Wanda knocked on the door of the assistant school maintenance manager’s office.
“May I come in?” she asked, opening the door slightly.
“Please, come in,” the assistant manager said. “I didn’t see you.”
“I have a favor to ask of you. I didn’t know whom to turn to.”
“Sit down. I’ll help you if I can.”
The assistant manager was a man of medium height and very slim build. His right sleeve was empty, and he kept it tucked into his pants. His straight, dark hair was slicked back, and his dark eyes were deeply set. He had lost his arm during the war, and when he returned home from the hospital, he discovered he had lost his entire family, his wife, her parents, and his three children. All were killed by a bomb.
Now he worked in the school and spent all his time there. He loved children. Everyone noticed how he enjoyed watching them. Only he knew what his thoughts were as he watched.
“Dimitri Nikolayevich,” Wanda began, “they threw me out on the street. They took the apartment because the woman I lived with died and I live alone now.”
Wanda did not cry, but she was so nervous that her hands shook.
“What did you say? They threw you out in November? It’s almost winter. No one can live on the street in the winter. Which Domicile Committee is it?”
Wanda told him which committee it was and the names of the three members with whom she had dealt.
“And there’s more,” she said. “I showed them a notice from the military office telling me that my son was killed. They told me that twenty million people were killed and that my son’s death was not a good reason.”
Wanda lowered her eyes, and her whole body shook.
“Give me that notice, please,” Dmitri Nikolayevich said, reaching for the paper.
Wanda stood and gave him the notice in its envelope.
“He was a child,” Dmitri Nikolayevich said, reading the paper. “Leave this document with me. Tell me, how many days did they give you?”
They gave me three days, but I only have two left.”
“I’ll try to do something today and let you know.”
“Thank you very much,” Wanda said, moving toward the door.
“Don’t thank me. I’ve done nothing yet.”
Wanda walked down the corridor, thinking about how Dmitri Nikolayevich’s life was not easy. He was an invalid and had lost everyone in the war. He understood her as no one else could. She was alone and no one in this world needed her.
She had worked as a janitor in the school since returning from Ural. She communicated with almost no one. She arrived earlier than anyone else and left before anyone arrived. She knew only one other janitor, Lili, who cleaned rooms near Wanda’s own area. A few times, at meetings, she saw everyone together.
Throughout her life, Wanda had a reserved disposition. As a child and as an adult, she had spoken little. In jail and in the prison camp she had grown more distant and quiet. She had been raised a Catholic. She could pray fervently and believed in God. Her prayers were to the Mother of God.
But what was left for her now? She had no one, no relatives, no close friends. After life had beaten her many times, she had stopped praying. She would ask for no more help because she had no hope left in her heart. She had never actually renounced God; she knew God had simply turned away from her. She decided she needed no God and no people.
All of these thoughts Wanda turned over in her mind as she walked down the street. She headed automatically for the trolley stop. The trolley came, and she boarded it. She looked out the window and, after fifteen or twenty minutes, she saw the Polish cemetery. The trolley stopped, and she got off.
In all the years she had been back in Odessa, she had found no time or desire to visit her father’s grave. She did not know what compelled her now to return. She remembered where the grave was; she remembered the monument. The last time she had visited was in the early thirties.
At the entrance to the cemetery, she bought a bouquet of asters. Then she began walking along the central path.
It was the end of November. Almost all the leaves were on the ground, and the wind tossed them. Crows sat on the bare branches, high in the trees, and shouted to each other, “Caw, caw, caw.” Wanda looked at them. They were so big and black. With a rush of wings, the crows flew and cawed loudly, alighting on the path in front of her. Wanda walked around them.
She remembered when she and her sister Sophie had placed a small Rowan-tree next to their father’s grave. On top of the tall monument was a cross. On the monument was her father’s photograph on a brown, ceramic oval plate.
Halfway down the path, Wanda turned right. A few minutes later, she saw the top of the familiar monument. High grass and weeds surrounded the grave. If not for the cross and the picture, it would not have been easy to find the grave amidst the desolation. The weeds were so tall that Wanda could not read the inscription.
