Chapter 2

Three weeks later.

“Once upon a time there was a beautiful young orphan girl named Maryushka,” Bushkin began, looking down and smiling at the child in his arms. The chair rocked gently, creaking slightly. Marya Ilyina sat on a chair across from them, hands in her lap, gazing out onto Tsvetnoy Boulevard in the Samobeka area, watching a couple slowly make their way along the street.

            “She was quiet and modest and gentle,” he continued, peeking up at his wife. “And she had a special gift: none could embroider the way she could. She worked wonders with colored silks and glass beads, making shirts, towels and sashes. And she always accepted whatever money was offered, however little.

            “Her skill soon made her famous, so that merchants from across the seas came to see her work. They were all amazed, because none of them had expected to find anything so beautiful. Each and every one tried to persuade Maryushka to come with them, promising her riches and fame. To each, she would lower her eyes and say: ‘I don’t need riches and I shall never leave the village where I was born. But I will always sell my work to whoever finds it pleasing.’ They were disappointed, the merchants, but they had to accept her answer. They all left, spreading the story of her skill to the ends of the earth, so that one day it reached the ears of the evil sorcerer Kaschei the Immortal, who was angry to find out that there was beauty in the world that he hadn’t seen.

            “He flew over the dark, deep oceans, the tall, majestic mountains and the thick, impassable forests until he reached Maryushka’s village. There, he disguised himself as a handsome boy, knocked on her door, and bowed low when she answered. He asked to see her needlework, so she laid out for him shirts, towels, sashes and veils, each piece of clothing more beautiful than the one before it. ‘Kind sir,’ our Maryushka said, ‘please take whatever pleases you. If you have no money with you, you may pay me later, when you have the money to spare. And if my work doesn’t please you, please let me know what to do and I shall do my best.’

            “Her gentle words and the beauty of her works just made Kaschei angrier. How could a simple country girl make more beautiful things than he? So he said cunningly: ‘Come with me, Maryushka, and I will make you Queen, and you will live in a palace built of precious stones. You will walk in orchards where birds of paradise sing sweet songs and golden apples grow.’

            “Maryushka replied: ‘Don’t speak like that. I don’t need your riches or your marvels. There is nothing sweeter than the fields and the woods where one was born. I shall never leave this village where my parents lie buried and where people live who love my needlework. I shall never embroider for you alone.’”

Marya Ilyina looked over at her husband and son, and smiled.

            “Kaschei became furious at her response. His face grew dark and he said: ‘Because you are so loath to leave your kindred, a bird shall you be, and a fair maiden no more.’

            “That instant, a firebird flapped its wings where Maryushka had stood. Kaschei transformed into a falcon and soared the skies to sweep down on the firebird. Grasping her tight in his cruel talons, he carried her high above the clouds.

            “As soon as Maryushka realized he was taking her away, she resolved to leave one last memory of herself. She shed her brilliant plumage, and feathers floated down on the forest. The mischievous wind covered her feathers with grass and leaves, but nothing could rob them of their shining, sparkling rainbow colors.

            “As her feathers fell, Maryushka became weaker. And although the firebird died in the falcon’s talons, her feathers lived, down to the ground. They weren’t ordinary feathers, but magical ones that only those who love beauty and who seek to create beauty for others can see and admire.”

            He stopped speaking, letting the room fill up with quiet. The boy was breathing lightly, his eyes starting to close. Bushkin stroked his hair softly, which had just started to grow a little thicker. He looked up at his wife, who nodded to the back, putting a finger to her lips to indicate stealth. Bushkin nodded to her and stood up, stopping the rocker with the backs of his legs. He stepped lightly to the crib in the back and placed the boy in it, lingering for just a moment.

            “He’s growing so fast, Maryushka,” he said on returning. “I can’t believe it’s already been three weeks.”

            She turned to him and smiled.

            “You know,” he continued, looking out the window, at a church tower in the distance, “They say that the country is going to war, soon, all because that archduke was stupid enough to be killed.”

            “But it wasn’t our concern, was it? I thought it was Austria and Serbia.”

