Zinka

“Hello, my sweetheart! My little snub-nosed girl! How long this day has been, how I’ve missed you! My goddess, my Zinochka!” They got along so well, always together, everywhere and always close by. One spring day, Zinaida’s school day ended, she rushed out of the college doors, hastily throwing on a light demi-season coat, and froze. Anatoly was standing in front of her, his face as white as snow and his eyes dull. He grabbed Zinka in his arms and began to sob…

“My God, what happened?” Zinka broke free from his embrace. “Has someone died?”

“I got my draft notice, Zinochka. My draft notice. I’m going into the army… It’s time, the time has come,” Anatoly said, gasping for breath.

In those years, boys served long terms of military service. Three years in the army, and four years in the navy. Zinaida’s heart broke, and her bag fell from her hands onto the dusty road.

“Tolya, my dear, what about me? Tolya, I can’t bear it for long. Tolya, I’ll die here without you, I swear to God I’ll die…”

Anatoly hugged his snub-nosed girlfriend and held her close. Zina buried her face in his chest, and he buried his nose in her hair, inhaling the familiar scent. They stood there for a long time. Zinka was crying quietly, whimpering, while Tolya was stroking his goddess’s back, whispering tender words and coaxing and reassuring her.

Chapter 7. Mailbox

A lot of neighbours saw the boys off to serve in the army on that warm spring evening. Anatoly’s friend Sergey, who was part of Nikolai’s group, Zina’s brother, was also joining the army. Kolka’s friends were a year or two older than him. Nikolai himself was studying to be a carpenter that year. He was handy and had known how to wield an axe since childhood. The very same axe that had struck little Zina in the leg during the spring birch sap season in the village.

The stronger boys went around the yards, pulling out tables, benches and stools. They covered the tables with clean linen tablecloths. They set out plates of all kinds, glasses, and shot glasses – wherever they had. The parents of the recruits had cooked meat jelly in advance, baked pies, and dug up sauerkraut and salted cucumbers from the cellar. Potatoes and meat jelly. What else could you want? They found an accordion player who lived across the street. They got hold of some samogon and sat down with their neighbours to see off their boys.

Zina came to the table with her parents. She was gloomier than a cloud. They sat her and Anatoly next to each other, shoulder to shoulder. Someone from the locals joked loudly that if they were bride and groom, they should be seated at the head of the table. They would have a wedding. Zina flushed and became embarrassed.

All evening, they were sitting at tables, gossiping and singing songs at one end of the table, then at the other. As soon as one song ended, they immediately started another, then a third. The young people with guitars gathered in a group on a bench near Zinka’s gate, singing their own songs and telling jokes on any topic. The boys were smoking quietly, glancing at their parents at the tables, while the girls were winking and whispering to each other. It was getting dark outside, and soon it would be time to go home. Locals shook hands with the new recruits and hugged them tightly, patting them on the back and offering words of encouragement as best they could.

And then there were letters. Zinaida continued her studies at the college. She was preparing to join the ranks of workers at the local factory. Her future profession was proudly called “semiconductor device tester”. Her brother Nikolai teased his sister.

“Zin, what are you going to be? A tester! Oh, I can’t!”

“You’re a fool, brother! You’re a tester yourself.”

“Does Tolya write to you? He probably doesn’t have time for you right now, running around the parade ground from morning till night. Forward march, march, march! Run around the wall with your forehead… Stand down!” Nikolai teased his sister every now and then, but she just snorted at her brother and sighed quietly.

The post box became the centre of Zinochka’s universe. It hung on the right side of the gate, blue, old, rusted in places. There were two rows of holes at the bottom of the box so you could see if there was anything there or if they were still writing. A woman named Shura was the local postwoman in those days. Her husband, Stepan, did not return from the war in 1945. She raised three children on her own, working as a postwoman, and in the evenings she went to wash floors at the school nearby. Aunt Shura usually walked down Zinka’s street before lunch, so by the time Zinaida returned from college, there was already something to be found in the old post box.

Every day after college, Zinka would walk and wonder whether there would be a letter from Anatoly or not. Would there be or wouldn’t there? She guessed by the railings and posts, by the puddles and sparrows, by the passers-by and local dogs and cats. She walked and talked to herself.

“If I meet two dogs and three cats on the way, it means there’s a letter!

