Nana’s Revolution

by Margo Griffin

I lifted the dusty copy of Anna Karenina from Nana’s chest, opened the cover, and discovered an inscription inside, alongside two fingerprint smudges, perhaps left in haste, inked in shades of rust made from the torn flesh and broken hearts that haunted its pages. My Russian, although rough, served me well:

Marina, 

Some good news, dear one. We did it! A full strike has begun. But someone reported me to the Cossack, so I must run, my love. The Petrograd elites have vowed retribution against the instigators and I fear I am a marked man. I should never have involved you in the flyers. Did your father hurt you badly? Please don’t blame your mother and brother; they only want to protect you from harm. 

There are whispers of Bolsheviks building alliances among the fractions and calls for the Czar’s head. Your father needs to be careful, or he’ll lose his. If Lenin succeeds, those perceived as holding allegiance to Nikolai will be captured or killed. But the White Army has grown too, and many from the old Guard are joining. No one knows what happens next if the Reds fail, but likely, we will all be killed if so.

Take care, my love, and watch closely over the little one. Don’t let your father bargain with her life. I left something special for her in the birch chest so she can remember me. 

Someday, you will finish reading Tolstoy’s book to me, my head in your lap, and one lovely hand in my hair. What becomes of our poor Anna? 

Until we meet again…

Yours,

Lexie

Nana died unexpectedly which left the task of cleaning out her home to my mother and me. I found the birch chest hidden in the corner of the attic behind a rack of old coats. I sifted through it’s contents, unable to find a single hint about Nana's time in Russia, such as a passport, birth certificate, or postcard. Instead, I found some of my mother’s old report cards, a well-worn copy of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, photos of my mom and me, and an old rag doll.

I picked up the doll and turned it over in my hands; it didn't look familiar. A single black button eye remained sewn on the doll's face, its phantom sister missing, except for a few remaining loose threads that stuck out like empty arms reaching out for something lost.

Nana never discussed her life in Russia or talked about having any family. Her silence left us puzzled, but it also communicated much, like danger, intrigue, and sadness, buried in a quiet. Her silence led me to study Russian history and literature, much to her chagrin. But when we played Checkers or Go Fish together, Nana couldn't help but curse in Russian whenever she lost, and we would laugh so hard we were brought to tears.

“Who do you belong to, little doll? What do you know?” I asked.

I placed the doll down and picked up the book again, wondering if there was a deliberate irony in Nana's choice of books as I dusted off its cover. I flipped through the novel in search of my favorite passage (from college) describing the heart-wrenching aftermath of Anna and Vronsky's consummation when another of Nana's secrets revealed itself and fell out from the pages.

Although the woman in the faded, torn-edged photograph looked very young, I recognized my grandmother by the particular pose and smile she held for the photographer. Tiny cottages, goats, and men in uniform brandishing long rifles littered the photo's background; the only hint of location was found in the insignia affixed to the soldiers' caps and in the Russian lettering painted on a nearby cart that read молоко (milk). A small girl in the photo, who appeared no more than four or five, held onto Nana's hand, and something in the way the girl looked up at Nana felt familiar, like how I once looked up at my mother when afraid.

I picked up the doll again, turning it over in my hands, the loose threads less empty.  

BIO: Margo has worked in public education for over thirty years and is the mother of two daughters and to the best rescue dog ever, Harley. Margo's work has appeared in places such as, Bending Genres, MER, Wild Roof Journal, Maudlin House and Roi Fainéant Press. You can find her on Twitter @67MGriffin.