”
Svetlana laughed and kissed her child’s head. Her beautiful daughter possessed the spirit that had been beaten out of Svetlana herself.
Natasha whined, “Why is it taking so long? I’m hungry.”
“Winter’s coming.” Svetlana tapped the dials on the stove as if to pump more gas. The flames were weaker than before. “Public Resources must have lowered the gas supply because people are using their kitchen stoves for warmth.”
The potatoes in the larger pot would take more than an hour, but when the water boiled in the smaller pot, she could double-use it to save time. First, she would put in the two eggs. When they were done, she would reuse the same hot water for the macaroni. Then she’d save that carbohydrate-soaked water. Tomorrow, she’d fashion a meal from it by adding flour. With the apples she had picked in the park last weekend, she could make pancakes.
Also tomorrow she’d carry her tin container. After dining with the Americans, she could collect leftovers, even if it would be humiliating to reveal her poverty. Pride became irrelevant in the face of her child’s hunger.
“Watch the pots while I straighten up our room,” she told Natasha. “And scream if Zoya shows up.”
The chamber pot under the bed was full, and the napkin covering it failed to hold back the pungent smell. For fear of Zoya, Natasha used the chamber pot during the hours her mother was away. Svetlana carried it to the communal toilet, but when she tried to empty it, she found the bowl clogged with excrement. Nostrils burning, she picked up the bucket ready for such eventualities, filled it with water from the small sink, and poured it into the toilet bowl. Using a plunger, she repeated the process, alternately holding her breath and breathing through her mouth. Who had not only caused this problem, but then added to its sorry state? More than once, Svetlana had suggested to the other tenants that together they could buy detergents and disinfect the place. But the bickering had rendered futile all attempts at scheduling cleaning duties.
“Mama!” She opened the stall door to her daughter’s shriek. Natasha fell into her arms, bawling. “Zoya—” Through her hiccups, the girl was unable to speak. Svetlana sprinted back to the kitchen. Behind her, the click of Zoya’s door was followed by the clank of a heavy bolt.
Her pots on the stove were finally boiling, the bubbles sputtering. The three small potatoes danced. No. There were four, and one was not a potato. Something small and dark bounced up and floated to the surface. Svetlana scooped it up, and a yelp of disgust erupted from her throat. A dead mouse. She flung it on the floor. Was anything beyond the Baba Yaga? It dawned on Svetlana why she had almost broken a tooth last week on a piece of wood in her soup.
She ran to Zoya’s door and banged. “You move out. Go see if you can find two rooms anywhere,” she shrieked. Her scream turned into a sob of frustration. Nausea twisted her stomach at the thought that she’d have to wash the precious potatoes.
She couldn’t stop crying even as Natasha hugged her. She cried also for Lyalya, for the price the intelligent young woman was willing to pay to get out of this dump, for the role model Lyalya presented to the impressionable Natasha.
Svetlana’s sadness did not lift after she had rinsed the mouse hair off the potatoes and boiled them again, or later as she sat in her room across the tiny table from Natasha, watching her eat the salvaged meal she couldn’t afford to throw away, and still later when she checked her daughter’s homework. She rewarded Natasha with Brooke’s crayons and vicariously shared her child’s awe of the candy, but the sadness wrapped her with tight fists.
Finally, she gave Natasha a sponge bath, pulled down the small mattress she kept leaning against the wall during the day, spread the sheet and blanket over it, and tucked Natasha in. Sitting at the corner of the cot and feeling the
Svetlana laughed and kissed her child’s head. Her beautiful daughter possessed the spirit that had been beaten out of Svetlana herself.
Natasha whined, “Why is it taking so long? I’m hungry.”
“Winter’s coming.” Svetlana tapped the dials on the stove as if to pump more gas. The flames were weaker than before. “Public Resources must have lowered the gas supply because people are using their kitchen stoves for warmth.”
The potatoes in the larger pot would take more than an hour, but when the water boiled in the smaller pot, she could double-use it to save time. First, she would put in the two eggs. When they were done, she would reuse the same hot water for the macaroni. Then she’d save that carbohydrate-soaked water. Tomorrow, she’d fashion a meal from it by adding flour. With the apples she had picked in the park last weekend, she could make pancakes.
Also tomorrow she’d carry her tin container. After dining with the Americans, she could collect leftovers, even if it would be humiliating to reveal her poverty. Pride became irrelevant in the face of her child’s hunger.
“Watch the pots while I straighten up our room,” she told Natasha. “And scream if Zoya shows up.”
The chamber pot under the bed was full, and the napkin covering it failed to hold back the pungent smell. For fear of Zoya, Natasha used the chamber pot during the hours her mother was away. Svetlana carried it to the communal toilet, but when she tried to empty it, she found the bowl clogged with excrement. Nostrils burning, she picked up the bucket ready for such eventualities, filled it with water from the small sink, and poured it into the toilet bowl. Using a plunger, she repeated the process, alternately holding her breath and breathing through her mouth. Who had not only caused this problem, but then added to its sorry state? More than once, Svetlana had suggested to the other tenants that together they could buy detergents and disinfect the place. But the bickering had rendered futile all attempts at scheduling cleaning duties.
“Mama!” She opened the stall door to her daughter’s shriek. Natasha fell into her arms, bawling. “Zoya—” Through her hiccups, the girl was unable to speak. Svetlana sprinted back to the kitchen. Behind her, the click of Zoya’s door was followed by the clank of a heavy bolt.
Her pots on the stove were finally boiling, the bubbles sputtering. The three small potatoes danced. No. There were four, and one was not a potato. Something small and dark bounced up and floated to the surface. Svetlana scooped it up, and a yelp of disgust erupted from her throat. A dead mouse. She flung it on the floor. Was anything beyond the Baba Yaga? It dawned on Svetlana why she had almost broken a tooth last week on a piece of wood in her soup.
She ran to Zoya’s door and banged. “You move out. Go see if you can find two rooms anywhere,” she shrieked. Her scream turned into a sob of frustration. Nausea twisted her stomach at the thought that she’d have to wash the precious potatoes.
She couldn’t stop crying even as Natasha hugged her. She cried also for Lyalya, for the price the intelligent young woman was willing to pay to get out of this dump, for the role model Lyalya presented to the impressionable Natasha.
Svetlana’s sadness did not lift after she had rinsed the mouse hair off the potatoes and boiled them again, or later as she sat in her room across the tiny table from Natasha, watching her eat the salvaged meal she couldn’t afford to throw away, and still later when she checked her daughter’s homework. She rewarded Natasha with Brooke’s crayons and vicariously shared her child’s awe of the candy, but the sadness wrapped her with tight fists.
Finally, she gave Natasha a sponge bath, pulled down the small mattress she kept leaning against the wall during the day, spread the sheet and blanket over it, and tucked Natasha in. Sitting at the corner of the cot and feeling the
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