If I see five children on the way, he’s written!

His letter will come; it won’t come. It will come; it won’t come. It won’t come… Or maybe it will. It’s all nonsense, all my fortune-telling. Of course there will be a letter today! And tomorrow, and the day after!”

Such conversations calmed her a bit and gave her hope for the best. And when Zinka turned to the corner onto her street, she saw her mailbox from far out of the corner of her eye. And through the holes in the post box, she could easily see the cherished envelope. The family did not subscribe to newspapers at that time; her father brought newspapers from work. What else could be in the box but an envelope? Of course, it was a letter! She quickly took out the key to the box, which she always had with her. Her hands were shaking, her heart was pounding, and she couldn’t get the key into the lock. Come on! Open up! There it was. A heavy envelope with familiar handwriting. Hurray…

Sometimes the postwoman Shura would walk by and meet Vera, Zinaida’s mother.

“Hello, Vera! Here you go, he writes and writes! Oh, he’s a good guy! And he has a good family,” Shura would sigh and, tossing the heavy postman’s bag higher on her shoulder, would hobble on.

“Yes, thank you, Shura!” Vera shouted after Shura. “How are you? Everything okay? Well, that’s good!” Vera said to herself, looking at Anatoly’s quick handwriting on the envelope.

Zina peered into the holes of the mailbox from afar it was white, wasn’t it white – and if the mailbox responded with darkness, her mood immediately soured, but there remained a glimmer of hope that Shura was walking towards her mother Vera. What if the letter had already been at home? She would dance and sing! Her mother always made her dance. And if her brother was at home at that time, it would be a whole concert, a lot of fun. Zina would dance and sing to them in joy. Kolka would put a stool in the middle of the kitchen and shout:

“Introducing the People’s Artiste of the Soviet Union Zinaida!”

She had to climb onto a stool and shout. What wouldn’t you do for joy? Just so they would give her the letter. They laughed until they cried, until they dropped. And when the envelope fell into her hands, she wanted to hide away immediately, to be alone, to read it in silence, repeating and rereading every word. And then again and again from the beginning. And the next day Zinka would walk home from college again, along the familiar paths, wondering whether he would write or not.

Chapter 8. The Sky Split in Two

Two winters and two springs later, as sung in an old Soviet song, Zinaida graduated from college and, together with her friends, joined the ranks of the working class in one of the workshops of a strong and advanced factory.

By the age of seventeen, Zinka had blossomed even more, stretching out and straightening her shoulders. Her hair was thick and shiny, she was tall and slender, with dimples on her cheeks. In a word, she was a goddess! The new girls quickly, easily and happily joined the factory team. At first, the work was simple – selecting, sorting, checking – and the newcomers coped with those duties easily, without any complaints from the foreman. The pay was piecework – you got what you put in. So Zinochka, like everyone else in the brigade, tried to exceed the norm. You could earn more money and it was nice to be among the leaders. You would be praised and thanked.

The girls worked at the factory, like everyone else, in two shifts. One week in the morning, one week in the evening. The morning shifts were familiar and understandable. You got up at dawn and were home by evening. But the evening shifts really threw even the young ones off balance. They started after four in the afternoon, and the workers left the workshops after one in the morning. Our Zina, of course, didn’t go home alone at night. They would get together as a group from different workshops, wait for each other at the factory, and walk through the whole town in a crowd. Zina and her friends lived furthest away, on the very outskirts. They walked briskly at night, not dawdling. They hurried to get home as quickly as possible and slip under a warm blanket to rest. In the morning, they could stay in bed a bit longer and get up much later.

The team at the factory was friendly, dashing and spirited. Hand labour did not prevent them from having fun, laughing and discussing things. They shared news, discussed their bosses, gossiped and talked about various topics. Zina was cheerful and lively in the team, often laughing heartily and, as foreman Nikolai Ivanovich liked to say, always smiling. And why be sad? Anatoly’s third and final year of service had begun. Letters came rather often, sometimes every day. Tolya spoiled his goddess with attention and loved her very much. The letters were always tender, heartfelt, and long. There was always something to write about, even if there was nothing to write about.

