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Her Shining Eyes

By Jeanette Morris

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Chapter 1

“Next stop, Revolution Square.”

Irina Kotova jerked her head upright, startled out of a blissful daydream when the garbled recording announced her bus stop. The shouts of “Brava, Brava” for her violin solo of Tchaikovsky’s concerto in D would have to resume another day. She eased out of the rigid metal seat and into the jam of bundled passengers gripping the overhead bars, standing nose-to-armpit in tram number 20. Her book bag bumped against the thick leg of an elderly, wool-clad babushka.

“Excuse me,” Irina mumbled, inwardly cursing her clumsiness. She averted her eyes to avoid the old woman’s glare and wished for the thousandth time in her fourteen years that she were invisible. Scowling, she inched her way closer to the rear exit and pretended not to hear the whispers, “Let the chubby one by.”
As the brakes screeched, she grabbed the handrail next to the steps, steadying herself for the jolt. The recording announced the stop, and the rush of escaping passengers thrust her onto the street.

“Caution, doors are closing,” the voice echoed behind her.

Irina managed a smile, welcoming the familiar finale to her after-school tram ride. The collapse of the economy five years ago, in 1989, had ruined the USSR. But her beloved Samara was still home.

Irina swiped at her too-long brown bangs and inhaled a deep breath of the brisk March air, bringing relief from the odorous crowd in the stifling transport. Why couldn’t more people bathe themselves? Soap might be scarce now, but water was still free—even if only at the public hand pumps on the street corners. Not caring if anyone noticed, Irina turned her head to the left and then to the right, taking quick sniffs of her own armpits.

Ugh! She waved her hand in front of her nose to clear away the stink and added doing the laundry to her mental list of home chores piling up.

A gust caught the hood of Irina’s snug blue-grey jacket, yanking it off her head and sending a sharp arrow of chill down her neck and arms. She stepped off the sidewalk, where patches of grey ice threatened every footfall, and onto the lumpy asphalt pathway leading to their shabby, five-story walk up.
Glad to be home and out of the wind, Irina pulled the handle of the iron security door. Its creaking hinges grated on her nerves like the screeching tones of a beginning violin student.

Someone stood in the darkness of the entry. Irina moved aside into the mud of the garden strip and waited. The stooped babushka from the ground-level flat hobbled out on stiff legs bundled in heavy woolen pants and felt boots.

Hurry up, granny. Can’t you see I’m cold and tired?

The scent of boiled cabbage on the old woman’s headscarf lingered in the air as she lumbered by. She often sat on the lopsided wooden bench outside the entrance, like a guard with a hand extended for bribes. Except in her case, she pressed for a snippet of gossip. Where are you off to? Are you having guests today? When is your baby due? No one came in or out of the building without passing by the nosy old baba.

Irina squared her shoulders, bracing for the granny’s daily probing. Has your mother found work? Nyet? Then why don’t I ever see her? But today her neighbor parked herself in a sunny patch on her bench without a word or even a polite glance.

The granny must be ill to pass up the opportunity to interrogate me.

Irina unzipped her jacket and scratched an itchy place on her neck where her thick hair had stuck to it. She paused inside the door for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Papa had always replaced the bulbs in the light sockets so that she and Mama would be safe. But now, no one cared, and vandals stole anything not bolted down.

Wrinkling her nose at the stuffy, tobacco-tinged air in the stairwell, she adjusted her book bag and started up the six flights. At the third landing, her thighs tingled. The climb never got easier. It was partly her own fault, for not exercising properly—for not being “fit” as her mother nagged. Irina stopped for another deep breath. Maybe Mama would be feeling better today. Smiling even. Perhaps a pot of cabbage soup with a meat bone in it would be waiting on the stove.

After struggling up the last ten steps, Irina paused to run her fingers around the inside of her damp collar and pull out the string holding the key to their outer security door. She stepped into the corridor. An unfamiliar smell, something like leather and perfume, flared her nostrils.

“Mama?” she called in the direction of the sofa as she dropped her book bag onto the linoleum and removed her boots. “Are you here?”

“Da, Irochka,” her mother replied from inside the main room. “I’m in here.”

Mama’s voice wavered—something wasn’t right. Irina hung the key and her coat on the brass hook, rounded the corner toward the sound of Mama’s voice.

A tall, red-haired woman wearing a smart wool suit, rose from a chair near the window and faced her. The lace curtains fluttered behind her, then stilled.
Irina froze in the doorway. Her mother sat slumped over in one of their kitchen chairs wearing only her thin house dress and worn-out slippers. Next to her stood a man in a grey militia uniform, his hand heavy on her thin shoulder.

