Free There Once Lived a Woman Who Tried to Kill Her Neighbor's Baby by Ludmilla Petrushevskaya Page B

detail where to go and what to do. She herself didn’t look very well: she was pale, as
if she’d just come from the hospital, and dressed all in black, with a black kerchief, but she had lovely, kind eyes.

    Without even thinking, Nadya bought the vodka bottles, prepared the towel, packed everything neatly into a bag, and went off.
    When she was near the hospital somebody directed her to the boiler room, the gathering spot for all local drunks. It looked like every bum in the neighborhood hung out there.
    Two or three loitered near the basement door, either waiting for someone or just passing the time.
    Worried they’d steal her vodka, Nadya made for the door like a tank, sweeping the drunks from the way and knocking loudly on the door. It opened just a sliver, then welcomed her fully when Nadya flashed one of her bottles from the bag. The drunks outside tried to get in behind her, and there was some commotion as she entered the basement.
    She was immediately relieved of one of the bottles; the person who did so informed Nadya that Uncle Kornil was very ill and mustn’t be allowed to drink under any circumstances.
    He pointed her to a corner where a man lay next to an old wardrobe with its doors missing. He looked like he’d just been picked out of the trash. He lay with his arms outstretched. This was Kornil.
    Nadya did as the woman at the post office had directed—she put down a fresh towel, placed a bottle of vodka atop it, cut up some bread and pickles, and also put down a little money to help Kornil with his future hangover.

    Kornil lay there like a corpse, his mouth open, his forehead covered in tiny scratches, though there was a particularly large one, like a wound, right in the middle.
    There were open sores on his hands.
    Nadya sat there and waited, then opened the bottle and poured a large shot into the glass.
    Uncle Kornil stirred, opened his eyes, crossed himself (so did Nadya), and whispered, “Nadya”—she shivered—“do you have his photograph?”
    Nadya did not have a photograph of her son with her. She could have died of grief right then and there.
    “Do you have anything of his?”
    Nadya started rummaging through her bag. She took out a little purse, a packet of milk, and a used handkerchief. That was it.
    She’d used that handkerchief to wipe away her tears on her walk home from the hospital the first time.
    Nadya brought the full glass to Uncle Kornil’s lips.
    Uncle Kornil raised himself on an elbow, drank off the glass, chewed a pickle, and fell back down again, saying, “Give me your handkerchief.”
    Then, holding the handkerchief (there was a large leaking sore on his wrist), he said, “If I drink another glass, that’ll be the end of me.”
    Growing frightened, Nadya nodded.
    She was kneeling by his side, on her knees, waiting for him to speak. Her dried tears were on that handkerchief, the traces of her suffering, and in a way those were also the traces of her son—so she hoped.

    “Sinner,” Uncle Kornil managed, “what do you want?”
    Nadya answered right away, beginning to cry: “How am I a sinner? I have no sins on my conscience.”
    Behind her, at the table, she heard an explosion of laughter—one of the drunks must have told a joke.
    “Your grandfather killed one hundred and seven people,” croaked Uncle Kornil. “And now you’re about to kill me.”
    Nadya nodded again, wiping away tears.
    Uncle Kornil went quiet.
    He lay there silently; meanwhile, time was growing short.
    He needed more to drink, apparently, before he would continue.
    Nadya hardly knew anything about her paternal grandfather—he’d disappeared at some point. And as if there hadn’t been enough wars in which people killed one another, involuntarily, without anger.
    They gave you an order—and either you killed, or they killed you for disobeying the order.
    “So my grandfather was a soldier,” said Nadya, wounded. “But what does that have to do with the boy? What did he do? Maybe I should