“Oh, my God,” she cried. “How could I not visit you all these years, Papa?”
She began to tear the weeds away with her bare hands. She did not feel the sharp thorns stabbing her hands. The weeds pulled easily because the ground was soft from recent rains. She pulled the plants and threw them away. They lay in piles around the grave. Finally, she could see the inscription.
“Oh, my dear papa,” she said, kneeling. “Forgive me for not visiting you for such a long time. You were always in my heart. I miss you and Mama and everyone who was so dear to me, and my dear children whom you never had a chance to see.”
Wanda wept loudly, unrestrained. She had to cry out, to throw everything off as she had not for so many years. She began to pray, remembering her prayers word for word. She felt that the Mother of God could hear her again and help her.
Wanda did not know how long she knelt at her father’s grave, but she had felt chilly.
“I’ll come to visit you, Papa,” she said. “You’re all I have left.”
She walked to the exit quickly because it was growing dark. Her hands began to burn and hurt from the cuts and the embedded thorns. When she sat down in the trolley, she saw that her hands were covered with dried blood. The people sitting near her noticed and looked at her.
“I don’t care,” she thought. “I’ve found faith in my heart.” She felt transcendent, above everything.
No one threw Wanda out on the street. The Domicile Committee gave her six square meteres in a basement close to the school where she worked. Her door was four steps down from street level. It was just a room, with no kitchen, no foyer. The stove stood in a corner. Next to the door stood a bucket with water in it. There was no sink or toilet. The toilet and water were available in the rear courtyard.
“Thanks for this,” Wanda thought. “This is my corner.”
The building next to Wanda’s had been destroyed by a bomb during the war. Nothing had been done to rebuild it. Rebuilding began in the center of the city; this building was far from the center. First, historical buildings were rebuilt, then the transportation lines, hospitals, and schools, if they had been destroyed. Odessa sustained only moderate damage. The opera and ballet theatre was the pride of Odessa, and it was untouched. All the monuments also were unscathed.
Odessa is a very unusual city. Here live people of all nationalities—Russians, Ukrainians, Greeks. The Greek Plaza is still called by its original name. Many Poles remain, but their cathedral has been changed to accommodate a sports club and warehouses. The Germans had occupied a number of colonies surrounding the city. Today, only the names remain: Luzdorf, Boden, Strasburgh. When the war started, all Germans were evicted and sent deep into Siberia. Many of them died from the severe cold. Hadzhebay Estuary, an inlet of the Black Sea, still has the same name, a reminder that many years ago Tatar-Mongols lived there.
The streets of Odessa were paved with cobblestones and stone plates. Many years ago, Russia traded grain with other countries. The ships sailed in loaded with cobblestones and stone plates that served to ballast them until they could take on the grain. Little by little, almost all the streets of Odessa were paved with those stones and plates.
In the past, when trade with the East was at its height, Odessa was a noisy, happy city, unlike any other city in Russia.
People who were born and lived in Odessa spoke with a distinct dialect. Odessa was called “a city open to the world,” and it is still known as the “pearl of the Black Sea.” It was and is a place with a rich musical culture. It gave to the world some of its finest musicians and composers. It is a city of famous profiteers and swindlers. All of these things were and are Odessa.
After Cracow, for Wanda, Odessa was the second city. There she was both very happy and very unhappy. She had known Odessa before the revolution, in the twenties, and in the time of NEP. She remembered the depressions in 1921 and 1933. But after she returned from Ural, she almost never walked on the streets. She had not seen how the city had changed.
Now she lived in a very small room, without even a closet. She felt she would suffocate. There was no window, only a door with glass. When the sun was high, only a little light entered.
When she returned from work, she put soup on the primus8, and that bread and sausage were her dinner. Sometimes, she fried a fish she bought from a fisherman on the corner, but not often, because she had to keep the door open for several hours. She had dinner and a glass of wine and then went for a walk. She was again drinking every day. One after another, she saw places she had not seen for years. The memories made her heart tremble.