Zinochka’s school friend Katerina studied with her. The same Katerina who, after school, often liked to run away with Zinka to Grandma Agafia’s house through the woods and across the field to a distant village. So, Zinka and Katya grew up together. Sometimes, after school, Katya would go straight to Zina’s house while her parents were away, or vice versa, Zina would stay at her friend’s house until evening, until her mother called her home. They also saw the boys off to the army together. Katya had been in love with Anatoly’s friend Sergrey. The boys had been together since they were age mate, and they went to the army together.

Sergey wrote letters to Katya quite often. She beamed like a polished samovar when she received news from the soldier. With each envelope, she ran to Zinka to show off, waving the letter like a battle flag and dancing as she ran. Katya began to work with Zinka in the same workshop but turned out to be on a different shift and she rarely saw her friend Zinka. They only met on their days off and shared news about letters and work. In short, about life.

The summer of the boys’ third army year passed unnoticed amid their worries. Autumn arrived. In just a couple of days, the old maple tree near Zina’s favourite bench turned red and then shed its leaves. The sky was increasingly covered with heavy low clouds, and the autumn rains began. Katerina was in a bad mood all summer, Sergey’s letters were getting shorter and shorter, and they came less and less often. And in August, Sergey stopped writing to her altogether.

Zina was so happy after every envelope. And now it was awkward not to share her joy with Katya. She felt sorry for her friend, who was not herself. And there was nothing she could do to calm her down.

“Katya, dear, please don’t worry. I’m sure it’s just a problem with the post. Anatoly is serving in Germany, where the postal service is probably more reliable. Wait a little, you’ll see, everything will work out. And you ask his parents what’s going on.”

“Are you crazy? I’m afraid. What will they think?”

“Do you want me to ask? I’ll ask if he writes to them. I’ll ask how he’s doing. Do you want me to?”

Zinaida found out by chance from Sergey’s neighbours that Sergey was doing well and would be coming home in the spring with his young wife. She heard it while standing in line for bread. What news! Her ears rang. Her palms sweated. Oh, how sorry she felt for Katya… How would she tell her? She couldn’t! Let her find out, but not from her. Zinka couldn’t bring herself to tell her friend. What a bastard!

In less than two days, rumours of Sergey’s marriage in the army spread throughout the neighbourhood. Katya hurried home from work, walking sideways, her head down and her shoulders hunched.

“My God, what a shame, Katya! You’re embarrassing yourself in front of everyone! And don’t cry! Don’t even think about it! He’s not worth your tears!” Katerina’s mother lamented, clattering with dishes in the kitchen and throwing wood into the stove as the first frost set in.

“Stop wailing, Mum! It’s so sickening! Leave me alone, all of you! Zinka is trying to calm me down, and you’re still here! Enough already! What do you understand? What do you feel? Do you feel the way I feel? Do you know how I feel? He betrayed me, Mum! He betrayed me! I had the sky above my head, high above. And now it’s split in two! I have been waiting for him, I loved him, and I still love him!” Katya cried out loud. And her mother just beat her hands against her sides in despair and wild maternal pity for her daughter Katya.

Chapter 9. Waiting and Catching up

After the shocking news of Sergei’s marriage in the army, Zina was overcome with a sense of unease. Letters from Anatoly continued to arrive regularly, as heartfelt as ever and without delay. Shura, the postwoman, often stopped by the gate to chat, complain about her difficult life, and to deliver another heavy envelope to Zinaida or her mother. She would give the letter to whoever came out onto the porch when she called them.

September flew by with its short Indian summer, constantly showering the bench by the gate with gold and crimson maple leaves. More and more often, the morning began with a long, cold autumn rain. Zinka was sitting at the kitchen table facing the window, stirring the bottom of her plate of cold porridge with a spoon and staring at a single point. Raindrops dripped drearily and reluctantly down the window glass, drawing bizarre, curved lines. A crazy autumn fly was buzzing and ringing somewhere under the ceiling. There was no letter again that day. Nor yesterday. Nor the day before yesterday. Nor the day before that. No letters for two weeks. And anxiety made it impossible to breathe, to do anything, to think about anything. It made it impossible to live. And that fly… “Are you waiting? He has forgotten your name. Bzzz… He’s got married!!! Bzzzzz…”

Zinka grabbed a kitchen towel and, pushing a heavy chair away from the table with a crash, jumped up and angrily hit the wall with the towel, from where the endless buzzing of a vicious autumn fly could be heard. Noticing a shadow in the street out of the corner of her eye, she rushed to the porch in the hope that it was Shura, the postwoman. No, it wasn’t her. Kolka, her brother, had returned from staying in the village with their grandmother Agafia. Zinka darted back to the table and sat down as if nothing had happened. She grabbed a spoonful of porridge.