“Mama!” she screamed. “What’s going on?”

“Svetlana Kotova is under arrest,” the woman replied. Her narrowed eyes softened briefly, and then her face contorted—perhaps in pity … or was it disgust? “You have five minutes to pack your things. The officer will take your mother downtown to the station. You will go with me to the boarding school.”

Irina’s knees trembled and she grabbed the doorjamb for support. “Mama?”

Her mother’s golden-brown hair hung limply around her face and neck, and a tear ran down her pale cheek. The puffy redness circling her eyes told Irina that it wasn’t a mistake.

Irina swallowed a wail, producing instead a low moan. Sweat broke out on her forehead and trickled down her temples as her blood drained from her face. The room started spinning …

“You have five minutes, girl. Get moving.”

The redhead’s words startled her into action. She willed away the dizziness and forced her sluggish feet to move toward the floor-to-ceiling cabinet that held her family’s possessions. This couldn’t be happening to her. Not again. What had dear Mama done to receive such severe punishment? The granny must have seen the militiaman arrive with the bossy woman. That’s why she didn’t need to ask her nosy questions today. Maybe she even told them the flat number. Such a betrayal! The world was going mad.

Irina’s head pounded with rushing blood and confusion. Did the woman say she was taking her to the boarding school? How could she leave her home and everything she knew and loved to live with orphans and hooligans, the thrown-away children no one wanted? Who would take care of Mama? What about school? Her violin lessons? Her books?

“Four minutes. And just one bag.”

Irina glared at the redhead, then threw open the door to the cabinet that held her clothes. What to take? Which coat? Which scarf? The muddy boots she’d left by the front door would have to do for shoes. What did girls in boarding schools wear? Or did it matter? Most of her favorite outfits that fit well were in the dirty laundry basket in the bathroom. She opened a black leather satchel that had been her father’s and began stuffing her things inside it. Socks, underwear, tights, shirts, skirts—itchy clothes in shades of dull brown and gray.

“Three minutes.” The woman tapped her high-heeled boot on the worn Persian rug.

Mama groaned. Irina cringed, but couldn’t risk turning around to look at her. If either of them should scream, cry out, or say the wrong words in front of the militiaman, something worse could happen. He might decide that she was a mentally ill child and lock her up in an asylum house.

Irina snatched up a framed photo of her family standing near the embankment that lay flat on the bottom shelf of the cabinet. Everyone smiling. Four years ago, when she was ten. Another lifetime, when her father still lived. His brown eyes, squinting in the sunshine, stared back at her. Oh, dear Papa. Why aren’t you here to rescue us?

“Two minutes.”

She crammed the picture into the satchel along with the handcrafted matrioshka stacking doll her mother had just given her for Woman’s Day. Then she raced into the bathroom to collect her hairbrush and a pair of dirty knock-off jeans from the laundry pile. She shoved them into the bag and snapped the latch closed.

“Irochka,” Mama’s weak voice pleaded, “forgive me …”

Irina’s throat constricted. Forgive her for what? For being sick? She fought back a powerful urge to throw herself onto her mama’s lap and beg her to make this go away. But resisting the authorities in Russia never turned out well. She had to be strong despite the prickles of fear crawling across her neck. What had Mama done?

The redhead stood by the open door. “Pashli. Let’s go.” The woman meant business. “And say good-bye to your mother,” she said over her shoulder as she exited the flat.

“Poka, Mama. See you soon?” Irina whispered, swiping at the stubborn tears escaping her eyes. Surely this was all a mistake and they would be back together in a day or two, sipping hot tea at the kitchen table.

On a wave of rising panic, the scary stories about the times of Stalin clattered in her mind like kopeks jingling in a jar. Neighbors who broke laws being taken away in the night never to be seen again. Her thumping heart pounded out the rule she had learned in the Young Pioneer’s club: Best to be silent. Best to obey. Best to be silent. Best to obey.

Irina stopped at the front door, put down the leather satchel, and pulled on her muddy boots. The glint of brass in the corner caught her eye. She pulled the violin case with its shiny latches from its spot near the door and loosened the shoulder strap to fasten it across her back. The woman had said one bag, but she was already two flights down the stairwell. By the time she noticed the violin case, it would be too late to go back. Even if she lost everything else, Irina needed to hold on to her dream.

She picked up the satchel of belongings and looked behind her. The militiaman’s icy stare sent another shiver up her spine and filled her with a dark, unspeakable dread. Would this be another, final good-bye?

She turned away from his glare and her mother’s sobs. Fighting against everything true and right, she stepped out onto the landing, closing the door to her home, and possibly her life, behind her.

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