Some people easily forget the past or do not think about it often, but even as she aged, Wanda’s memory remained young. She remembered details of her childhood and young adulthood. The wine had a strange effect on her; it sharpened rather than dulled her memory.
Wanda had developed a habit. Every day in any weather, she walked. She could not stay long in her tiny room; she went to it only to sleep.
Once, after she had eaten quickly and was washing her plate, someone knocked on her door.
“Come in,” she said. “The door is open.”
It was the assistant school maintenance manager,” Dmitri Nikolayevich.
“I wanted to see how you’re getting along here,” he said, looking around.
“Thank you. Sit down, please.”
She showed him to one of her two chairs, which stood next to a small table.
“What kind of place is this?” he asked, shaking his head. “I think this is temporary. Things will be better after a while.”
Wanda sat down in the other chair and said, “Everything’s temporary in this world. I’m used to it. You see, in my life, things are either the very best or the very worst. All of it has been temporary. I’m almost sixty. I’ve gone through much grief in my life, but somehow I’m still alive.”
“Yes, you’re right. It’s all temporary. Nobody knows how long God gives you. I can’t tell your age. You don’t look more than fifty.”
“Thanks for the compliment, Dmitri Nikolayevich. A year ago I got dentures. Without them I look like an old, old woman. I had the scurvy years ago and lost all my teeth.”
“Excuse me, please, Wanda. Where is your husband? Was he killed in the war? I know your son was killed.”
“No, my husband died a long time ago. He was young. His heart failed.”
“All these years you were a widow, and you didn’t remarry?”
“I had two children. My daughter has been missing since the war, and I have no information about her. Why are you asking about me? How has your life been?”
“Mine? It hasn’t gone very smoothly. I was an orphan. My parents were killed in World War I. I worked and went to school and married very late. My wife was sixteen years younger than I. We lived with her parents. When the war started, I joined the Army and was badly wounded, but I survived. When I came back from the hospital, I found out the building where my family lived was destroyed by a bomb, and my whole family, my wife, her parents, and my children, were killed. After that, my life was as empty as this sleeve.” He touched the dangling sleeve.
“I understand. It’s a pity. It was a terrible war. Maybe you want some tea? I have some cookies and cherry jam.”
“With pleasure. If it’s not difficult for you.”
“No, no,” Wanda said, smiling. “It’s no trouble at all.”
She put the kettle on the primus and prepared tea. Dmitri Nikolayevich stood and walked to the bookstand next to Wanda’s bed. He examined the titles.
“I see you have French and Polish books, not just Russian,” he said. “Do you know those languages?”
“Yes. I’m Polish. I came to Odessa from Cracow when I was fifteen. I spoke Polish. I learned French in school and in Paris, where I lived for some time. That was a long time ago. I don’t want to think about it.”
The tea was ready. Wanda poured it into glasses held by metal servers. They drank tea and talked. Finally, Dmitri Nikolayevich stood and walked to the door.
“Thank you, Wanda,” he said, “for your hospitality. I have one question for you. Why have you worked as a janitor all these years? You’re an educated woman. You could find an office job.”
“I’m flattered. Thank you for your opinion of me. But believe me, it’s much better this way. Under the circumstances, this is better for me. Sometimes, we need only to survive.”
“We can talk about this another time. Thank you again, and good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Dmitri Nikolayevich. You’re welcome any time. If you feel like talking to someone, I’m a good listener.”
When he had gone, Wanda thought about how he knew more about her than she would have liked.
A few days later, he came to visit again. This time, he brought her a clothes rack and helped her attach it to the wall. Now she could hang her clothes. She covered the clothes with a sheet. She felt cozier in the room. Again, they drank tea. Wanda began to talk.
“I don’t know, Dmitri Nikolayevich. What do you think? I would like to buy an icon of the Mother of God and put it in the corner. When I lived with Gena, it wasn’t my apartment. I couldn’t think about it. I knew she didn’t believe in God. But she was a good person. And I’d like to show one portrait.”
“What kind of portrait?” he asked with interest.
Wanda pulled the package from under her bed.