“Hi, sis! Still suffering? No letter today? That’s too bad…” Kolka sighed sympathetically, scooping a large mug of water from the bucket and drinking it in one gulp. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his old autumn coat and approached Zinka. She sat motionless.

“Come on, don’t be so nervous. Two weeks isn’t that long. It’s the army, not dancing in the park. Who knows what’s going on there…” Zinka continued to sit silently, not responding to her older brother’s daily exhortations.

Autumn dragged on in anxiety and anguish. The days grew shorter, and cold winds blew. Their mother kept the stove burning constantly. Grigory got some cheaper firewood somewhere, and he and Kolka chopped it up. There was enough firewood for the whole winter. There were no more letters. Along with them, Zinka’s joy, desire to work, and her desire to socialize with people in the factory workshop disappeared. No one recognized Zinaida, who had previously been so cheerful, open and lively. Katerina shared the news with the girls in her factory team, and the rumour spread throughout the district. Everyone understood and kept quiet, not bothering Zinka or disturbing her.

Anatoly’s parents’ house was a little farther down the street, and Zinka, returning from work and glancing from afar at the cherished holes in the mailbox in the hope of seeing a white envelope there, noticed Anatoly’s mother out of the corner of her eye, walking towards Zinka. Oh, how awkward…

“Zina, hello! I haven’t seen you for ages. How are you? Are you working? I’m worried, I haven’t heard from Tolik in a long time. What’s he doing… Does he write to you? Six months until he’s discharged, I wish it would happen sooner. I miss him.”

“Good evening. No. He doesn’t write. I don’t know what to think anymore. Rumours are going around the street,” Zinka muttered and, lowering her head, hurried away, feeling her cheeks flush with shame and embarrassment.

Vera looked at her daughter, at her suffering, and her heart bled. She was ready to run to Shura, the postwoman, and bring back the cherished letter. Shura stopped coming to Zinka’s gate so as not to torment her soul unnecessarily. It’s true what people say, that waiting and catching up is the hardest thing for a human being.

Chapter 10. New Shoes

A ray of spring sunshine shone brightly into Zinka’s left eye. Reluctantly and grumbling, Zinka rolled over onto her other side and pulled the blanket deeper over her ear. The alarm clock ticked annoyingly on the bedside table, and at the end of the street, someone’s rooster crowed endlessly. Half asleep, Zinka realized that it was Saturday and there was no need to rush anywhere.

In April the last snow in shady places and ravines melted. Spring was long, with night frosts. The cold April was followed by a very warm May. Dawn came early, and the evenings became long, warm and pleasant. Along with the last snow, Zinka’s anxiety slowly and reluctantly faded away, giving way to strong resentment. How hurt she was… There was not a single letter. Zina tried to avoid chance encounters with Anatoly’s parents, giving their yard a wide berth. Mother Vera often muttered to herself, clattering pots and pans by the stove, that the Herod had disgraced the whole street, getting married, probably like Sergey. And her Zinka was waiting and suffering. What a stupid girl! There were so many good guys around. There was Slavka across the yard, and then there was Yegor Solovyov, and there were plenty more! She’d been locked up for three years, not going to dances or clubs. All the girls in the factory brigade went dancing to the park in the summer or hiking. Nowhere! Like some kind of nun. A recluse. In a word, a fool!

Zinka listened to her ageing mother’s mutterings and lamentations and gradually began to agree with her in her heart, feeling sorry for herself and nurturing her resentment. Her resentment grew alongside her bewilderment. Could that really happen? To stop loving someone in a single day? To stop talking about love and tenderness in letters. In a single moment.

Zinka lay there on that sunny Saturday morning, dozing and turning all these thoughts over in her head. The girls from the brigade were going to the city park to dance that evening. They invited her to come along. Maybe she should go? That was what her mother said. And Katerina no longer pined for Sergei.

