Free Mother Russia by Robert Littell Page A

wants to know.
    “I need a piece for my Singer sewing machine, and the only—”
    Nadezhda hands Zoya a note. “Come help with the birthday presents.”
    “Think about it,” Zoya orders Pravdin. The two of them follow Nadezhda into her room and watch as she attacks the boxes piled on her bed.
    “How nice of the general,” exclaims Mother Russia as Nadezhda peels away paper from a Czechoslovak hair dryer. Ophelia Long Legs has given her a pair of handmade leather sandals; Porfiry Yakolev, the weatherman, an alarm clock that wakes you up with the first notes of the “Internationale”; Yan Makusky, the embalmer, a recording of Uzbeki folk songs. Mother Russia’s gift is wrapped in tissue paper. It is a small icon, faded with age, depicting the Virgin Mary and a very chubby infant Jesus. Nadezhda stares at it for a long moment, turns to Zoya and embraces her.

    Pravdin fetches his present from the attic, self-consciously presents it to Nadezhda. “It is the best I could do, little sister, on such short notice he apologizes.
    Zoya gasps as Nadezhda removes the paper. “It is something people don’t part with for money,” she says in wonder.
    Nadezhda runs her fingertips over Pravdin’s gift as if she is blind and her impressions come from her sense of touch. It is an extremely rare volume of Mandelstam’s collected poems published in 1928 and called simply, Poems. Three-quarters of the way through the book a small dried flower has been placed as a marker. Nadezhda opens to it immediately, reads the poem, hands the book to Zoya, who reads it aloud in a hoarse voice.
… your spine has been smashed forever ,
My beautiful, pitiful age ,
And with an inane, bewildered grimace
You now look back, both cruel and weak
At the tracks of your own paws .
    Mother Russia looks up. “Tell us how it is you found this book?” she asks in awe.
    “You forget, little mother, that I am a hustler,” replies Pravdin.
    “You are to hustling,” Zoya dismisses his answer impatiently, “as a sailor who is uncomfortable with the wind is to sailing.”
    They are reading some of the other poems, passing the book from one to the other, when Ophelia Long Legs comes bounding up the stairs carrying a small wooden trunk. “The attic before Comrade Eisenhower left this for Nadezhda,” she explains breathlessly. “You remember, the one with the funny blue flower tattooed on her cheek. I asked her to come up but she dropped the trunk into my arms and raced off down the alley. I suppose,” Ophelia says as she hands thetrunk to Nadezhda, “she’s shy is what it is. Say, what a neat record—can I borrow it?” Nadezhda nods and Ophelia hurries off downstairs with the Uzbeki folk songs.
    “Here’s a mystery,” Mother Russia announces, obviously relishing the possibility.
    Nadezhda bangs on the lock with the flat of her palm but it doesn’t give. Pravdin opens the small blade of his pocket-knife and, kneeling with his eye almost against the wood, inserts it in the lock.
    “There are parts of you we haven’t been to yet,” teases Zoya.
    “Opening closed doors is my specialty,” Pravdin says, delicately twisting the blade. Suddenly the lock snaps open. He lifts back the lid.
    “Papers only,” he says, disappointed.
    “Manuscripts,” Mother Russia corrects. She and Nadezhda exchange looks.
    Nadezhda takes out the manuscripts, which are bound with faded red ribbons, and spreads them on the bed. The paper, thin and brown and brittle, is cracking with age. The writing has all been done in longhand. Nadezhda gently picks up a page, reads it, bursts into silent sobs.
    Her voice reduced to a moan, Zoya quickly crosses herself and says: “Such things are not possible.”
    “What’s going on?” cried Pravdin.
    By now Mother Russia is reading and weeping too. The sight of the two women with tears streaming down their cheeks demoralizes Pravdin. He charges out of the room, slamming the door behind him, splashes water into the teapot and