The messenger from the Post Office at Gremai rode up on his bicycle in late afternoon. It was about a month after the reunion of the family.
“Comrade Timoshinkov,” he said to Hanna. “You have a call waiting from Comrade General Barlak.”
“I will be there at once.” She looked out of the window. Stephen was working in the field with his beloved mare. She swiftly wrote a note that she would be at the post office, left it on the table, then stepped on her bicycle and peddled to the center of town. It was only a few minute ride, and she preferred to get the exercise rather than use the pickup truck. It was probably Zelek giving the latest information about Anna Motlie’s stay in London. She and Paul had gotten on famously, and she was taking some courses at a nearby university while tutoring him in Russian.
The operator was waiting on the line and put her through at once.
“Hanna,” said Zelek, in a voice barely controlled. “I have some news.”
“Reba?” asked Hanna, at once.
“Possibly. One of our men, a very reliable fellow, ran upon a woman living about forty versts east of Grouzdov, in a very small village. Her name is Irena Kosnofsky. She is about fifty-five and is married to a farmer, crippled during the war. She works both in the fields and at a small metal working shop. Apparently, they are very poor. A neighbor said she had come there many years ago, but she didn’t know when. The investigator then interviewed Irena. She does not remember anything at all about her childhood. He states that she has a long scar on her head, probably from an injury. That could be a cause for her loss of memory. Her husband laughed that they named her Irena because she was such a ninny that she forgot her own. She does remember arriving at a farm a few versts away when a young girl of about eleven or twelve and being put to work in the fields. Just before World War One, she was married to the farmer’s son. They had five children. During our program of collectivism of farms, the father’s property was incorporated, and the family went to work for the commune. During the Nazi invasion, her husband was severely wounded while fighting as a partisan. He lost a leg, and the use of an arm. One of her sons was killed.”
Hanna was listening so intently that all sounds in the post office were tuned out.
“She is of medium-height, somewhat underweight, and has peasant features.” Zelek chuckled. “When I asked the investigator what peasant features looked like, he didn’t know what to say for a long minute. Anyhow, I assume it means a woman who has worked in the fields most of her life.
“She has six grandchildren, and her family is scattered over an area of fifty or so versts. There is one thing more of interest. She has meager personal belongings, but one thing she prizes. She said it was with her when she came to the farm. It was a small, paper drawing. Very worn, faded, and difficult to decipher. She didn’t know what it meant. The investigator says it looks like a girl standing by a table. She seems to be stretching out for -”
Hanna screamed aloud. “A dish of cookies!” she shouted, gripping tightly to the frame of the booth.
There was deep silence on the other end. Then Zelek, his voice strained, “He didn’t say a dish of cookies. It was too faded. He thought it was a bowl.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “What does it mean, Hanna?”
“Hershel,” she replied, chokingly. “Hershel drew pictures for all the children. You were like our rooster, with a Cossack uniform. Gitel was on the roof of the house, reaching for a star. Reba…”
She broke down, weeping.
After a few moments, Zelek said. “Hanna. Hanna. Are you there?”
“Yes,” she replied, her voice broken.
“We will go tomorrow. There is a train from Kovno to Grouzdov, the first thing in the morning. I will be waiting in Grouzdov.”
“I will drive there. I will leave at once.”
“No. No. The roads are terrible. You will make it faster by train.”
She could not answer him.
“Hanna. Hanna. Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” she finally said.
“Don’t get your hopes up too high. It could be another drawing, another place.”
She took a grip on herself. “I will see you tomorrow.” She dropped the receiver heavily on the hook and leaned back against the door, her brain spinning. Then slowly she walked out.
On the way home, she suddenly began weeping again. She stopped the bicycle alongside the road and sat down, too shaken to go on. She wept and wept. Then she brushed away the tears. Night was falling. She looked up at the heavens.
“Jakob, my dear one,” she whispered. “Oh, Jakob. Please come. Please talk to me.”
Then from the very reaches of her soul, she heard his soft, gentle voice. “Yes, Hanna.”
“Jakob,” she said, starting to cry again. “Please let it be Reba. Please.”
For a long moment there was no reply. Then she heard him again. “So be it.”
She rose to her feet and raised her arms high to the heavens. “Jakob. Thank you. Thank you. And Jakob, tell Hershel I love him. Tell him I kiss his hand.”
There was the faint flutter of wings, then his voice. “Goodbye, Hanna.”
She heard a horn blowing. A vehicle was coming. It was Stephen in the pickup. She lifted the bicycle from the side of the road. Then she squared her shoulders. She must prepare herself for whatever was to come.
After all, she was only sixty-two years old.
END