The Time Of Women

I. The Mother-1

I

THE MOTHERI chop the onions and nod: the old ladies know better whether it’s time. What can you say to them? They’re strict. Who am I against them?…

I’d lived in the dormitory1 long enough, and there it was the more the merrier – there were eight beds in the room. And now I’ve got plenty of space… Thanks to the local committee… Like Zoya Ivanovna said:

“Not much you can do now, is there?… Is it the kid’s fault? Once you’ve given birth, you can’t shove the child back inside. How is it with us, after all? The mother is most important: she gives you food and drink. Who cares if you have no husband? Even people like you get help and respect nowadays. Sytin, the foreman from the sixth, has a new baby: they have two now. So they’ll get a two-room flat. And you can move into their place instead.”

Nine and a half meters – and I’m my own mistress2. If only my late mother could see me…

They don’t care:

“You’re not the first, and not the last. And remember, the kid is ours, it belongs to the factory. That means it belongs to everybody. The authorities don’t have stepchildren. So don’t you worry: there’ll be a nursery, a kindergarten and a summer camp when she’s older. And you’re not alone, you’re part of the collective3. And there’s no need to shield him. After all, it didn’t come out of nowhere. We’d sure put the screws on him if we found him!”

I didn’t say anything. They didn’t ask anymore.

I thought that it was a good thing that I was in a city. There are thousands and thousands of them out there walking the streets. Not like in the countryside. They’d know all about it there – men are few and far between…

Maybe if he were from the factory, I would have told them… Zoya Ivanovna is so kind. But he isn’t from the factory, so what I can say? All I know is his name. Not even an address or surname…

Yevdokia lifted an eyebrow:

“We’re running out of vegetable oil.”

I look at the bottle, running out is not the word… There’s nothing left. A few drops on the very bottom. Do they drink it or something? I only got it last week.

“What about the onions?” I look around. “I’ve got to brown them, don’t I?”

“Use margarine,” she advises me.

He was handsome, and well-built. But I couldn’t quite figure him out. He expressed himself strangely, like city people do.

“Have you been waiting long, young lady?” he said to me. I nodded, and didn’t say anything: it’s awkward with a stranger. He looked polite enough, but you never know. He was silent for a while and then asked: “Are you on your way to see Santa Claus?”

“What do you mean?” I said in surprise.

“Your bag,” he says, nodding his head towards it. “It’s big. Is it for presents?” How silly. “What presents?!” I smile. “I’m going to the market to buy potatoes.”He lifts his eyebrows: “To the market?’ he asks. ‘With a bag?”

“It’s Sunday,” I explain. “I’ve got to get potatoes for the whole room.” – “For the room?” he shakes his head. “And what about the hall? Is it going to starve? Or is your room kind enough to share with everyone?…”

I brushed the onion tears away with the back of my hand. I smiled to myself.

I stir and stir… The margarine is not so good. It spatters everywhere. My hand is scalded already. Yevdokia has some advice for that too:

“Rub it with laundry soap.”

He stood there for a few moments, then went over towards the street-lamp. His legs were long, like a crane’s. He walks around, stamping his feet. He looks at his watch; “Now how much longer do we have to wait?” He’s lost all his patience, he must be freezing. And his shoes are very thin, with no warm lining. “It must be soon,” I try to comfort him. “I’ve been standing here for quite a while now…”

“No, no. It’s hopeless,” he looks around. ‘We wait and wait, and nobody comes.” – “But everyone’s asleep.” – “Asleep?” he echoes. “That’s right. That’s what I should be doing, silly me…”

Yes, I think to myself. And his face does look a bit mangled. Must have been out drinking all night. Doesn’t reek of alcohol though. Our guys always do till lunchtime the next day.

“And you,” I plucked my courage to ask, “up so early… Got to be somewhere?” – “Of course…” – he narrowed his eyes. “I woke up and went off to the market. To buy potatoes.” – “Oh!” – I brighten up. And he looked me over from head to foot, and says: “You surprise me, young lady. Did you study in America or something?”

“Why,” I was frightened, “Why in America? In a village. Malye Polovtsy.” He furrowed his eyebrows: “In a Soviet village? But you don’t remember the most important thing: where the collective goes, I follow.”

“What collective?” – I’m confused. He laughs. “What about you and me? – Citizens gathered at the bus stop… Under the present circumstances I suggest we hail a taxi…”

He brought me to his place. A big roomy flat.

“Where is everybody?” – I ask. “Everybody is at the dacha,” he says. “I mean the old folks.”

How come they’re at the dacha? I wonder. It’s winter…

“And where are the neighbours?” I look around. – “Alas,” he lifts his hands in dismay. “We don’t have that kind of stuff. We live like under Communism.”

I go in. And it’s true. They live well. There’s a desk and books lining the walls.

A picture of some bearded guy in a knitted sweater above the sofa. In a frame. “Who’s that?”

“Yes,” he waves his hand – “there is this one person.” Perhaps, I guess, it’s someone from the family. It’s hard to tell with the beard4…

We sat in silence for a while, and then he made coffee. In very fine white cups, which I was almost afraid to drink from. God forbid the handle might break off. “Take some sugar,” – he moves the sugar bowl towards me. I took a sip and grimaced. I put two teaspoons of sugar into it, but it was still bitter.

