The black waters of the river lapped roughly against her toes, white against the dark earth.  Nearby her older sister, Yula, bends over her threadwork, her head tilted away from the slight chill breeze. The waters of the Volga are black and harsh. Like the days. This little pocket of earth is hidden. Anya and her sister Yula wrap their heads in woolen headscarves and hands in embroidered canvas. They discovered this small corner of earth one day while walking to the market. Normally the river is dotted with barriers here and there. Men in military uniforms and large vessels hauling cargo like oil, limestone, and coal. It is the last port before flowing harshly into the Caspian Sea. The holding of the big bend of the Volga was a central tactic to securing the area from attack.

Anya is restless. She looks longingly at a passing steamboat. And behind it a larger armed riverboat presumably to accompany the steamboat into port. Anya longed to be somewhere. Far away. Her stomach clenched in hunger. The hum of life on the river enveloping her senses. She’s had boiled potatoes and a thick slice of hard dark bread before starting out this morning with Yula. But it was not enough. How she longed for bliny, thin and dripping butter.  Or her Grandmother’s Sharlotka. In her 15-year old mind her body was shrinking away and would soon be as skeletal as the mangy dogs she’d seen slinking in and out of muddy doorways.

Yula tells her it’s time to keep moving. They need to get to town. Anya stands up feeling a crick in her back. She is cautiously optimistic about town. There have been murmurings of things. Secret things. The city had become an important commercial center and excitement rippled from hovel to home. So many changes. She is young but she can sense the change. The toppling of the old regime and the victory of the new. Anya wonders about her place. The firecrackers in her mind race toward possibility. She is hungry. Her father and mother are hungry. Her sisters Yula and Lena are hungry. Why should some have so much while others have so little? Her mind is bitter as she thinks on the riches the royal family wasted. The future holds promise. Everyone may have riches now. The victors have said this. 

Little by little Lenin’s Red Army has pushed its way into every corner. The people welcomed the boasts with hopeful eyes and hungry mouths. The promise of food, of work, of sway in one’s own destiny have propelled the rebellion forward.

Oleg has been away for more than a year. His letters have become infrequent and rushed. In this Anya is equally driven. She drags a finger across her lips thinking of the last time they were together. The sweetness of it, warm in the cold air. As suddenly as their bodies and souls were joined, he was gone. Away with his brothers to serve.

Yesterday Anya was stopped in the street. Her sister Yula had gone ahead leaving Anya the basket to barter for more foodstuffs. A man had approached Anya. His coat was faded navy and worn through in places. He wore a dark scuffed hat over thin hair. She had seen him before. Talking to others in the square. Once, she had seen him down by the port near the ships hauling lumber and coal. She knew he was talking to others. Weeding out those loyal to the Bolsheviks and those still clamoring to Tsarist rule. She was not startled when he appeared at her elbow with narrowed eyes. He handed her a sheath of rough papers. On top was a card depicting a sinking ship, men and crowns fading into steep waves. Ahead of them is another ship. This one turned toward the sun in triumph. The meaning is not lost upon her. She meets his eyes and nods. He fades into a passing doorway and she continues on slipping the papers into her covered basket. 

Next Chapter: Joe Finnegan, April 1929, New York