***
It was not that Maria Fedorovna didn’t talk. She had an ample selection of horror stories, some from her nation’s past, and some she’d heard about the capitalist hell of America and how it warped the people there. She just never mentioned herself. Olivia sensed that she’d never been happy about working for the FSB or its predecessor, the KGB. But jobs were jobs and at her age, without formal education and still to some extent still ostracized by the “decent people” who’d never endured the Gulag, she took what she could get. Olivia, she’d concluded at Tver, would never be rude to her. That mattered. Nor would she, Maria suspected, ever turn away from her personal tales with a look of fastidious distaste and Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. But that, Maria determined not to explore. At least, not immediately.
Their first week in Moscow, Olivia had handed Maria Fedorovna a sum in dollars that made the woman’s eyes grow round as hen’s eggs, although by American standards it was quite modest. “We are going to need furniture, Aunt. Also dishes, towels, et cetera, et cetera. I am working twelve-hour days and weekends are my time to stand down and recharge my brain, so I cannot do this. Understand that you will account to me for expenditures, so pay a fair price and if you want something for yourself, get it. I am grateful that you have cast your lot with me. You are not a guest here, nor my employee. This is your home.”
So Aunt Maria went shopping. At first, she’d thought Olivia wanted her to bargain harshly for furniture, and that was how she acquired the big table. She realized that she had done wrong when she told Olivia what she had paid. Olivia turned away to hide a glacial look in her eyes and began to boil water for tea. The Russian way was to brew very strong tea in boiled water, let it cool, and then dilute the concentrate to taste with freshly boiled water. It took a while. Olivia handed her the glass in its silver filigreed holder, ran her hand absently over the smooth wood of the table. It did not look old enough to be war booty. “Would you know the seller if you encountered her again?”
“Yes, Doctor, I would. But I thought you were a capitalist.”
“Theoretically, I am although I spent my entire American career working for the government. I am also a Jewess.” Maria Fedorovna, not entirely surprised, cast her eyes down on the table. Olivia chose to continue.
“Yes, I know what is said in Russia about that. My father is a Hungarian Jew who came to America after the war. His family had all died. He married a Protestant woman from a very old, established family. She converted to marry him, against the wishes of her family, who then refused to have anything to do with her, although they never said so. I know very little about my faith, beyond what my father told me and what my mother would occasionally mention from her conversion lessons. But I remember a thing or two. The Talmud says that in any fair trade, neither side takes advantage of the other. My father believed this with his whole heart and lived it in his business. From whom did you buy this table?”
“From an old widow.”
“What would you consider a fair price?”
Maria named a sum significantly higher than what she’d paid.
“Then please, Aunt Maria, give her that money tomorrow.”
Maria was silent for a moment, considering. “Doctor, I see I have been told evil things about Jews that are false.”
“Oh, some of them are indeed true about some Jews. Many bad things I heard growing up about Russians, some of them also true about some Russians. Or any other group.”
“I agree. Most people are good, a few bad, and the harm the bad do is always greater than their numbers. What do capitalists say about greed?”
“Some say, greed is good. Greed works. But I don’t think what we have in America is capitalism anymore. Just greedy people working the system for themselves, taking much, giving back little.”
Aunt Maria pondered a moment, then said, “When I was a young girl, they dekulakized our kolkhoz.”
“Kolkhoz? Kulaks?”
“Our village. Our rich peasants, although God knows that in your country they would be considered far from rich. Our kulaks mostly died in the far north, although we managed to save some of the children. Are most Jews like you?”
Olivia shook her head. “In many things, no. But not everyone is like you.”
Maria’s face became blank, remote, austere. “So I will go back to the market tomorrow and find this woman. But this is a lot of money. Are you sure you are not giving away what you will need?”
“I am sure that we can pay people what they need.”
“We will try. May I ask something?”
“Please.”
“If your father’s people were all dead and your mother’s people wouldn’t see you, then…”
“Then what?”
“Then I am perhaps your first real grandmother?”
“Perhaps it would be better to say, first real aunt. Is that your question?”
“No. My question is…you want I should learn to cook Jewish food?”
Olivia laughed. “Cook what you like. I’ll like it, too.”
Maria smiled in agreement, then shook her head a little to herself. The American’s needs were painfully minimal. Maria Fedorovna gained the distinct impression that left to her own devices, Doctor Tolchinskaya would have been content in a simple room with a hot plate, an electric kettle for tea, a bed, a desk, and a bookcase. Many bookcases, actually.
Their rituals evolved. Olivia appreciated tending at the end of the day: a glass of wine and a hot tub before dinner. Tea after, when they discussed what might need to be done the next day. Shopping, for example, or cleaning. What she might like to see on her plate. It turned out that, despite her invitation to Maria to cook anything, Olivia did not much care for a great deal of Russian fried food. So Maria found herself unwillingly forced to adopt some of the American’s strange ideas about food: grains, fruits and vegetables, meat more for taste than for quantity. She resented it, until one day she realized she had lost fifteen kilos without ever being really hungry and felt far better than she had since girlhood. Still, she was damned if, at her age, she was going to take up running through the streets of Moscow in those ridiculous costumes that the younger people favored. Secretly, however, she started climbing stairs. That was hard, but it also made her feel even better.
After dinner, Olivia would knit or read. Once or twice, they discussed books. Olivia encouraged her to read. Maria Fedorovna demurred. “Too old to concentrate.”
“Aunt Maria…how much weight have you lost without even trying? Just by changing a few habits a little.”
“Much weight.”
“Do you feel stronger mentally now?”
“Yes…”
“Good night, Aunt Maria.”
“Good night, Doctor.”