Anna had missed many things about her home while in St. Petersburg. But as she entered the little barn attached to the back of the izba, she knew this certainly had to be foremost among them.
The great city had its gardens and parks. Anna and Polya often went to the Summer Gardens when they had free time together, where Anna enjoyed a taste of the outdoors she loved so much. There were no gardens within miles of Katyk to match the grandeur of the Fedorcenko estate’s modest private Promenade Garden, much less the public gardens of Peter the Great’s magnificent city.
But in all of St. Petersburg, Anna had found nothing to compare with her father’s earthy, warm byre. The pungent fragrance of dirt and straw and hay, combined with animal flesh and manure, brought a smile to her face. She drew in a long breath and filled her lungs with the homey aroma. The pleasant sounds of the doves cooing in the rafters, the old cow’s gentle moo, and Lukiv’s soft whinny floated through the air in response to Yevno’s quiet chatter.
Here lay the heart and soul of the Motherland—not in its army or its emperor or its resplendent capital that mirrored the great cities of the West, not even in its noisy radicals filling the times with their shouts for change. Russia was here, in ten thousand such barns and byres and peasant dwellings, many of them far poorer than Yevno’s. A foreigner traveling to this huge land where East met West would never really feel the pulse of this continent of a nation until he had stood inside the windblown, creaking, weathered barn of some rural peasant izba.
On her first day home, relishing anew the sights and smells of this place, Anna had recalled Paul saying that his new-thinking friends wanted nothing but to liberate the peasant masses. Their motives seemed to have changed in a short time. She herself hoped that one day the heavy burden of poverty, such as her own mother and father now faced, could be lifted from the backs of the vast Russian peasantry. But at the same time, she prayed that these humble, earthy roots of a people strengthened by labor and love for the land would never be lost. For if they were, the price of “liberty” would be too high.
“Good morning, Papa,” said Anna, walking up to her father where he stood rubbing Lukiv’s graying nose.
“Ah, you are awake early today, my Anna.”
“It has been light out for some time now, Papa.”
“Has it? I suppose I have been out here longer than I thought. Poor Lukiv has been restive lately, and I was trying to calm her.”
Anna drew nearer and laid a hand on the horse’s speckled flank. “She is a faithful old work horse.”
“The best I’ve ever seen.”
“She is getting old, do you think, Papa?”
“Like all good animals, her time must one day come.” Yevno sighed. “The same can be said of a poor old moujik.”
“Oh, Papa—”
Yevno held up his hand. “There, Anna . . . not to fret about me.”
“I can’t help it for love of you, Papa,” said Anna softly.
“Everyone’s time comes—with men and with horses. God calls for His people and His beasts to come back to Him sooner or later.”
“But, Papa, that does not mean we should give ourselves up to fate with resignation.”
Yevno let out a chuckle, as if humoring the idealism of youth.
“We mustn’t cease taking care of the temple God has given us,” Anna added.
“And that is what you think your papa has been doing?”
“So I have heard, Papa,” Anna answered quietly, not wanting to appear disrespectful.
“I have worked all my life,” Yevno sighed.
“Perhaps it is time to work a little less strenuously.”
“It is an old habit, and hard to break.”
“But Papa, Ilya and Tanya and Vera need you to be with them a good while longer. So do I, Papa, and even Paul.”
The mention of his son brought another sigh. Yevno shook his head wearily.
“But even if not for us,” Anna went on, “the little ones are still young, and they need you especially—not only to put food on the table for them, but for your love and wisdom as well. Don’t take that away from them—from us, Papa. I am not ready to say goodbye to you.”
“I am happy to hear that, because I am not leaving Katyk anytime soon!” Yevno smiled. “Now, if you are finished scolding your poor papa . . .”
“There is one more thing,” said Anna tentatively.
“My, but I have been a naughty papa to deserve such a tongue-lashing from my own shy little Anna!”
In spite of her attempts to remain earnest, Anna laughed at her father’s good-humored teasing.
“So, what else have you to say, my daughter?”
“Now that I am here, Papa, you must let me take on more of the work.”
“My little girl has become a hard worker in the city, eh?”
“I have always helped you and Mama. I can feed the animals in the morning, and you can have more time to rest. I can care for them and quiet them down in the evening, too.”
“Ah, but being in here does rest and soothe me,” said Yevno.
“I can work in the fields, too.”
Yevno turned serious. “The time for harvest is nearly here. The weather is already changing.”
“You know the harvesting is hardest on you.”
“It must be done. I am already too far behind. If the rains come—”
“Then let me help.”
“Just you, my little one? I fear you would be slower than your tired old papa.”
“I will find help.”
“And you expect me to sit on a cushion, like a boyar, while others do my work?”
“Yes, Papa, you must.”
Yevno rubbed his beard thoughtfully.
“Hmm . . . ,” he mused, with a hint of a smile about his lips and a crease still across his brow. “The city has changed you, Anna.”
“I am sorry, Papa.”
“I do not say it as something for you to be sorry about, dear Annushka.”
Anna tried to smile.
“They are not bad changes I see,” Yevno went on. “You have learned to stand and speak out. I believe that is good. But—” He chuckled again. “It will take me some time to accustom myself to it.”
“Then today you will let me go to the village,” said Anna with more confidence, “and find helpers? Some of the men are already finished in their own fields. I am sure there must be one or two who can be spared to help in ours.”
“I suppose it will do no harm to allow you to ask about.” He paused. “I suppose also that now your papa will have to do a little changing too, eh? Just like his daughter.”
“What do you mean, Papa?”
“This stubborn pride of mine was never my best quality.”
“It won’t be missed, Papa,” Anna said with a laugh. “Not much, at least.”
“It has been with me a long time. I do not know if I can let go of it so easily.”
He scooped another handful of hay into Lukiv’s trough. “What do you think, Lukiv, eh? Will you mind putting up with a new Yevno Pavlovich, one who watches while others do his work?”
The horse whinnied, obviously unconcerned with such portentous changes.
“Well, I promise to make sure you always have hay,” added Yevno, giving the velvety old nose a loving rub, “no matter what.”
Arm in arm he walked with Anna out of the byre and around to the front of the house. Inside they could hear the sounds of the children scurrying about getting ready for the morning meal. Their young voices made Anna all the more grateful that she had summoned the courage to speak to her father. He must not work himself into his grave, not yet. His passing would be a grievous loss, but it would be hardest of all on the little ones. She did not want to think of such things, yet her father’s illness had forced many new and hard considerations upon her.
But he had taken her words to heart just now. For that she inwardly rejoiced. She was more determined than ever to take the pressing needs of the harvest off her father’s shoulders and not allow him to intervene.