“Go on, Katya will be smarter than me,” Zinka thought and calculated every time. Her father had recently travelled to Moscow for a regional meeting of collective farm chairmen, and he managed to get his daughter a pair of Yugoslavian shoes with pointed toes, the most fashionable ones. They were a dream, not just shoes. Few of the girls at the factory had anything like them; they were impossible to get. They were called “boats”. If it weren’t for Dad… They fit Zinka perfectly. She saw them and squealed with joy, kissed her father on the ear, and rushed to try on her new shoes, scattering her old worn-out slippers across the floor. Then she twirled around in front of the mirror, drawing waltz patterns with her very slender legs, while her mother and father smiled and exchanged glances, winking at each other. Well, thank God, she started smiling…

“Mum, I’m going dancing today!” Zinka declared resolutely, coming out of her room into the kitchen to her mother, who was baking fluffy pancakes on yeast dough, deftly placing the frying pan in the oven. Pancakes were baked on Saturdays or Sundays and served with sour cream and melted butter. Grandmother Agafia taught her mother Vera how to bake them. They were filling, inexpensive and very tasty.

“That’s right, Zinochka! That’s right!” exclaimed Vera, straightening up from the stove and turning to her daughter, holding her sore lower back. Zinka stood dishevelled after a night in a long cotton nightgown. Vera’s cousin sewed shirts, trousers for Grigory and Kolka, and shirts. He was a tailor in the city, and Vera often asked him to help her get dressed. By summer, they had sewn Zinochka a very elegant dress, fitted at the waist, with a fluffy skirt and a pretty neckline that revealed her beautiful long neck and collarbone. They chose white fabric with large black polka dots. And a wide black belt at the waist. Yugoslavian shoes went very well with that dress. It was so beautiful! All day long, Zinka was trying the dress and shoes on and twirled in front of the old dressing table, sometimes lifting her thick long hair up, sometimes letting it fall over her shoulders.

Chapter 11. Good!

The city park greeted Zinaida and her friends with a light evening breeze and Edita Piekha’s song “Good!”, which was all the rage that year. Several dozens of Zinaida’s peers were already dancing the trendy twist on the dance floor at the bottom of the park.

“A person walks and smiles, which means that person is well! Good!!” Edita was singing invitingly. The young people on the dance floor echoed her in unison, rhythmically and joyfully throwing their hands up in the air with each “Good!” and casting appreciative glances at those dancing nearby.

A wide alley lined with old lime trees and lampposts led to the dance floor, casting whimsical, curved shadows here and there on the alley and lawns. The trees and lanterns lined up in a row and seemed to bow to every young beauty who proudly and shyly descended the park alley to the dance floor to the sounds of music, expecting some kind of magic.

“Good! Really good!” smiled Zinochka, satisfied with her decision to have fun on that warm Saturday evening, and made her triumphant march down the alley, proudly raising her head, adorned with a tall, fashionable hairstyle called a Babette, like a crown. A white polka dot dress to the knees, a wasp waist playfully emphasized by a wide black belt, and white Yugoslavian pointed-toe shoes in the latest fashion favourably distinguished the Goddess from her friends, who were dressed more simply and were chattering beside her about their latest news, constantly interrupting each other. Her left heel hurt a little from her new shoes, but that seemed trivial compared to her heart beating loudly and strongly from unfamiliar impressions and feelings.

Overtaking the girls, a noisy group of guys with a guitar passed by, singing about the black cat who lived around the corner and whom everyone hated, poor thing.

“Hey! Look who it is! Little sister!” Zinaida heard the voice of Kolka, her brother.

“Kolya! Introduce me to your sister!” the guitarist exclaimed playfully, continuing to strum the strings and repeat the same chord several times, smiling and holding a cigarette under his moustache, so fashionable in those days; he was mesmerized by the image of Kolka’s sister.

“Move along, I didn’t raise her for you!” Kolka replied haughtily and arrogantly, and the company moved on, interrupting the singer Edita Piekha with their hit song about people not getting along with cats.

The old dance floor was flooded with spotlights and it glowed brightly in the dark summer park. The breeze had completely died down, and the evening coolness descended on the park. The rhythmic song ended, and during the musical pause, laughter, the chatter of girls and the voices of young men could be heard. The dancers stood in groups, chatting and relaxing after the working week.