            “You know countries always look for excuses to go to war, and Serbia is going to drag Russia with her, some say.”

            “So?”

            “So, I’m afraid. I’m afraid for you, and I’m afraid for little Mikhail Ivanovich.”

            “You should have seen him this morning, Vanya, he was just laughing and laughing when I cleaned him up. He’s going to be a mischievous little boy when he gets older, like his father. He’s so smart, too—when I was talking to Anna Sergeyevna this afternoon, he pulled on my…”

            “Listen, I’m afraid for our family. I fear that Moscow is about to burn.”

            “That can’t happen,” she said, turning again to the window.

            “It’s happened before. Something is coming, something big. I can feel it on the streets, in the shop—the feeling never leaves.

            “So what do you want to do?”

            He sighed, and tried to catch her eyes, but the dusk had made everything hazy, and her face was starting to blur.

            “We should go to America.”

            “Go to America?” she asked. “We can’t leave. Your family is here, in Moscow. My family is here. Our home, our friends, your business, it’s all right here. We can’t leave just because you have some feeling.”

            “Listen, just listen. In America, they have nice homes, houses, as good as the Tsar lives in, for cheap. The weather, they say it’s always sunny, always warm. Everyone has enough to eat, enough to wear, enough work. Think, Maryushka, our own garden, an apple tree, flowers, think about the boy, growing up with all the opportunities in the world, the ability to do anything he wants.”

            “We’re here. This is where we belong. Here.”

            “Think about the boy, my darling. Think about Mikhail Ivanovich. He won’t have to grow up with war, or fear. He won’t have to bow to anyone.”

            She stood up and walked to the other side of the room, arms crossed over her chest. The room was completely black, but neither moved to light a candle. Bushkin still stood by the window, back to the room, waiting for his wife to respond.

            “What about Russia? What about our home?”

            “Do you want your son, Marya—your son—to die young, the victim of some bullet, covered over with snow while his brothers-in-arms loot his body for ammunition and money? Do you want Mishka to serve in Sibera for twenty years because of some anti-Tsarist comment someone else made? There’s freedom, there, Marya. That beats the concept of home every time.”

            “But, still, our home, just a feeling…”

            “My home is wherever you are, my darling, and wherever Mishka is. Russia will get on just fine without us for a while.”

            “And Zina?”

            “Zina,” he said, thinking, “Zina can do what she likes. If she wants to come then so be it.”

            “I don’t want her with us, Vanya.”

            “Why?”

            “You know why. You know why. We’re not doing that again.”

            Bushkin didn’t respond.

            “When?” she asked after a moment.

            “When what?”

            “When do you want to leave?”

            He moved towards her and wrapped himself around her. He kissed her forehead.

            “When?” she asked again, staring up at him.

            “Two weeks,” he whispered.

            She pushed herself away from him. “You expect, you…” she said, “you expect us to leave in just two weeks? You think I’m going to be able to gather everything, say goodbye to everyone in the city, you think you’ll be able to wrap up your business? And what about Mishka? He’s too young. Two weeks, really? Really?”

            “Two weeks. It’ll be too late after that.”

            “Why? Why are you so down on everything? Why do think the worst of everything? What if nothing happens? Do you have anything more than a feeling?”

            He stepped towards her again, but she took another step backwards.

            “Two weeks then, Vanya. But this is ridiculous.”

 

            That overcast Sunday morning, in the midst of ringing bells, the Bushkin clan dressed up and found their way to church. Marya Ilyina wore a long blue dress, carrying the baby, who was all wrapped up except for his blushing face. Bushkin himself wore slacks, with a white button down shirt and an overcoat.

            They strolled within the midst of other families flocking to sanctuary. Bushkin tried to wrap his arm around his wife, but she dipped her shoulder.

            “Ah, look, there’s Levin and his wife,” he said to her. “Hey, Peter Arnoldovich! Over here!” He waved to a couple in the distance.

            They pushed into the church with all the others, occasionally pausing to kiss an icon. Marya Ilyina crossed herself each time they passed through a door or archway.

