Sashenka

“What happened to her?” asked Katinka but the old lady did not stop, as if afraid to waste an ounce of energy on anything not strictly necessary. Katinka understood suddenly that Lala Lewis was telling her the story that perhaps Satinov could not bear to tell her himself.

Lala sipped her red wine, spilling some on her nightie. A shaky hand tried to wipe it but she missed the stain and soon gave up.

“I begged him to let me keep the children but he told me I would be arrested myself and then what? I knew then that I would only have them for the briefest of times, and I needed to make the most of it. Our five days and nights together were too short for me. I’d lost Samuil but gained them. Satinov had given me enough money to feed the children well and we had papers so we could move about openly. I was with family. ‘Where’s Mama? When’s Mama coming back?’ the children asked, but Satinov had told me that I had to tell them their parents had died in an accident. That was a terrible moment. More than ever, they clung to me and to that cushion, that absurd cushion, that became mother and father to darling Snowy, and to that pink rabbit that Carlo kissed at night. I wanted to kiss and hug those children, spoil them, soothe them, heal them. I wanted to cover them in love. But I couldn’t let them get too close because I knew that I would soon have to disappear too. They slept in my bed, yes, this very bed, and I relished those nights with them, every second. As I lay there between them, with their soft limbs and sweet breath on me, I sobbed for them and Sashenka, but I couldn’t move or make a sound so the tears flowed silently. Like an underground stream. In the morning the pillow was soaked.

“One morning, Snowy kissed me. ‘Can we go home, Lala? Where is Mummy now?’ she asked.

‘I think she’s watching you.’

‘Like the stars in the sky?’

‘Just like that. She’ll always watch you, darling!’

‘Why did she go away and leave us?’

‘She didn’t want to, darling. I know she loved you and Carlo more than anything in the world. At night, wherever you are, I think she’ll kiss your forehead just like this and you won’t awaken. But in the morning, you’ll just feel a light breeze over you and you’ll know she’s been there.’

‘What about Daddy?’

‘Daddy will kiss you too, on the other side of your forehead.’

‘Will you be like our mummy for us?’

“Oh, Katinka, dear child, can you imagine such a conversation? I had to take them to the Lavrenti Beria Orphanage outside town. A hellish place. Even visiting was a bad experience. But there they got the stamps on their papers assigning them to the families who would adopt them. Satinov had arranged it meticulously so they weren’t registered as children of Enemies of the People, just ordinary orphans. How he did it all I don’t know. I dreaded parting with them. I loved them both, Snowy and Carlo. Dear child, I can still smell their skin now, still look into their eyes, still hear their voices—I had to leave them and, worst of all, I had to part brother and sister. They would never see each other again. It was one blow after another!”

Tears ran down her lined cheeks. Katinka was so moved that she too burst into tears and, without a word, she sat on the bed and they held each other. Finally Lala drank a little wine, ate some khachapuri, and cleared her throat.

“Are you strong enough to go on?” Katinka asked.

“I am. Are you?” said the old lady, wiping her eyes. “I’m not bad for my age, am I?”

“Who were the families who took them? Can you remember?”

“I never knew the names of the families. Satinov made sure of that. Only he knew. But I remember the day I met them both as if it were yesterday. Oh, it was agony! Carlo was playing with trains in one room at the orphanage. Snowy was creating a dinner party of pillows and cushions. And then the families came. I suppose they were good people but they weren’t like Sashenka or me—not cozy. The Jewish couple—they didn’t say but they were from Odessa or Nikolaev, somewhere on the Black Sea—were kind enough, I think, but quite unsuited to looking after children—he was already middle-aged with wild fuzzy hair, some kind of intellectual, and she was a bluestocking. I wanted to tell them that Snowy’s mother was Jewish too so they were her sort in a way. I did explain about Snowy’s favorite toys and games, and in their stiff way they started to play along with her. That comforted me later. I left Snowy with them, hoping they would get to know one another. But they didn’t. Snowy kept running back to me. ‘Where’s Lala?’ she’d scream. ‘Lala, you won’t leave us, will you, Lala? Where’s Carlo, I want to stay with Carlo! Carlo!’”