“It will be strange to put this portrait in this room,” she said, “but it’s all I have from my past.”
“Can I see it?”
Wanda unwrapped the painting and said, “I don’t have any other place to keep it. This little blanket I used to cover my daughter when she was a baby.”
She put the portrait on the chair, and the light reflected from the gilt frame. From the portrait a young, smiling, richly dressed girl looked out.
“Who is that? Did you know her? Or is this a picture of great value?” He looked closely at the painting.
“Yes, I knew her very well,” Wanda said, not really believing that the girl was she.
“I’ve seen this kind of picture in a museum but not in anyone’s house. They took everything from you, and you hid this somewhere?”
“No, you don’t understand. I didn’t hide anything. This is not a picture for a museum. This is my portrait. I was seventeen years old, and it was ten years before the revolution. What do you think, that I didn’t have a right to my own portrait?”
“No, of course not. This is yours, and it belongs to you. It’s beautiful, just unbelievable. You can put this above your bed or over the table. It doesn’t matter that it doesn’t match the room. It will make this place different because it’s a part of your life.”
“No, it takes me back into my past.”
“Who was the artist?”
“It was a long time ago. I don’t even want to talk about it. It was in Italy—in Florence. The artist was Maestro R. It was on my honeymoon.”
“You’ve had an interesting life, Wanda. You’ve been to Paris and to Italy.”
“I don’t want to remember that. It was a long time ago. No, I’ll not put this portrait on the wall.”
She wrapped the painting and replaced it under the bed.
“This is not right, Wanda,” said Dmitri Nikolayevich. “This is not just a portrait. It’s a work of art.”
Wanda smiled sadly and said, “Look around, and tell me, please, does this place need a work of art? But for an icon, this miserable place is perfect.”
“Tell me, Wanda. Before the revolution, did you have icons in your home?”
“We had a chapel where we kept an organ and icons on the wall. We prayed there. It was not necessary to go to the church.”
“Now I understand. You were from very rich society. I’ll tell you the truth. I don’t know how you survived. Usually, women from high society were very fragile and suffered more than the men during difficult situations.”
“You know, I don’t understand myself how I survived and how I’m still alive.”
“And what else is strange. …”
Wanda interrupted him. “Dmitri Nikolayevich, excuse me, please, I can’t breathe in this room. I have to go for a walk.”
“No, please, forgive me. I’ve asked many questions. I have to go now. We’ve talked and I’ve lost track of the time.”
“Thank you for the rack,” Wanda said, walking him to the door.
She put on her coat and walked to the square. She walked, kicking the dry leaves and thinking. The wind spun the leaves away.
“Why did he ask me so many questions?” she thought. “Why does he want to know so much about my past? On the one hand, he’s a nice man, but, on the other, he has something on his mind.”
She sat down on a bench and watched the pigeons. The birds cooed and scratched, looking for food. In front of her, older women walked, pushing babies in open carriages.
“If my children were alive, I’d be a grandmother,” Wanda thought, “and I’d be here walking with my grandchildren.” She felt pain in her heart. “That was not my destiny.”
She did not cry; she only felt deep pain. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about it. Little by little, she turned her thoughts to the search for an icon for her room.
“If I don’t have anyone to talk to,” she thought, “I can talk to God.”
The next Sunday, Wanda went to the flea market. It was a big, noisy place where people bought and sold almost everything: old goods, handcrafted toys, fried rolls filled with meat, jam, or peas. Shouts of “Hot pirozhki with meat!” “Hot pirozhki with peas!” rang out from one side then the other.
Wanda wove her way through the crowd, searching for an icon. She had already walked around the market for an hour and had found nothing. She asked a woman selling crocheted doilies and mats, “Please tell me where I can find an icon. I’ve looked for a long time and can’t find one.”
“Woman, have you just fallen from the sky? Where have you seen icons displayed for sale? For selling those goods, people can go to jail. But I can tell you. … No, I’d better take you.”
The woman selling doilies turned to another woman who stood next to her and said, “Hey, Dasha, look after my table. I’ll be right back.” She signaled for Wanda to follow.
