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.