The Chosen Maiden by Eva Stachniak

Author:Eva Stachniak [Stachniak, Eva]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780385678568
Publisher: Doubleday Canada
Published: 2017-01-17T06:00:00+00:00

October 14, 1939

My daughter plays with the Irish girl, Fiona, who asks her endless questions and begs to be shown “ballerina steps”—whatever she means by that. Irina indulges her with clever exercises she has devised for the girl’s untrained feet. Fiona is clumsy but determined, melting in the warmth of my daughter’s attention. The other day, as I watched them, Irina had her pupil hold on to the banister and do pliés. Every time my daughter bent over her, to straighten her back or loosen her at the hips, the girl giggled.

Fiona’s grandmother, who was also watching, began telling me about her son in New York. The son is her eldest; he has done well for himself and is awaiting them with great impatience. He hasn’t seen his daughter for three years. A flinch of unease passed over her face when she said these last words. I also noted that she has never mentioned the girl’s mother.

In my suitcase, among the documents we have brought with us, there is a manila envelope containing Levushka’s writing. Every time I open the case I brush it with my fingertips, feel the bulky shape of its content—and leave it there.

Some memories are still too painful to revisit.

—

My dreams have always been vivid, lingering on the underside of my eyelids long after I wake up. Last night I dreamt of Feodor again, his forehead creased in a deep frown. He looked handsome but worn out, almost unkempt, his shirt collar smudged with soot.

“Have I sinned more than others, Bronia?” he asked me. “Is this why you have forgotten me?”

We were together in what looked like my last Parisian apartment, sitting at a big table strewn with papers. The smell of burnt milk wafted from the kitchen, followed by a mumble of accusing voices I could not make out.

I tried to protest, argue with Feodor, but my lips would not move. All I could do was watch him, shoulders hunched, head down, his eyes avoiding mine. How wrong it all was, I thought, how unnecessary.

It was only when Feodor left that I regained my voice. Convinced that I could still catch up with him, I ran down some strange, rickety stairs into the street, where a few steps in front of me I saw his tall figure tangled in the crowd. But then the bodies around me thickened, became all shoulders, heavy coats and fur hats, and, to my utter horror, I realized I was back in St. Petersburg, not knowing how I would ever be able to leave.

“My émigré dream,” I write. “Every refugee has one.”

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