They approached a table covered with junk—lamps, old pots, a few dishes.
“Listen, Sergei,” the doily lady said to the man behind the table, “this woman needs something.” She turned to Wanda and said, “Explain to him. But quietly. If he doesn’t have it, we’ll go somewhere else.”
Wanda whispered, “Do you have an icon of the Mother of God with the Child?”
“Oh, the Virgin Mary?” Sergei said. “Sure I have. And I have St. Vladimir and Nickolaus. …”
“I don’t need anything else,” Wanda interrupted. “The Virgin Mary will be fine.”
Sergei took the icon from a box under the table. The icon itself was set in a sterling silver mat within the frame. It was exactly what Wanda had in mind.
“How much?” she asked.
“Just for you—fifty rubles. If you want to know, they cost much, much more. This is hand painted on the wood. The mat is sterling silver, and this icon might be over a hundred years old.”
Wanda gave him fifty rubles without speaking. Sergei wrapped the icon in pages of Pravda.
“Thank you very much,” Wanda said to the doily lady.
“Why didn’t you bargain with him? He could have given it to you for less. Who asks for icons now?”
“I can’t bargain. It’s only important that I found what I was looking for.”
“Listen. Maybe you need some mats or doilies for your icon?”
“All right. You can show me what you have.”
An hour later, Wanda had placed the icon in a corner of her tiny room, a mat draped around it, and an icon-lamp, which she had also purchased, sitting beneath it.
“Thanks to that woman who helped me,” Wanda thought. “Next Sunday, I’ll go buy some napkins from her. I didn’t have enough money. She won’t be hard to find, short and round like a ball, with a red nose.”
Over the past few weeks, Wanda had tried not to drink at all. Perhaps she was ashamed. Dmitri Nikolayevich could come over any time for a cup of tea or just to talk. Or perhaps she had finally realized that life was worthwhile just because it is life. She spent much of her time trying to read. Books carried her to a different world, and she felt what the characters felt. She bought her books at a secondhand store. They were cheaper. Eventually, her book stand was full. In her free time, she read or prayed, if she was not walking.
The next Sunday, Dmitri Nikolayevich came, and Wanda showed him how she had displayed her icon.
“That’s nice,” he said. “It reminds me of the old villages, where my wife’s relatives lived.”
Wanda did not answer, but she understood. He saw her as old-fashioned.
They sat down to the supper Wanda had prepared, fried potatoes and ham.
“I’d like to ask you something and share something with you,” Dmitri Nikolayevich said. “I don’t have anybody. Somehow, I feel you’re a good person to talk to.”
“Please,” Wanda said, “you can ask me anything. I’ll try to understand. If I can, I’ll help you.”
He was quiet, thinking. Finally, after a few mintues, he began to speak.
“I met a young woman. She’s a widow with no children. She’s thirty-three, and I’m fifty-two, and I’m an invalid. She lives with her mother next door to me. They’ve gone to Leningrad to visit some relatives. The woman’s name is Lana. She’s so beautiful. She has long, ash-blonde braided hair and gray eyes. You know, Wanda, this is so painful for me. I’m in love, and she’s young and beautiful. Why does she pay attention to me? Maybe she pities me. What do you think?”
“This is difficult for me. I don’t know her. But I think she can love you, if she knows you well. She can love you for your kindness. Not so many men are left after the war. How long have you known her?”
Wanda examined him, trying to understand how a young woman could love him.
“We’ve known each other about six months,” he said, “because we’re neighbors. I’ve asked her twice for a date, and she didn’t refuse. We went to the theatre and to a movie, and we had a good time. She’s been gone three weeks now, and I miss her so much. If you saw her, you’d say she’s too beautiful for me. Your opinion is very important to me.”
“How does she act? Has she talked about her feelings?”
“No, she hasn’t told me straight, but once she told me she likes my company.”
“What can I say? When she comes back from Leningrad, try asking her directly.”
Wanda knew he was lonely, had no one, just as she had no one.
