Oleg’s brown eyes are dark deep pools. He walks along the banks of the river gingerly holding the little bouquet of Gerbera Daisies in one hand. In his other is a locket. Oval and shining silver in his palm. He is going to see his love. Anya. He has gifts for her and is hoping to declare his intentions. Oleg and Anya have known each other since the beginning. She, of her sisters, is the firecracker. The risky one. Eyes alight with mischief. She is young but for them time and age are of no importance. The duty of a young man in the Motherland is service and a good marriage. Once he declares his courtship of Anya he will be joining the Russian Armed Forces. It is required. It is his duty. The Ustav rekrutskoi povinnosti or Statute on Conscription asks this of him but he is not unhappy to serve as his father before him. 

Oleg and Anya have walked together in the early morning light, to and from the square. Hands brushing against each other, a closeness and expectation already stamped plainly between them. While they walk she talks to him of her dreams. Of leaving Russia and traveling, of moving as the tides. Oleg listens but he does not respond. The likeliness of Anya ever leaving Volgograd is slim. Girls and young women of his time keep home and children. But he does not say this to Anya. He likes to hear her voice, lilting and ferocious in its intent. He likes to think that when she is his wife she will be content to keep his home and bear his children. But he has known Anya his whole life. She is like to lash out. She is like a wild cat, caged and pacing. Eying her bars and eying her jailer her fierceness spilling from her like milk. Oleg does not tell Anya these things. He listens to her and talks to her of books and poetry. Of the large library he visited in the Capital. Her hungry eyes are envious of even his meager travels. 

Oleg has reached the small hovel that is Anya’s home. It is nothing more than a one room shelter. Long faded blankets hide the small cots from view. Anya shares this with her mother, father, and two sisters. It is larger compared to some. Her father Ivan works in the factory nearby and has secured this as thanks for his loyalty to the growing Anti-Tsarist movement in Volgograd. Anya is outside. She is sitting on an overturned brown bucket and winding wool into a large spool. The wind is lightly blowing her deep brown hair in a halo above her head. She looks up at his approach, her deep green brown eyes wary. She breaks into a smile and leaps to her feet sending the bucket rolling towards the outbuilding. “Oleg dear friend. What news?” Oleg can’t help but smile at her excited and earnest upturned face. He hands her the small bouquet which she presses to her nose. “Anya. My father says it is time for me to make the journey to Moscow and add my name to the list of men for the Russian Army.” He watches as her eyes cloud over and he rushes on, “I have come to declare my devotion to you and to ask your father for your hand.” Anya steps back. The wind begins to howl in a rush about her head and whips her hair in long flashes of deep brown and red. “Oleg – I cannot marry you. I am for the ‘new womanhood’. It has been said the new regime under the as of now exiled Vladimir Lenin has great plans for the women of our time. No more wasting into nothing in our homes cleaning up after others and swaddling babies. There is a place for us in the new regime. Have you not heard?” Anya’s voice was strong and sure. Oleg was startled into silence for a moment. Anya lowers her eyes and watches him from beneath dark lashes. She takes his hand and presses her thumb into his palm. Her skin pulses. Strange sensations snake from her tummy to her chest. An impending loss courses through her young mind. Inexplicable in its depth. He recovered himself. “My Anya, I do not know of what you speak, truly. I am a simple man. I am asking you to become my wife and partner. I had thought you understood this.” He let the statement hang in the air. He had known of the changes and promises men like Lenin had spoken of from far off places abroad unwelcome in his own country. Anya’s face softened. “Oleg, I care for you deeply. You have ever been my friend. My friend and more. See here I am making mittens for you to protect your hands from frost.” She lowered her eyes to the wool in her hands, misshapen and unrecognizable as yet. 

She was silent for a time, her eyes on the cold hard earth. It was then that she noticed the locket in his hand. She reached for it. “Oh, this is also for you Anya. I have placed my picture in it, see? And there is room now for a picture of you as well. I thought you could wear it while I am away.” Oleg’s voice was hopeful and he touched her cheek rosy from the cold. Anya carefully opened the small treasure. Inside was a small black and white image of Oleg. His smile was so fair. She pressed it closed and lifted the delicate chain over her head. “Oleg, I will carry it with me, always.”  

Next Chapter: Anya, Volgograd, Summer 1914