustomed to the pain and to be joyful about the reunion that came with each changeover from mother to grandparents and back.

  The train that raced towards the south took me away from the pain. Our compartment was clean and comfortable. The attendant brought tea for us. My grandmother had prepared tasty treats for the trip, while two evenings in a row my step-grandfather took us to the dining car. There you could get not only chicken Kiev but also stroganoff and shashlik and kupaty sausages. My grandmother and step-grandfather each had a glass of cognac while I had Tarhun, a fizzy drink. Ukraine’s small railway stations soon replaced the Belarusian forests. At these stations we spotted old ladies in kerchiefs and men selling pears and apricots in pails. We were nearing paradise.

  At Simferopol station my step-grandfather rented a white Zhiguli car and driver to take us to Alushtai. We drove with the windows rolled down, and a warm southern wind tousled our hair. It was another world. I hadn’t thought of my mother at any point on the journey. She had disappeared as if wound up in a ball of yarn that rolled away into the distance.

  That warm evening at the end of our long journey, our landlady treated us to a juicy watermelon. Behind our table was an arbour overgrown with grapevines, from which clusters of unripe grapes as good as fell into our mouths. I asked permission to pluck some. The landlady laughed and encouraged me to look for ripe ones. Bushes and trees I had never seen grew in her garden, unfamiliar fruit ripening in their branches.

  In the morning, after a light breakfast, the three of us walked to the sea. My grandmother was wearing a white linen dress, my step-grandfather a short-sleeved shirt and wide, flapping trousers. My grandmother had bought a swimsuit for me – a two-piece, orange with a pattern of fishes. I was hopping about like a colt in an excess of joy.

  There it was. Enormous, endless, glistening in the morning sun. The foaming waves caressed the shore, playing a tambourine on the pebbles. Mirrored in the bright bluish-green water was the clean, clear sky. Not a cloud could be seen as far as the horizon. We stood on the shore, spellbound.

  ‘Let’s run, Sweet Pea, let’s run,’ my grandmother suddenly exclaimed, throwing off her dress and sandals.

  I tore off my dress and we ran. The foaming salty water enveloped us.

  ‘As warm as milk,’ my grandmother said.

  I swam up to her and hugged her tightly. For a brief while, hanging onto each other and swaying in the waves, I felt my mother’s spirit join us. We three were bound so closely. My step-grandfather stood on the shore, waving cheerfully.

  One evening, as my grandmother and step-grandfather sat with our landlady over a glass of wine, I asked permission to go by myself as far as the sea.

  ‘Just don’t go into the water,’ cautioned my step-grandfather.

  The beach was already almost empty of holidaymakers. In the dark sky of this southern summer just a few stars shone. The sea was calm, the water lapping lazily against the pebbles, filling the air with a sound like the tinkling of crotal bells.

  I thought about my mother and her overheated room at the ambulatory centre. About the endless line of women in the corridor. About her equally overheated room at home. About her daily mugs of coffee and her cigarettes. About the books, the only thing in which she found comfort. And I thought about this endless land, sea and sky, of which even a fingernail’s worth of dirt was denied her. About the grapes, which she would never pluck from an arbour over her head. About the sound of the crotal bells, which she would not hear, and about the love-filled air, which she would not breathe.

  I waded into the water up to my ankles. She wasn’t here, yet she was here.

  *

  The river was warm as milk. Only late at night could it provide relief from the sweltering heat. The days felt interminable; the short nights brought the balm of darkness. At the end of July the ambulatory centre was closed for a month. I began a long, lonely, senseless time. I lay naked in my shadow-filled room, trying to kill the nights and days.

  I couldn’t read. Letters followed one another forming sentences, sliding past my eyes, my thoughts, which lingered elsewhere. Now and then I thought of my daughter, my mother and stepfather. I tried to envisage their happy threesome on the southern seashore. Paradise was there and it lacked for nothing. Now and then I thought of hell and of the Giver of Life – although I had not seen that patient again. I walked to the church a couple of times more, but it was empty and silent.

  The Giver of Life. A powerful title, against which the words ‘hell’ and ‘evil worm’ sounded trivial and insignificant. Still, those words were devouring me.

  We Soviet doctors all swore an oath to fight for life and health. We swore to avert the threat of nuclear war and to serve our Soviet people and our motherland. Prisyaga, vracha Sovetskogo Soyuza – the Doctor’s Oath of the Soviet Union. The evil worm had eroded the Hippocratic oath, in which, calling on all the gods as witnesses, the young healer promised not to give any woman any substance or means that could result in foeticide, or to turn from virtue and piety either in her life or in her professional duties. And we solemnly swore: if I fulfil and don’t transgress this oath, may I be successful both in my life and in the art of my profession. But if I break this oath or swear falsely, may the opposite come to pass.

  The opposite had happened. And I was trapped in the white heat of the inferno.

  At last the balmy evening drew me outside. The late jasmine was savagely fragrant. The dog had dug a cool den at its roots. I took a towel, locked the gate and headed for the river. It was worth suffering the day for the sake of this evening walk.

  The track led down over the steep, clay bank from which seeped fresh rivulets of water. These fed into the river, mingling with its dark waters and becoming one great flow. The current was deceptive at this point. It suddenly made a turn and could carry you away from the bank. You had to gather every ounce of strength to swim against it.

  The fragrance of meadow flowers wafted along the riverbank. The aroma of wild mint blended with meadowsweet and sweet fl
ag.

  I sat on a large rock that still retained the day’s sweltering heat. I lit a cigarette. The river was calm, hiding her currents deep down. Mist rose against the pallid light where the sun was setting. The long, senseless day wrestled with a redeeming night.

  An aeroplane roared by in the dark sky, prompting both fear and longing. I remembered myself quite young, dressed up, holding my mother’s hand. We were walking down a street when a plane flew overhead and my mother flinched, grabbed me and ran into a courtyard. Then she calmed down and we continued on our way in the city streets. I’d been gripped with a new fear, but also a longing for the distant place that plane was speeding to.

  Now at the riverbank, with one day ending and the promise of another, and another beyond that, I felt the same. Like my cigarettes smoked down to ashes, life’s end drew nearer.

  I took off my clothes and slipped into the warm river. The river of life – it would absolve me of my sin. It would forgive me for ending the life of a foetus and for undermining the parenthood I had sworn to uphold. May the opposite come to pass.

  *

  I returned to my mother’s house at the end of August. Behind me was the miraculous summer at the southern sea. The sun had bleached my hair and I was tanned. ‘You’re shaping up to be beautiful,’ my mother said. My mother, our small dwelling, the garden, the dog – all looked different to me now. Petty and shrunken, grey and dust-covered, but still dear.

  ‘The summer has been hot. The one saving grace was evenings at the river,’ my mother told me. She examined my gifts: a big yellow quince, seashells, some colourful bits of glass worn smooth by the sea and edible chestnuts. ‘Remember,’ I said, ‘you bought some like these in the Riga market, when you asked me to live with you. I wanted to remind you of their taste.’