Chapter IV : The road.
Exhaling clouds of cigarette smoke into the pitch-black darkness, Irina greeted yet another day at the frost-scorched Kyiv Station. Shifting her weight from one foot to the other to fend off the cold, she watched a spherical figure wrapped in sheepskin coats silently pushing a cart along the deserted platform. “What an idiotic sight, seriously… At least she's not hollering at the crack of dawn.”
She tossed her cigarette butt to the ground, crushed it under her boot, grabbed her battered sports bag, and headed toward the train.
“Babanya, is she really coming?”
“How should I know? She doesn’t call, only every now and then. She promised today, but don’t get your hopes up too much. Who knows? The little one—what if they hold her up there!”
Antonina Antipovna was doing her best to go about an ordinary day, but keeping the girl in check was no easy task: Polina was distracted, picking Colorado beetles half-heartedly, refusing lunch, and instead bouncing around the house, whispering to her dolls that they were off to Moscow. The elderly woman was gripped by a fear of the child’s expectations crashing down, and her own emotional frailty sparked irritation, even a touch of anger. Antonina Antipovna found it hard to admit that she missed her daughter and dreaded the void that the departure of her restless, fidgety granddaughter would leave—an emptiness threatening to shatter her long-suffering woman’s heart once and for all. She was even sterner and more tight-lipped with Polina and her bumbling husband.
The rumble of an old shuttle bus sliced through the quiet of the encroaching evening. Antonina Antipovna bitterly noted to herself that this was the last run of the day, and if her daughter didn’t show up at the doorstep, she’d be left consoling a heartbroken child. She muttered something unprintable under her breath and, unable to bear the tension any longer, stepped out onto the porch.
The bus screeched to a halt by the gate with a sharp squeal of brakes.
“Mom! Babanya, it’s Mom, isn’t it?” Polina, breathless, was already hopping by the fence. Antonina Antipovna, unable to control herself, silently drilled the gate with her gaze. The bus groaned and lumbered off. In the newly settled, heavy silence, there was finally a knock.
“What’s the matter with you all, not expecting guests?”
“She made it after all, the rascal.” With a heavy tread, the woman went to open the gate. Irina appeared in the doorway. She wore a green shearling coat with a peeling collar, her hair sticking out from under a red hat, her eyes gleaming with exhaustion.
Polina threw herself into her mother’s arms. Irina dropped to her knees and hugged her daughter tightly. Her trembling fingers dug into Polina’s back. She smelled of cigarettes and something sour. Polina wanted to ask why her mom had been gone so long but held back, afraid of upsetting her.
“So you finally came for your daughter? Everyone’s started forgetting you. Will you eat?”
Irina shook her head, still holding her daughter close.
“And what, you’re taking her to Moscow? Does Kravets even have a job there, or is he still drifting around like a turd through the gutter?”
“Mother, it’s better for everyone this way. Thank you so much for your help.”
“What help? It’s fine.” The woman struggled to hold back tears. “I packed some things for you here—will you take them?”
Babushka pointed to a large bundle on the porch.
“I’ll take it. Thank you, Mother.” Irina hugged her tightly. “I really appreciate it. Honestly. Everything will be okay.”
Antonina Antipovna broke into loud sobs in her daughter’s arms.
The night train jolted along. The carriage smelled of damp clothes and fried chicken. A drowsy Polina sat by the window next to her mom, holding her hand, terrified that this was all a dream and she’d wake up back at one of her babushkas’ places. Beyond the fogged-up window, dark fields flashed by faster and faster, and the lanterns of deserted stations briefly illuminated the cramped compartment of the platzkart car. Irina shifted the bag with their documents from her lap to the bunk and stood up.
“Sweetie, I’m going to get some tea from the conductor,” she said. “Stay here, don’t go anywhere, and keep an eye on our things.”