            The church opened up into a great airy dome, with large arches on each side, windows high, high up and icons solemnly sitting, surveying the scene. The din of voices was compounding, building on itself as more and more people pushed into the church.

            “Blessed is the kingdom of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, now and ever, and unto ages of ages,” the priest began, quieting down the churchgoers, most of whom crossed themselves at the finish of the sentence. Marya Ilyina looked over at Bushkin, who was staring at a spot just past the priest. She hit him.

            “Pay attention!”

            The priest’s head was bowed, and his lips were moving. Suddenly, he lifted his head up, scanned the congregation, and said, “For to thee belong all glory, honor and worship, to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever, and unto ages of ages.”

            More crossing. Bushkin leaned toward his wife, and whispered into her ear, “Didn’t he just say that?”

            “Enough! Every time you do this!”

            The choir began to sing the first antiphon. Bushkin scanned the crowd, looking for familiar faces. A few jumped out at him—there was stooped, little Shukhov, mouthing the words along the way, occasionally grasping at his back as if it were about to break, and Rozgorov, with a new woman, smiling and whispering in her ear, lightly touching her hip, as she tried not to laugh. Karenin was on the other side of the church, eyes straight ahead, oblivious to the families hemming him in on both sides.

            And the service progressed, the priest’s booming baritone voice rising above the crowd, mingling with the thin holy air, swirling above, occasionally joined by the choir’s rhythmic chanting of the antiphons.

            “Oh holy God, who restest in thy Saints,” the priest spoke, almost singing the words, “who art hymned by the Seraphim with thrice-holy voice, and art glorified by the Cherubim…”

            “Why are these services so long?” Bushkin whispered.

            Marya Ilyina kept her eyes forward, her whole body taut and tense, as if she were ready to spring forward to take the priest’s place should anything happen.

            “Maryushka,” he said again. “Maryushka. Maryushka.” He blew in her ear.

            “What?” she said, turning to him and glaring. “Why can’t you ever just stand still? Be a good Christian for once.”

            “I can’t help it…I feel out of place here.”

            “Just hold Mishka for a while, then. My arms are getting tired.”

            She handed the infant over to him. The child stirred for just a second in his arms, then settled back down.

            “…who hast vouchsafed us, thy humble and unworthy servants, even at this hour, to stand before the glory of thy holy Altar…”

            Bushkin looked down at his son, who was squinting back up at him. The church was heating up from all the chanting, singing, rustling and crossing.

            “Pay attention, Mishka, eh. Be a good Christian. Don’t forget to cross yourself.”

            He looked up towards the front again to see what was happening. A new voice asserted itself, reading from Corinthians.

            “For though we live in the world, we do not wage war as the world does. The weapons we fight with are not the weapons of the world. On the contrary, they have divine power to demolish strongholds. We demolish arguments and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ,” Bushkin snorted, and Marya Ilyina hit him almost simultaneously, “And we will be ready to punish every act of disobedience, once your obedience is complete.”

            “Complete your obedience, little man,” Bushkin whispered to his son.

            And then they moved on to the gospel of John: “Jesus said to them, “I tell you the truth, it is not Moses who has given you the bread from heaven, but it is my Father who gives you the true bread from heaven. For the bread of God is he who comes down from heaven and gives life to the world...”

            “Not Moses,” Bushkin repeated.

            “Shush,” his wife said.

            “Lord have mercy! Lord have mercy! Lord have mercy!” the choir chanted, people in the crowd joining in, some raising their arms, closing their eyes, putting their arms around friends and family.

            “Lord have mercy!” Bushkin sang. “Lord, look at these colors!”

            Outside, the sun had forced its way through the clouds, and now it was shining through the windows of the church, shining down on the crowd, illuminating the red, green, blue, yellow of the place that before had just been shadows. Within seconds, the clouds had beaten the sun back into submission, and the church once again descended into gray, all the while the service continued uninterrupted.

            “Which part are we on now?” Bushkin asked his wife.

            “Homily,” she whispered.

