Free The Russlander by Sandra Birdsell Page A

from the back of the cottage, followed by a man who must be their father, she thought. The man took off his cap and she saw it was Dmitri Karpenko, Sophie’s father and the gardener’s assistant.
    Her father got down from the wagon and went over to Dmitri, and the children, seeing that their father knew him, gathered around the two men as they stood talking. Then a girl who looked to be Katya’s age left the others and came over to the wagon, where she stood and stared at Katya. Cat’s eyes, which were hard to turn away from. Sophie’s eyes.
    When Greta climbed down from the wagon the girl’s gaze shifted to her, the girl watching her every movement as though she’d never seen anyone get down from a wagon before. Just then a yellow dog came loping round a corner of the house raising a hullabaloo, running towards Greta, who stopped to let the animal come to her, extending her palm to its inquiring nose. The dog wagged its tail and Greta scratched it behind the ears before joining her father. She had a way with animals and with people, Katya thought. Strangers smiled when they looked at Greta. Gypsy Queen, Dietrich called her, because of her brown eyes and wavy dark hair.
    â€œYou there, hello. I’m Vera,” the girl beside the wagon said in Russian. Katya turned to meet Vera’s intense stare, her hand opening to reveal a spin top. Vera was inviting her to come down from the wagon and Katya hesitated; the yard was carpeted with chalky curlicues of chicken dirt which would stick to her shoes, and she would drag it into the house when she got home.
    â€œ
Nyet
,” she said.
    Vera’s features twisted with a frown and she ran off, went scooting round the side of the house, startling the chickens, their useless wings flapping and raising dust.
    Dmitri called in the direction of the house, and its door opened. The fruit-picker woman emerged, her baby cradled in the crook of her arms.
    â€œYou have something to say, don’t you,” Katya’s father said in Low German, reminding her of their mission, and then, in Russian, repeated what he’d said to the woman, who dipped her head and smiled shyly, beckoning to Katya that she should come inside.
    The odours of the Karpenko house clung to her clothing, the black fumes of kerosene, tobacco drying in the rafters and the dankness of its earth floor. The yellow dog had parked itself under the table and whenever Katya moved it growled, which made the children laugh. They sat on benches along the walls, the bigger ones holding little ones on their knees, their eyes constantly on her as though she were a strange creature. The girl, Vera, wasn’t among them. Now and then someone rapped on a window, the door, which brought more laughter. Vera had stayed outside, and when Katya thought of Vera’s frown, the way she had gone running off when Katya refused to come down from the wagon and play, she concluded that Vera was making fun of her.
    Dmitri’s wife lost her shyness and spoke to them in Russian, asked them how many sisters and brothers they had, and their names, and they replied in Russian, which they studied in school, but which, except for talking Russian to Sophie, they seldom had the opportunity to practise. Unlike their father, who spoke Russian most of his working day. An old oma perched on the stove, the baby’s cradle suspended from the ceiling above it.
    That Sophie’s home was such a damp and smelly place grew large in Katya’s mind as they rode away from it. They were notreturning to Privol’noye, as she’d expected they would, but going away from it. She was surprised, but neither she nor Greta asked why. Dmitri’s wife had served them sweet tea and hard-boiled eggs after they had apologized to her for the worry they had caused, even though they had not caused it. Never mind, the woman had said, her face becoming young when she smiled. She likely knew who was responsible for making