Polina nodded and picked up the bag. Besides tickets, her mom’s passport, some papers, and coins, there was a small, worn photo inside. A smiling, bearded man looked into the camera—Papa Kravets. Polina studied her father’s kind face, trying to figure out why Babushka Tonya spoke so poorly of him, but it was hard to imagine this radiant man with gentle eyes hurting Mom. And if she kept his photo in her bag, didn’t that mean they loved each other and everything was sorted out?
Irina returned with clinking tea glasses. Seeing the photo in her daughter’s hands, she abruptly set the tea on the table and reached for the bag.
“Rummaging already? Let me put it away, or we’ll lose everything,” she said sharply.
“Is that Papa?” Polina asked quietly.
Irina froze, then turned away.
“It’s him. Let’s sleep. It’ll be a long morning.”
A tired man sitting on the opposite bunk opened a can of beer and took a loud, generous gulp. The train lurched, shaking the carriage so hard that a bag fell from the top shelf onto the man, spilling beer onto his lap. He cursed under his breath. Polina, curled up on her mother’s lap, thought about her bearded father and their last meeting in some very brown apartment with soft wallpaper, where everything felt knitted. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t recall his face or voice. Her memories were blurry, like looking through a poorly tuned camera. But she remembered he’d given her a plush bear, scratched her cheeks with his beard, and then gone into the living room, where ribbons of cigarette smoke drifted through the doorway alongside heated arguments. Polina had played with the bear, unable to make sense of the echoes of adult conversation, and fallen asleep in the knitted dimness. Back then, just like now, they’d left in the night: Irina in tears, a sleepy Polina in her arms. Her mother had held her tight in the taxi, whispering 'Our Father' prayer, crying, and kissing her hair. In the warmth of her embrace, smelling of verbena and cigarettes, under the rhythmic, desperate murmur, Polina’s eyes filled with tears too. Everything turned to water, spilling into a river of boundless sorrow, the river becoming a sea, the sea an ocean, where waves carried them toward a menacing storm. Polina and her mom, alone against the world, like a queen and her infant from this Pushkin's tale, sealed in a barrel by the schemes of the weaver and the cook. The strange, magical words her mother whispered into her hair and the boundless grief of childish tears pulled Polina back into a deep, heavy sleep. It was her only escape from the crumbling world around her. Those tears had killed her desire to see her father, but now she was curious—how had they settled in Moscow, and was her mom really “wiping his ass,” as Grandma Tonya claimed?
Morning in Moscow was damp and gray. The station buzzed, colorless people crowding the metro exit. Irina led her daughter by the hand through the chaos, her fingers gripping Polina’s wrist tightly. They moved through a stream of shabby gray jackets, trudging through dirty snow that reeked of diesel. In the crush, the girl couldn’t even get a proper look at the metro; she just clung to her mother, terrified of being torn away and trampled by the crowd. Thankfully, someone gave Irina a seat, and Polina fell asleep in her arms again. She had no memory of ending up in a tiny room with a damp mattress, a table holding a cracked mug, and a bare lightbulb without a shade.
“Here we are, home, sweetie. It’s not a royal palace, of course, but God willing, we won’t be here long.”
“Will Papa come?”
“Papa will come. He definitely will.” Mom dropped the bag on the floor and lay down on the mattress. “Are you hungry?”
“No.”
The sight of her tiny daughter curled up on the mattress pierced Irina’s heart. She hugged the girl and pulled her close. “We won’t be here long,” Irina whispered soundlessly, slipping into sleep.
The day was gray, aimless—one of those that could’ve just not happened. But in the empty little room with the mattress, a bright sun blazed. Polina and her mom read books together, Polina was telling her all about hunting for a groom, how her friends had tricked her, how the neighbor’s cat fought with Babushka’s goose — all these incredibly important things Mom had unfortunately missed.
That night, Polina woke to a soft noise. Mom sat by the window, the dim yellow glow of a streetlamp reflecting off the tears streaming down her face. She held the worn photo from the bag. Paralyzed with fear, Polina tried not to move, breathing as quietly as possible, pretending to sleep.
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