            “Homily?” he said, looking down at the baby. “Homily, homily, homily.”

            The baby smiled.

            “You like that, eh?” he asked, poking the child gently in his plush stomach.

            “Lord, give me strength…” Marya Ilyina began to whisper to the ceiling.

            The priest’s voice was building up now, starting quietly, so that Bushkin couldn’t hear him, “O Lord our God, who dwellest on high and looketh on the humble, who hast sent forth the salvation of the race of men thine only begotten Son…”

            “What’s he saying?” Bushkin asked.

            “…look upon thy servants the catechumens, who have bowed their necks before thee. Vouchsafe unto them in due time the laver of regeneration, the forgiveness of sins, and the robe of incorruption…”

            “I can’t hear. Can you hear?” he asked the baby, poking him again. The baby just went on smiling, and grabbed at Bushkin’s index finger.

            The priest raised his voice, almost shouting, “That with us they also may glorify thine all-honorable and magnificent name, of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, now and ever, unto ages and ages.”

            The entire crowd crossed itself.

            “We’re in the catechumens now,” Marya Ilyina whispered. “This is the final part before the dismissal.”

            “Praise the Lord,” Bushkin whispered.

            An hour and a half later, the priest gave the dismissal. “May He who is risen from the dead, Christ our true God, through the intercessions of his immaculate Mother, of the holy, glorious and laudable Apostles, of the holy and righteous forebears of God, and of all the Saints, have mercy on us and save us, for He is good and loveth man.”

            The crowd began to shuffle out, unsteady and uncertain voices growing bolder and rising with each step.

            “Good God in heaven that was unbearable,” Bushkin said once outside.

            “You’re unbearable,” Marya Ilyina said. “Everyone else in the church was fine. But you, just can’t keep still. I’ll die from shame one of these days.”

            “Relax. God himself probably fell asleep. Right, Mishka?”

            The baby opened his eyes, squinting into the clouds.

            “Deep I fell in love on Monday,” Bushkin sang softly, “Tuesday nothing did but sigh, Wednesday I popped the question,” he put his arm around his wife, “Thursday waited her reply. Friday, late, it came at last, Then all hope for me was past! Saturday my life to take, I determined like a man, but for my salvation’s sake, Sunday morning changed my plan!”

            “What’s wrong with you?” Marya Ilyina asked, pulling the baby from his arms.

            “Hey Shukhov! Anton Aleksandrovich! Quite a service, eh?” he yelled to a man ahead. “That coat’s looking quite nice on you today! I wonder who did that for you?! Ha!”

            “Bushkin! Bushkin!” a man far behind yelled to them. Bushkin turned around and watched as the man came running up to them.

            “My friend,” he said between gasps for air, “Ivan Mikhailych, is that really you?”

            “Who else would it be?” Bushkin asked, patting the man on the back. “But, how do you know me?”

            “You don’t remember?” he stood up, smiling at Bushkin, revealing a small sliver of a gap between his two front teeth. “Eh?”

            Bushkin looked at him, then broke into a grin himself and threw his arms around the man.

            “Versinin! What’re you doing here?”

            “Just came for a quick visit. My god, though, it’s good to see you. You look good, healthy.”

            Marya Ilyina started to walk ahead with the baby.

            “You too, you too,” Bushkin said. “It’s been, what, let’s see 190…5, so…nearly 10 years?”

            “Right,” Versinin said, baring his teeth and that gap once again. “And look what’s happened since you’ve left us in Petersburg—was that church I saw you come out from? You’ve become the faithful Christian, huh?”

            “What can I say?” Bushkin said, shrugging. “You caught me. Things change.”

            “You know, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. Especially considering the way you left.”

            “Let’s not go back into all that, my friend,” Bushkin said, dropping his voice, looking around. “That’s all over—ancient history.”

            “Not quite. In fact, that’s why I’m back.”

            Versinin placed his hand on Bushkin’s back and steered them off to the side. Marya Ilyina looked back, and stopped a little farther up.

            “I’m trying to gather some old friends,” he said quietly. “Something’s in the air, something big, have you felt it?”