“Black coffee,” he says. “Not everybody likes it. It has to grow on you. Don’t be upset, you’ll get used to it.” He took a sip, and put the cup aside. It didn’t look as though he was all that used to it himself…

And though we didn’t have any wine, I felt as if I was drunk. I listen to his voice. I don’t even know how it happened… It was as if I were in a fog…

I jerked the drawer open, and felt for the grater. Now to grate the carrots… The onions are sizzling. I turn off the burner. But my hand is still aching. I turn the water on – stick it under the tap…

He took me out to the cinema during the week. I was happy. I’d always envied other girls who went out with guys. “We can’t go to my place,” he says. “The old folks rushed back from the country after they heard the radio.” And he looked a bit grim himself.

We went to the cinema and there was a comedy showing. “Carnival Night”.

“That’s great,” I say. “All my friends liked it.” He shrugged his shoulders.

We leave the cinema. I’m happier than ever, but he’s as gloomy as a thundercloud. “What,” I say, surprised, “didn’t you like it? I did, very much… I wish I lived like that… It’s a nice life they have, like in a fairytale.”

“They won’t be any fairytales anymore,” he sneers in reply. “Have you heard about Hungary?…” – “What about Hungary? You mean on TV? Of course, I have. They told us all about it at the political information hour: hostile elements… They conspired against us. You have to wonder what’s wrong with them!”

I saw his mouth jerk as though from a whiplash. His eyes suddenly looked dull – neither dead nor alive. The eyes of a fish. He waved his hand at me, and walked away.

Should I run after him?… But I stood still. And I kept standing there until he disappeared…

“Oh, I forgot! I’ve got some sugar candy for you”.

They like this. It’s colourful, homemade. You dissolve it with jam and let it cool, and it thickens into something like caramel. I snagged it up with the knife. They can pick at it.

It’s always like this with lump sugar. God forbid I serve granulated sugar at the table. The tongs are small and shiny. Antique. They don’t make them like that anymore. The tongs crack sugar with a nice clear sound into very small pieces. They take a piece and put it in their mouth. Take a sip of tea and suck. I used to think they were sparing it because it was expensive. Wasn’t I earning enough to buy sugar? But they said it tasted nicer like that. And what’s more they even taught the girl to like it. She pushes the sugar bowl away, if you move it towards her…

When I moved in with the old women, the girls tried to scare me: “How will you get on with neighbours!” At the dormitory it’s all family. Over there I’ll be a stranger, a country bumpkin with a baby. Go talk to Sytin’s wife, they say, maybe she’ll give you some useful advice.

I found her. “Don’t be afraid of the old women,” she says. “The main thing is to make them respect you. Don’t let them think they’re in charge. You’ll take my place in the kitchen – I got myself a good one, by the window. Just shout at them, if they give you any trouble: they’ll crawl into their corners. It’s a shame you haven’t got a man – they sure were afraid of mine”…

I moved in with them. They turned out to be all right – quiet old women. But I was still afraid. Sytin’s wife was a big, strapping woman. She could shout loud enough to make the saints blush.

At the beginning, I tried to be very quiet. In the morning I’d wrap the baby in a little blanket, and the pram is under the stairs, with a lock on it. A heavy lock, with a chain. The pram was given to me by the factory, and I bought the lock myself. I’d run down the stairs, open the lock, put it under the little mattress and hurry back upstairs to get the baby. All done, and, blizzard or no blizzard, we go to the nursery. I leave her with the nannies and off to work. The nursery belongs to the factory. But all the same, my soul aches. Sometimes I have to work the second shift, if the foreman wants me to. Then, when it’s already late at night, I get back to the nursery. There’s a nanny on duty. She wakes the baby, wraps her up and brings her to me. And it would all have been all right if she hadn’t started to get sick. Zoya Ivanovna would comfort me: “Children all get sick, yours will recover too”.

The nursery is on the balance – the factory pays the difference to the staff. The mothers also give the nannies things on holidays, like candy or stockings. I did too, but I was too shy to ask them to do anything special for her. There were a lot of new babies and only one nanny. She’d cry herself sick because she stayed in wet nappies for too long, or have a stomach ache. I got tired of having to take sick leave all the time. And on sick leave they only paid me the average, of course: it was nowhere near the money I earned normally.

It was all right at first. If her temperature rises, you just give her some drops and that’s it. And it goes down in a couple of days. It wasn’t until later that the convulsions started. She’d get blue all over and go into a fit. Her eyes would go cloudy and white. And my heart would stop: I’d think it was the end of her. So I made up my mind to send her to the country. My mother was still alive. And that’s where the old women came in. They wouldn’t hear of it..

They didn’t have any family themselves. Their husbands and children were all gone, dead. No grandchildren either. “Go and work,” they said. “Surely the three of us can raise her!”

And so it all started that at home I became something like a servant. I’d go to work, then to the shops to wait in various queues. Then, I’d do the washing, the cleaning and the cooking for everybody. They were retired, and their pensions were tiny. I had to pay for a lot myself. Still, the girl lived like a princess. And no wonder, three nannies for one child – she was well looked after. They took her for walks, and read to her. They taught her French, if you can believe that.