She picked up the mirror and went down the steps. The sky was a cloudless expanse of white and somewhere in the stand of oaks she heard the monotonous drone of a woodcutter’s saw. For the time being she would have to ignore the unsavory parts of her life, the little terrors, the slights and insults, the injuries to her pride and the bitter uncertainties of the future. She had room for only simple thoughts now: keep going, turn a profit, bring food home, and extract the most out of the least. All the rest was a distraction that kept her from a good day’s work. She decided to add a surcharge on to the price of the mirror: 5 percent for the journey, 5 for the heat and dust, and another 5 for having been mistaken for a house Jew.
THERE WAS a one-story house of weathered wood and peeling plaster that shared a courtyard with three similar houses. It was just off Davidkovo Square near the zemstvo building and directly across from the Church of the Resurrection. It wasn’t a very fashionable neighborhood. These weren’t fashionable people. The owner of the house was the assistant manager of a textile plant owned by Yuvelir’s family. In the past Berta wouldn’t have known these people. It wouldn’t have occurred to her to stop and speak with them, to exchange a pleasantry or ask about their children. Now everything was different. Now they were her customers and she couldn’t afford to be picky.
It was January 1917 and the country had been at war for nearly two and a half years. Everyone was talking about revolution. The consensus was that it was only a matter of time. Bread was scarce in the cities. People had to wait in long lines for it, only to find that the bakeries had run out of flour. Food shortages were everywhere. The factories were on strike. The war was going badly: inexperienced leadership, wholesale desertion, and the rolling stock had proven inadequate to supply the front. There was a stench of decay in the air. Russia was festering. Everyone knew it was going to be bad, but no one imagined how it could be much worse, with people dropping everywhere of disease, of starvation, of war, young and old and even children, the bodies piling up like hayricks after the autumn harvest.
Berta stepped off the curb and crossed in front of a sledge that was being pulled by its driver. The man had a harness over his shoulder and he trudged through the snowy street pulling his heavy load, his face screwed up with the effort. She jumped over a mound of snow in the gutter and landed up on the other side, ignoring the taunts of three soldiers who were standing over a fire in an old drum. One of them was roasting chestnuts over a grate and selling them in paper cones.
She followed the little walkway around to the back of the house where the dvornik was shoveling out the courtyard. He looked up briefly when she passed but said nothing and returned to his work. She tried to knock on the door, despite the heavy bundles in her hands, but soon gave up and kicked it several times instead. She didn’t want to put the packages down because it was hard to pick them up again. She was wearing men’s gloves that were too big for her and made it difficult to hold things. She wanted to take them off but knew she would be risking frostbite. There was a sharp wind, and the sun, a dull orb in the sky swaddled in clouds of frost and snow, hung over the domes of the Church of the Annunciation.
She heard a voice from inside: “Nastya! It’s the boy with the wood.”
It was the cook. Berta recognized her voice. Then she heard quick footsteps crossing the kitchen and the door opened with a gentle gust of warm air and the cloistered smell of baking bread. The housemaid looked her over. “It’s only the house Jew,” she called back over her shoulder. She stood there dressed in her starched white blouse and black pinafore. Her cap was a large black bow.
“Well, bring her in,” said the cook, bristling with impatience. “You’re letting in the cold air.”
The maid stepped aside to let Berta in but made no move to help her with the bundles. Berta nodded a greeting and edged past her into the kitchen. The cook looked up from her worktable. She was stuffing a bird with bread crumbs, dried apples, and cranberries, and Berta caught the velvety perfume of cloves and cinnamon.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t kick our door,” the cook said, shoving another handful of stuffing into the breast. “We have better things to do then paint our back door every time you come to call.”
She was a trim woman wearing a starched white cap and apron. Her hands were glistening with grease, and bits of berries and apples were sticking to them. “Well, just don’t stand there,” she said to the housemaid. “Show her into the parlor and tell Miss she’s here.” And then to Berta she added, “I expect you brought the boas?”
Berta nodded.
“Well, go on then,” she said, nodding in the direction of the parlor. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and went back to stuffing the bird.
The parlor was damp and smelled of mold and wet carpet. It was crowded with gilded pine furniture, flimsy sticks of wood covered with cheap fabric. After the maid had gone Berta unpacked the boas and laid them out on the settee. Then she went over to the porcelain stove that stood in the corner and tried to warm her hands. They were frugal with wood in this house and the fire had been allowed to go out. Still there were a few lingering coals in the grate and she bent down to gather in what warmth she could.
“Have you been waiting long?” asked the girl, breezing in through the double doors. She hardly gave Berta a glance as she hurried over to the boas hanging over the back of the settee. “Oh, these are lovely.” She was the youngest of five daughters and the only one still left in the house. The others had made suitable marriages long ago and were scattered all over Little Russia. All of her brothers were dead except for the one who was in the tubercular hospital in Poltava.
“What do you think? This one?”
She held up a garish one, the only one of the five that was too big for her. She was a short girl with a thick waist and the last thing she needed was more bulk hanging around her neck. But she had chosen the ostrich feathers, the most expensive one, the one that would bring in two extra rubles.
Berta could smell her unwashed hair. “Yes, it’s absolutely perfect for you. It looks wonderful.”
“Really? Not too much?” She threw it around her neck and looked at herself in the mirror that hung over the mantel.
“No, it’s very flattering. It even goes with what you’re wearing.”
A moment later her mother walked in and brushed past Berta without a word. “The house Jew is here and no one tells me?” grumbled Pelageia Iakovlevna. She had a pasty face with heavy, mannish features and thick lips that turned down at the corners. “Here, let me see that.” She looked at her daughter and slowly shook her head. “No, no, no, it’s too long. It’s too thick. It’s not at all what you should be wearing.”
“But I like it.”
“It’s not right. I’m telling you it looks terrible on you.” She looked over the choices and picked up a modest one made of chiffon ruffles. “Now here, try this one.” She unwound the offending boa from around her daughter’s neck and replaced it with her choice. She took a step back and studied the effect. “Much better. There, see? What did I tell you? Go have a look.”
The girl looked in the mirror and made a face. “But I like the other one. Why can’t I have that one?”
“Because it’s too big for you. It looks ridiculous. You want to look ridiculous? Now, if you stayed away from the pastries…”
The girl took off the chiffon boa and put back the feather one. Then she glanced over at Berta. “The house Jew likes it. Go on, tell her. She said it was perfect.”
“It’s what they’re wearing, Madame,” Berta said, sounding a little bored. She found that an attitude of detachment worked best in these situations, especially with women of this class. They expected to be overlooked and when they weren’t they grew suspicious. In reality she was anything but bored. She was thinking about the extra rubles and the meat it would buy for Sura. She hadn’t been well lately and the doctor said she needed a strong beef broth.