Apricot Jam: And Other Stories (40 page)

The woman in blue said:
“
Well, I
’
m not afraid, and I
’
d come in to see you. But I can
’
t get around at all anymore. And my old man
’
s in even worse shape.
”

The woman in the red and brown kerchief leaned her left elbow on her stick, bent over, pressed her fist to her shoulder, closed her eyes, and said:
“
I don
’
t want
nothing
to do with any of you ...
”

“
But haven
’
t I come to see you now? I keep asking Mikhail Mikhailovich, are they bringing bread for you? Every day, he says. Why didn
’
t you speak up?
”

The woman in the gray check made a chopping motion with her hand:
“
Well, we
’
re speaking up now!
”

“
We just don
’
t know how to get back on our feet again.
”

One of the women we met, the one in the dark gray scarf, had black hands on which the soil had forever left its mark; her fingernails were rimmed with black. She stood there, her hands clasped over the top of her stick. She had dozens and dozens of wrinkles on her face—you
’
d think there wouldn
’
t be enough room for them all. She
’
d calmed down now and fixed her eyes on something in the distance and stood there, frozen.

The regional administrator made his decision:
“
Let
’
s agree as follows. Mikhail Mikhailovich will come to you every day for the next week ...
”

“
Every day?
What for? Every other day, maybe ...
”

“
Even if we got some bread every third day . . .
”

“
I
’
m not saying he
’
s to bring you bread each day. But for a week, up to Victory Day, he
’
ll come here every day and check that you have all you need.
”

(But would he manage to write it all down?)

“
. . . We chose him here, voted for him in the village administration, so he should carry out his responsibilities as head of the local government. At the very least, he has to see that you
’
ve got bread to eat. We
’
re not saying that he should start building houses for you—that
’
s something we can
’
t do, given our present circumstances.
”

“
Houses . . . Just imagine ...
”

“
You
’
ve got water. And you
’
ll have bread. He
’
ll see that you have the essentials. That
’
s his job.
”

A soft moan came from the women:

“
A bit of bread and we could get by and we wouldn
’
t squawk ...
”

“
We
’
d have some hope left...
”

“
Rye bread, now, that
’
s solid stuff . . .
”

The village soviet man recovered as well:
“
Let
’
s agree as follows. Not only will you have bread, but every week I
’
ll send you a mobile sales van.
”

The women were amazed:
“
A sales van each week as well! Now that
’
s something!
“

The woman in the gray check didn
’
t miss her opportunity:
“
There
’
s another thing we
’
ve
been needing
.
For a long time.
While the front was here, some of us went off to do work there ...
”

“
From August
‘
43, when the front moved on
…”
said Iskiteya.

The woman in the gray check was somewhat younger than the others; her eyelids weren
’
t swollen, and her gray eyes were wide open and lively. The words poured out of her readily, though only a single tooth flashed in her lower jaw:
“
I worked for almost three years in a war plant, for example. It was in the town of Murom, Vladimir Oblast. So you know how we worked and what for.
Never a holiday, never a day off, never a bit of leave.
And what did they tell us then? Your labor will be our victory; it will help us end the war quickly and bring some peace to the country. So why have you forgotten those who toiled away, tell me that? Now even our pensions are less than what other women get...
”

The regional administrator brushed back his black forelock:
“
Yes, this year for the first time we have been remembering those who worked on the home front. Almost every day now I award a jubilee medal to our mothers. They
’
re moved to tears
…
Every day they
’
re getting these jubilee medals and weeping. Finally they
’
ve remembered us, they say, because we were carrying the whole front on our shoulders. We pulled the
plows
ourselves, we sowed the grain,
we
sent our last socks to the soldiers. So if you really were a war worker, in accordance with the Decree you have to either find the documents to show that you worked or find at least two witnesses ...
”

“
There
’
s two of us right here. We
’
ll be witnesses for each other.
”

“
You
’
ll need a third person.
”

“
There
’
s one in
Podmaslovo
.
”

“
If you worked more than six months on the home front prior to
1945 and can document it or get statements from witnesses, we
’
ll certainly give you a medal. And there are certain stipulated benefits that come with the medal.
”

The village soviet man, though, seemed to have a better knowledge of the regulations. He turned to caution the regional man.

“
Unfortunately, I have to interrupt. That
’
s true only when an error is being rectified. In other cases the Decree does not take witnesses
’
statements into
account. If there
’
s no notation in your employment record book the jubilee medal can
’
t be awarded. We
’
ve raised this problem a number of times ...
”

The regional man frowned, slightly embarrassed:
“
In my opinion, this is a case that calls for rectification.
”

The gray-scarfed woman pressed him again:
“
How can that be? The Military Committee mobilized us and treated us like serving women. When a few of our girls left their jobs, they were put on trial by a military tribunal. Don
’
t you realize how they treated us?
”

Iskiteya could only nod her agreement:
“
Yes, that
’
s how it was.
”

The village soviet man said:
“
Then we
’
ll have to make a request through the Military Committee.
”

“
That
’
s right,
”
said the regional man.
“
We
’
ll compile a list and send in an official request. They can find the documents from 1943. A lot of cases like this come up.
”

I could see Ovsyannikov making a terrible face. His head was sinking lower and lower as he listened to all
this,
and he was holding it with one hand and looking as if he
’
d lost hope.

The small woman in green spoke up, as if she would not be interrupted:
“
I
’
ve already got a medal for the war years. Not the actual medal, you know, but I
’
ve got all the papers, right and proper. And I do get some benefits—like I only pay half for my electricity. But Lord knows what else I should be getting.
I
went to the office once but they just told me our collective farm is poor and we
’
ve got nothing to give you. I didn
’
t even get my seed grain
‘
cause
the chairman never put in for any for the pensioners.
”

“
As for benefits, they
’
re all built into the regional budget. And through the regional budget we can allocate funds to those who should only pay fifty percent. Of course, I can
’
t be here every day to sort these things out...
”

“
We understand,
”
the women
said,
all smiles.

Then Iskiteya ventured to say a few words. She spoke in that same soft and undemanding old woman
’
s voice she had used with me under the birch tree:
“
My husband fought in the war. He was wounded, and he got some benefits. But after he died they were all taken away.
”

Lieutenant Colonel Ovsyannikov roused himself and spoke out indignantly:
“
You should be getting all the benefits that were being paid to your husband, and unless you
’
ve remarried . . .
”

Iskiteya looked astonished, and her lips formed a weak smile:
“
Remarried? How could that be?
”

“…
then you should still have all those same benefits! And it doesn
’
t matter when he died.
”

“
It
’
s eight years now he
’
s been gone . . .
”

“
Well,
”
said the regional man, rousing himself and looking at his watch.
“
I
’
ll personally look into the questions that concern you, our veterans and mothers. And if I can
’
t do anything, then I
’
ll take it up with the oblast. But we shouldn
’
t bother Moscow with things like this, absolutely not.
”

1998

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>

~ * ~

TIMES OF CRISIS

1

Y
orka Zhukov, born into a peasant family, could handle a rake at
hay cutting when he was seven and helped around the family farm as he got older, though he finished the three-year parish school. Then his father sent him all the way to Moscow as an errand boy and apprentice to a distant, wealthy relative, a furrier. That
’
s where he grew up, starting as a servant, running errands and working bit by bit until he mastered the furrier
’
s trade. (When he finished his training he had his photo taken in a borrowed black suit and silk tie. He sent it back to the village, signed
“
master furrier.
”
)