            Bushkin shook his head, his eyes still riveted on his old friend.

            “They’re gathering troops and stockpiling arms, Vanya. A couple weeks, a month maybe, and we’ll be at war.”

            Bushkin looked down to the ground.

            “This war, it’s going to drive the people right into our open arms,” Versinin continued. “Bigger than 1905, we’ll finally be done with the tsars. Finally done with rich and poor, noble and peasant.”

            “Why are you telling me all this?”

            “Because—ah look, rain again, always rain—because I want you to be with us this time. Think about it: a revolution, a real revolution.”

            The clouds had broken open above, and a light drizzle was pelting the streets.

            “All I’m thinking about right now is what’s best for my family,” Bushkin said, pointing to his wife and child just a little ways off, trying to hide under the overhang of a building.

            “That’s nice, my friend, but in the revolution there won’t be time or place for family,” Versinin said. “Just think about it. Think about it,” he slipped Bushkin a folded sheet of paper, “Come see what we’re doing, come see who’s there, meet some people, ok?”

            Bushkin looked up into the gapped smile of Versinin and forced himself to do the same.

            “I’ll be seeing you soon,” Versinin said. “Beautiful family by the way.”

            He patted Bushkin on the back and hurried away, pulling his coat over his head as the rain started to pick up.

            “Well, who was that?” Marya Ilyina called out to her husband as he jogged back to them.

            “Nobody, just an old friend who I hadn’t seen in a while.”

            He placed his hand on the small of her back and pushed her a few steps, quickening his own pace.

            “What’s the rush for?”

            “You look beautiful today, you know that?” he said.

            “Slow down, the baby is starting to get upset.”

            Mishka scrunched up his face, getting ready to cry, the quickened pace causing Marya Ilyina to jerk him around.

            “That blue dress, darling, looks perfect on you,” he said, turning a corner onto Tvetnoy Boulevard.

            “What’s all this about? Slow down!”

            “We have to leave sooner than I thought,” he said.

            “What?”

            “Tomorrow, we absolutely have to leave tomorrow.”

            “What’s this about?”

            “It’s more than a feeling now, Maryushka. It’s a certainty. And there are more forces at play than I originally thought.”

            Marya Ilyina didn’t say anything, and the family continued through into the building, safe from the storm for the moment, up the creaking steps, into the apartment. Bushkin rushed from room to room, grabbing things—dishes, clothes, candles, books, stuffing them in bags, pausing occasionally to deliberate over a particular item, more often than not thrusting it down to the ground.

            “What’s happening, Vanya? Why are you doing this?” Marya Ilyina said, corralling him by holding onto his shirt.

            “You have to trust me,” he said. “We’ll go through Europe, make our way to England, then try to get onto a boat to America.”

            “Why so soon? Why already?”

            “Trust me.”

            “Talk to me.”

            Thunder rumbled in the distance, enveloping the sound of a single bell.

            “Damn storms!” he said. “Where’s the sun? Why’s it always hiding behind this gray mess? Clarity, just once, that’s all I’m asking, just once.” He looked up.

            “You’re scaring me,” she said.

            Thunder again. Rolling, billowing, menacing pillows of dark gray outside, creeping up on the city, bombing churches, houses, buildings, apartments, cafes, gunning down everyone—princes, generals, merchants, fathers, wives, children. Mishka began to cry.

            “It’s ok, baby, it’s alright,” Marya Ilyina chanted, moving to her son and lifting him up. “You know what? Rain brings rainbows, great arches of color, and washes away all the dirt, like a bath. Like a bath for the city. It’s ok, baby. God won’t let anything happen.”

            Bushkin stopped, looking out the window, watching people rushing back and forth, staring at a particular spot in the street until his eyes blurred.

            “Maryushka,” he said, turning to her, letting his eyes fall on his son, who had stopped crying. “I have to go to the shop, get it all in order. Keep packing—we have to leave tomorrow.”

Author's Note

dialogue, logistics, scene (is it believable?), anything that strikes you, etc.