In Memory of Memory by Maria Stepanova

Author:Maria Stepanova
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780811228831
Publisher: New Directions
Published: 2021-02-09T00:00:00+00:00

Not-A-Chapter

The Stepanovs, 1980, 1982, 1983, 1985

1.

Addressed to my grandfather, Nikolai Stepanov, from his niece. The letter is undated, but appears to be from June 1980. My little round big-eyed grandmother Dora Zalmanovna Stepanova (maiden name: Akselrod) died in May 1980. She and my grandfather were the same age, both born in 1906. He outlived her by five years.

Galina is the daughter of Grandfather’s much-loved sister, Masha. She lived near her mother in the village of Ushakovo in Kalinin District. Up till then they had been used to corresponding frequently but that summer Grandfather broke off correspondence for a long while.

Dear Uncle Nikolai,

Your letter arrived. We found out about Auntie Dora from your letter to Mother. It was so unexpected. Just before that mother received a letter which seemed very hopeful — and then suddenly this. We were very upset, especially because the letter took a long time to reach us and it’s strange you chose to tell us by letter. We’re family after all. We’ve known Auntie Dora for so long and we would have liked to give her a Christian send-off. I can’t believe that Auntie Dora is gone. Although I haven’t seen her in a long while, I remember her clearly, looking after everyone, very caring. I wrote straightaway, Uncle Nikolai, but then I ripped up the letter. I’m not good at offering comfort. Words seem so pointless, so empty, at times like these. And just knowing that she is gone forever, for all time, kills me. I had my first close encounter with the word “death” in 1948. I knew that it was possible to die in the abstract, that people died of old age and in wars. But my own sister, eighteen years old, so close to me, so warmly alive, and suddenly not there — I couldn’t begin to come to terms with it, I ran out of the village to the scrubland and I wept and cried and scratched the earth and prayed to God that He would bring Lusya back to life. I never spoke her name aloud, but day and night it was all I could see. At night I mostly cried, but very, very quietly so no one could hear, and then worn out by weeping I would fall into a heavy sleep. I was a shy child anyway, but after this I withdrew even further into myself and perhaps no one except my father understood me, but we kept out of each other’s way and we carried our burdens alone. I was in torment, or perhaps I was scalded by a sense of shame — I don’t know how to describe the feeling — that she had died and not me. And more than once the terrifying and unchildlike thought of dying came to me, into my young head, but when I was ready to take the step I suddenly felt sorry for my parents. If we’d all mourned together, wept together, then perhaps it would have been easier. But

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