One Sunday, when Wanda was walking in the park, she saw Dmitri Nikolayevich and a young woman in front of her. They were busy talking and did not see her. Wanda observed the woman.
“He was right,” she thought. “She’s young and beautiful. What could she see in him?”
The woman’s complexion was darker than her ash-blonde hair and gray eyes would indicate. Her hair was braided into a crown. She was tall and looked quite elegant. Dmitri Nikolayevich was wearing a long leather coat and brimmed hat. He looked like the woman’s father.
“What the devil can do when God’s asleep!” Wanda thought when she had returned home. “Maybe she doesn’t want to be alone anymore, either, and nobody else is available.”
A few months later, Wanda heard from another janitor that Dmitri Nikolayevich was married. All this time, he had not visited Wanda. He had been busy with his new life. Furthermore, another janitor gossiped, Dmitri Nikolayevich had been an officer of high position in the Army. He was wounded and so the government had given him a three-room apartment. Lana and her mother had had only one room and a kitchen. Now they had made a door and had four rooms. It was an excellent apartment.
He was a rich man, the janitors agreed. He had brought gold and fine fabrics and many other things from Germany. Not only did he earn a salary, but he had a very good pension. All of these things, they reasoned, had caused the woman to marry him.
Wanda listened but said nothing. She only thought, “People can talk, but I don’t believe it.”
Wanda saw Dmitri Nikolayevich in the corridor once. He passed her, greeted her, but he did not look at her. She saw the wedding ring on his finger. She understood that he now had a different life, but she felt somewhat rejected.
“Why didn’t he tell me he’d married?” she thought. “He came by many times before and talked to me and asked questions. But people are strange. He helped me get the room where I live now. I’m thankful for that. Perhaps I should do something for him, too.”
Months before, Wanda had started to knit a bedspread for herself. She had learned how to knit in the prison camp and, later, from Gena. She decided to make scarves for Dmitri Nikolayevich and his wife. She bought wool yarn, gray and red. Dmitri Nikolayevich’s would be gray with one red stripe near each end. His wife’s would be red with two gray stripes and fringe on the ends. Wanda was so happy with her idea that she began knitting immediately and enthusiastically.
The winter was rainy; the evenings were long. Knitting the scarves helped pass the time. After a few months, they were finished. She was satisfied with her work. She placed them in a shoe box, wrapped it, and took it with her to work. With the box under her arm, she knocked on Dmitri Nikolayevich’s door.
“Come in,” he said. “Who’s that?”
“It’s Wanda,” she answered, opening the door.
“I haven’t see you for a long time, Wanda. What’s new?”
“Nothing’s new. I believe you have a new life, though.” She noticed that his face was rounder and looked more rested.
“Sit down, please,” he said. “I can’t imagine a better life. I’m so glad I married Lana. She’s something else. So charming. And her mother prepares breakfast for me every morning. She doesn’t let me go to work without a hot breakfast.”
“I’m so happy for you, Dmitri Nikolayevich. I made these for you and your wife.”
Wanda gave him the box, and he opened it.
“Thank you very much, Wanda. These scarves are so elegant. You knitted them yourself?”
“Yes. I remembered how you helped me when I didn’t have anyone to take my side.”
“What are you talking about, Wanda? That was nothing. I’ll introduce you to my wife. I’m sure you’ll like her.”
“I’d like to meet her, but now I’ll go.”
“Thank you again for the scarves,” Dmitri Nikolayevich said as Wanda nodded to him once and left.
It was spring. The air was fresh, and the weather was warm. Wanda walked slowly, thinking.
“This is strange,” she mused. “Why hasn’t he introduced me before?” She caught herself feeling his life meant something to her. She was concerned about him.
Time passed quickly. Summer came, and Wanda visited her father’s grave regularly. She tried once to find Grisha’s grave, but it had not monument and the records had been destroyed by fire during the war.
She planted flowers on her father’s grave and watered them every Sunday. In a whisper, in Polish, she spoke to him, even though she had not spoken her native language for many years. She remembered that, to him, she had spoken only Polish.
