IT was a restless night that Katrinka spent in the overcrowded izba of Ivan Drovski. Although she was accustomed to sleeping on top of the big oven at home during the long winter nights, with little Peter's head on her arm and her mother and father occupying the space beyond Peter, it was impossible for her to sleep on the Drovski oven, upon which was huddled the entire family, with the exception of Ivan, who slept on the shelf under the window.
In order to make room for all, Peter and the youngest Drovskis were laid crosswise at the foot of the oven against the wall. Katrinka and two half grown girls occupied the middle space, flanked by Mother Drovski and Marie, the oldest daughter.
The room was so hot and stifling that Katrinka's sleep was broken, and again and again she opened her eyes, fixing them on the gray square of light made by the window, wondering if morning would ever come. Her position was cramped and uncomfortable, but she dared not change it for fear of disturbing the kind neighbors who had so willingly taken Peter and herself into their already overcrowded house.
With the first gleam of daylight she slipped to the floor and pulled on the leather boots that belonged to her mother. After a night in the oven these were thoroughly dry, although as hard as stones. Making as little noise as possible Katrinka groped her way to the other room, crossed it without disturbing either the pigs or the hens, and opened the door into the yard. The snow had stopped falling. The morning was crisp and clear. She took a deep breath of fresh air and plunged into the great, white drift of snow that had piled up against the door during the night. Her eyes were fixed on the house at the end of the village street. Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder.
"Where are you going, my child?" rumbled Ivan Drovski.
"I thought I would run home while Peter slept to find out if father and mother had returned and to give the cow some straw."
Ivan Drovski wound the full skirts of his sheepskin around him and shook his head.
"Go back into the house, little one. I will look after the cow and bring you news of your parents, if there is any."
He opened the door of the outer room where the calf and the little family of pigs were already bestirring themselves. "Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes and Peter will be crying for you."
Reluctantly Katrinka turned her back on the snow-covered landscape and waded again through the drift to the dark little izba of Ivan Drovski.
Entering the kitchen she found Mother Drovski beating up some pancakes, while Marie, the oldest daughter, wrapped in a wadded coat and carrying a pail on her arm, was about to start for the spring back of the house.
"Fill your pail with snow, Marie," said Mother Drovski, "the spring will be frozen over and the ice too thick for you to break. Besides, snow water makes good tea and the snow melts more quickly than ice. But make haste, the little ones are already stirring." Marie started towards the door and Mother Drovski turned to Katrinka. "You may set the table, my child. We must have breakfast ready by the time Ivan gets back with the milk."
Katrinka set the table and when Marie returned with her pail full of snow, she emptied it into the reservoir of the samovar and lighted the charcoal. Meantime she planned how she should manage to return with Peter to their own clean and spacious house without wounding the feelings of Mother Drovski, who was already treating them as if they were her own little ones.
The water in the samovar had just begun to boil when Ivan Drovski returned with a bucket full of warm milk.
Katrinka ran to meet him. "Were mother and father at home?" she cried.
Ivan Drovski shook his head, then, as he saw the tears spring to her eyes, laid one of his great hands on her shoulder.
"Do not cry, my child. I will go to the village to-day and learn what I can concerning the whereabouts of your father and mother. Meantime you and Peter shall not suffer. You shall make your home with us."
She bravely blinked back her tears, but when breakfast was over and Ivan leaned back in his chair, sipping his tea through a big lump of sugar which he held between his teeth, she slipped from the table and going to his side, laid her hands on his arm.
"Now that Peter and I have finished breakfast, Ivan Drovski," she said with a wistful smile, "we will go home. Father and mother would be frightened if they should come back and find us gone. It is best that we wait for them there."
"Poor lamb," said Ivan, crunching his sugar. "There is no use in your going home to wait for your parents. You will be lucky if you ever hear from them again, much less see them. Best stay content with us. The izba is warm and when we have moved the provisions from your storeroom to ours, there will be plenty of food for all."
Katrinka compressed her lips. "I thank you, Ivan Drovski," she said, "but I must take Peter and go home. There is nobody else to water the geraniums and keep the fire going in the oven so that the kitchen will be warm when father and mother come back."
She released Ivan Drovski's arm and taking Peter's wadded coat from the hook on the wall, wrapped it about him.
"Come, come, my child," said Mother Drovski. "Be sensible. Your father and mother are halfway to Siberia by now. Make up your mind to remain comfortably with us. We are willing to care for you and Peter until you can care for yourselves. You are a smart girl and can make yourself useful."
"No Mother Drovski," said Katrinka stubbornly, "I thank you, but Peter and I must go home. My mother has taught me how to make a good soup and to bake black bread. I am ten years old and almost as tall as Marie, who is fifteen. I can knit and mend. I will go home and write a letter to the Czar, asking him to send back my father and mother."
Ivan Drovski's big laugh rumbled through the room.
"Many another child has written to the Czar, the Little Father, as they call him, and for their pains more than one has felt the knout and the Cossack's whip. Come, my child, and rest with us."
Katrinka looked at Ivan and shook her head, biting her rosy under lip to keep back a homesick sob.
"No, Ivan, I will write to the Czar and I will pray."
Again Ivan laughed. "Write to the Czar, if you will, then, but remember what Ivan Drovski tells you. It will do no good. Your letter will never find the Czar–you will be lucky if it comes under the eyes of one of the Grand Dukes."
With the words Ivan rose, thrust his arms into his sheepskin coat and strode towards the door.
Katrinka took Peter by the hand and started to follow him.
"Wait a minute, little ones," called Mother Drovski. "If you are determined to go home, I will go with you."
She long had wanted to see the storeroom of her neighbor, Peter Petrovski. Rumor said that it was provided with good things enough to feed the entire village until spring. She remembered how last year, during the famine, Peter Petrovski had kept his neighbors from starving by dividing his stores with them.
She pinned a shawl over her head, wrapped another around her shoulders, thrust her feet into huge boots and strode towards the door. Her children started after her but she waved them back, and with Peter on one side and Katrinka on the other, went through the dark room where the hens clucked and scratched in the straw and the little pigs fought over their food.
She stopped for a moment to pat the young calf which brushed her cheek with its rough tongue, then passed through the low door into the fresh outdoor air.
Peter blinked and covered his eyes with his hands. After the dark interior of the house the sun on the snow blinded him. Katrinka took long breaths of cold air. The blood danced through her veins. She broke away from Mother Drovski's restraining hands and went leaping and skipping through the snow, her large boots flapping up and down.
She threw back her head, waving her arms towards the sky. She skimmed nimbly over a snow-covered rock at the side of the road, plunging in and out of the drifts, then, her cheeks glowing, her lips parted, ran back to her neighbor. For a moment her joy in movement had caused her to forget the disappearance of her father and mother.
This chapter has been put on-line as part of the
BUILD-A-BOOK Initiative at the
Celebration of Women Writers.
Initial text entry and proof-reading of this chapter were the work of volunteer
Patricia Heil and
Rebekah Bishop.