It has been almost a year since Wanda had had a drink. Something had stopped her, but she did not know what it was. She was acquainted with a few neighbors but had no friends.
On the site of the building next to her, the one that had been destroyed during the war, a large hole had been excavated. Building materials had been hauled in.
Wanda asked one of the workers, “What are they building here?”
“A dormitory for young factory workers,” he said, and he named a factory located several blocks away.
Every day, Wanda watched the building grow. The summer was pleasant, and the work went quickly. It was a two-story building with four columns on the facade and its entrance on the side.
The narrow end of the building faced the street. It was a strange structure for its location, far from the center of the city. People in the neighborhood came to call it the “philharmonica.” It simply did not fit with the old, single-story buildings around it.
When fall was near, the outside work on the building was complete, and inside work was begun. Wanda entered the building and looked at one of the apartments. She saw three rooms, a kitchen, and across a hallway, a toilet and a bathroom. Each room contained a wood- and coal-burning stove.
“What is this?” Wanda thought. “They have to use coal even in the kitchen? There’s no gas or hot water. And young people have to live here.”
The building contained no central heating system and no hot water system. The workers who were to live there would use one stove for each apartment, no matter how many people occupied the three rooms.
“This is not smart at all,” Wanda thought. “What were they thinking of when they designed this?”
When winter arrived, construction stopped; the windows and doors were barricaded to prevent theft. Almost seven years after the war ended, many people continued to suffer, without homes, or whole families, six or eight people, lived in one room and shared a kitchen with as many as five other families. Some people could not afford glass for windows and used cardboard instead. Some apartments had no water; toilets were luxuries. It was most important, though, that people had roofs over their heads and that the war was over. People grew accustomed to doing without many services.
In the spring of 1952, construction on the building resumed. By the end of May, the structure was ready to be occupied.
Once, as she was walking by, Wanda saw a sign on the builing: “Help Wanted: Stoker and Janitor.” Below the advertisement was the name and address of the nearby factory. Immediately, Wanda went to the factory and asked for an application.
“I live in the building next door to this one,” Wanda said to someone in the personnel department. “I can warm the rooms in the morning before the workers wake up. Since nineteen forty-four, I’ve cleaned school classrooms. And I can clean the kitchens and corridors. I do that kind of work now.”
“Fill out the application,” the clerk said, “and we’ll let you know.”
Wanda left the application and walked slowly home. She knew she could not work at the school anymore. From the previous fall until now, about eight or nine months, Dmitri Nikolayevich had been drinking heavily. It was painful to look at him. She had seen him once in the street, stopped him, and asked, “What’s happened, Dmitri Nikolayevich? Are you not feeling well?”
He had looked at her with an expression twisted with pain. “Yes,” he had answered. “I’m very sick, Wanda, but there is no cure for my sickness. I can’t force her to love me. I’m a cripple, and I’m supposed to know my place in life. I forgot my place, and now I’m paying for it.”
Wanda had tried to interrupt him, but he had brushed her words aside with a sweep of his arm. “You women don’t understand anything. I love her with all my heart, but she doesn’t even pity me. She leaves me alone all the time. Her mother goes to Leningrad to see her sister, and Lana spends most of her time there, too. Yes, she’s young and beautiful. … Why do you look at me? You, old woman, nobody needs you. Go. Clean. Do your job.”
Wanda had stopped. He had continued to walk and talk. Wanda had turned around and walked back the way she had come. Her face had burned. She did not remember feeling so terrible for a long time.
“What does he blame me for?” she had thought. “I never harmed him.”
Wanda had felt very hurt, even though she understood he was drunk. But he knew her name and the job she did.
After that incident, Wanda saw him a few more times, but she avoided him. She heard from another janitor that he continued to drink a great deal and that he had problems with his wife. Wanda remembered that he had never introduced her to Lana.
All this time, she had thought about finding another job. She was already over sixty years old, but her work experience was not enough. Her ten years in the prison camp did not count. She was ineligible for any pension.
Now she had hope. Perhaps she would get the job in the new building.
In June, it was very warm. People dressed in summer clothing. Wanda received a note telling her she was hired as a stoker and janitor. She also received a description of her duties. In the winter, she was to keep the stoves burning and warm the rooms. She was also to clean the corridors, the stairs, the kitchens, and the hallways inside the apartments. She would make more salary than at the school.
Wanda went to the factory personnel department and took care of the formalities. She was told to start work in a few days.
She wrote her resignation from the school janitor position and took it to Dmitri Nikolayevich’s office. Dmitri Nikolayevich took the paper and looked at it with bleary eyes.
“You’re kidding,” he said. “‘Because I found another job.’ What kind of job did you find?”
“I don’t want to work here anymore,” Wanda answered. “Where I go is my business. All I ask of you is that you sign.”
“What happens if I don’t sign?” he asked, screwing up one eye and looking at her askance.
“I’ll leave anyway. I’m of retirement age. You know women retire at sixty. No one can keep me here, and you have enough janitors without me.”
“All right, go. Maybe I wouldn’t sign for somebody else, but for you, I’ll sign.”
Wanda looked at him. His words had no meaning. He looked so slovenly. His empty sleeve hung loosely, no longer tucked into his pants. She pitied him as a human being. His appearance stirred her compassion, but she remembered he had hurt her when she had asked him what was wrong.
Wanda took her resignation, thanked him, and left his office. She had walked a few steps when she heard him call her.
“Wanda. Please come back to my office.”
She turned and asked, “What do you want?”
“Come here, please. I ask you.” His voice was different, as if he were no longer drunk.
Wanda returned to the office, and Dimitri Nikolayevich said, “Sit down, please. I need to talk to you.”
“About what do you need to talk to me? I’m old, and nobody needs me. Why do you call me here?”
“Who told you you’re old? Don’t listen.”
Wanda sat on the chair and smiled. “You told me that,” she said. “After that, I decided not to bother you anymore.”
“What are you talking about, Wanda?” Dmitri Nikolayevich sat down in front of her. “I couldn’t have said that. I’ve always respected you, and I thought you respected me, too. I even remember the scarves you knitted for me. You see? I remember.”
“It’s good you remember. Thanks for that.”
“Why are you acting like this? Why don’t you ask me how I feel, how things are going in my life?”
Wanda looked at his face and saw his eyes sparkle feverishly. He was smoking a cigarette, and his hand shook. He inhaled the smoke deeply, blew it out, and began to talk.
“It doesn’t matter about me, Wanda. My life means nothing anymore. You don’t understand me. If you only knew how I love her. Have you loved anybody in your life? I don’t mean just love; I mean complete madness. Why do I ask you? Not everybody can have this kind of feeling.”
He fell back in his chair and closed his eyes. Wanda was frightened for him. He sat with his eyes closed, and Wanda tried to distract him.
“Dmitri Nikolayevich,” she said, “I remember everything. Believe me, I do. Even though it has been many years. As long as I live before I die, I’ll remember my love. I was loved again later, but the feeling was different, more of the mind than of the heart. Do you understand? I was very happy for seven years. I married a man whom I adored. And you tell me I don’t understand? If I could have died after loving him, not living another day, I would not have grasped at life. I would have died quietly, because I loved him with all my soul, and he loved me no less. Not everyone can have that. You see, I live with my memories. They’re always inside me. Life after him has not buried my feelings.”
As Wanda spoke, Dmitri Nikolayevich opened his eyes, leaned forward, and gave her his full attention. When she finished, he asked, “What happened to your husband?”
“He was killed in a train wreck in Germany during World War One, 1914. It was a business trip. he never came back.”
“That’s awful. You said it very well: ‘If I could have died after loving him, not living another day, I would not have grasped at life. …’ This is true. Absolutely. Love is your soul. You can only know it one time in your life. If you lose it, nothing is left.”
Wanda stood and said, “I have to go now. I wish you the best. I have to start my new job. Thank you again.”
She walked to the door. When she reached it, he said, “You were lucky. Your love was reciprocated.”
Wanda left without speaking.