Just as the snow and frost were becoming unbearable, they would slowly fade away. First, it might stay light for a moment longer, or the twigs straighten under a lighter load of snow. Then, at night, we woke to the deafening crack of the ice breaking on the Dvina; the water spurting up, free, wild, and tearing huge slabs of ice downstream. Nothing could withstand its power; even the smallest brooks would swell and burst their banks, and the strong, scaly fish of the Dvina leapt into our nets of their own accord. After a brief, scented spring, feverish summer months followed and our world was drunk with fertility and vigour. Leaves on the trees were thick and succulent; butterflies reeled through the air; bees were drowsy on nectar, their legs heavy with pollen, and yet in too much of a hurry to linger on any one blossom. No one slept during the white nights; even the birds sang throughout, not wanting to miss any of the fun.
‘Do you think there’s still ice on the river, Marta?’ Christina asked me anxiously, using the name I was known by back then. How many times had she asked me this since we’d left the house? The Spring Fair was tomorrow and just like her I longed to scrub off the stench of smoke, food and the dull winter months in readiness for what was to be the highlight of the year. There would be amazing sights, delicious foods of which we might afford some, and the arrival of all the people from the neighbouring mir, as well as the odd handsome stranger, a thought that was never far from Christina’s mind. ‘Shall we race each other?’ she asked, giggling. Before I could answer, she set off, but I tripped her up and just managed to catch her before she stumbled and fell. She shrieked and clung to me like a boy riding a bull at the fairground, pummelling me with her fists; I lost my balance and we both fell onto the embankment, where primroses and rock cress were already blooming. The sharp young grass tickled my bare arms and legs as I struggled to my feet. Oh, wonderful – the clothes were strewn all over the dusty road. Now we really had good reason to wash them. At least we could work beside the river: only a few weeks ago, I’d had to smash the ice on the tub behind the izba with a club and push the icy lumps aside as I scrubbed. My hands had frozen blue with cold, and chilblains are painful and slow to heal.
‘Come on, I’ll help you,’ said Christina, glancing back towards the village. We were out of sight of the izba.
‘You don’t need to help me,’ I said, though the laundry was heavy on my arm.
‘Don’t be silly. The quicker we wash it all, the sooner we can bathe.’ She took half the washing from the crook of my arm. We didn’t usually split the chores because Christina was the daughter of Tanya, my father’s wife. I’d been born, nine months after the summer solstice, to a girl in the neighbouring village. He was already engaged to Tanya when my mother fell pregnant and he had not been forced to marry her: the monks had the final say in such matters, and they, of course, preferred to marry my father to one of their girls. When my mother died giving birth to me, Tanya took me in. She had little choice: my mother’s family had stood on the threshold of the izba and held my bundle of life towards her. They would have left me on the edge of the forest as fodder for the wolves if she had refused. Tanya didn’t really treat me badly, considering. We all had to work hard, and I got my share of our provisions such as they were. But she was often spiteful, pulling my hair and pinching my arm over the slightest mistake.
‘You’ve got bad blood. Your mother would spread her legs for anyone. Who knows where you really come from?’ she’d say if she was feeling malicious. ‘Look at you, with your green, slanted eyes and your hair as black as a raven’s wing. You’d better watch your step.’ If my father heard her, he wouldn’t say anything, but just look even sadder than usual, his back hunched from working in the monastery fields. He could only laugh his toothless chuckle when he’d had a few mugs of kvass, which brought a dull light to his sunken eyes.
Before we walked on, Christina took my arm and turned me towards the sun. ‘One, two and three – who can look at the sun the longest?’ she said breathlessly. ‘Do it. Even if it scorches your eyelids! Between the spots that dance in front of your eyes, you’ll see the man you’re going to marry.’
How eager we were to know him then: at midnight, we’d light three precious candles around a bowl of water and surround them with a circle of coals; we’d stare and stare, but the surface of the water never reflected any faces but our own. No midsummer ever went by without us plucking seven types of wildflowers and placing the spray beneath our pillows to lure our future husbands to our dreams. I felt the afternoon sun warm on my face and spots danced senselessly golden on the inside of my eyelids. I kissed Christina on the cheek. ‘Let’s go,’ I said, longing for the warm rocks on the bank. ‘I want to dry off when we finish bathing.’
In the fields souls were bent double at their work and I spotted my father among them. Only part of the land was cultivated in spring, for the first harvest. In summer, turnips, beets and cabbage were planted in the second part; all crops that could be harvested even in winter, when the earth was frozen solid. The last third of the ground lay fallow until the following year when the crops were rotated. The time we had to make provision for the rest of the year was short and a few squandered days now could mean famine later. In August my father might easily spend eighteen hours a day in the fields. No, we didn’t love the earth that fed us: she was a merciless mistress, punishing us for the slightest mistake. Six days of the week belonged to the monastery, the seventh to us. But our obligation to God allowed no rest to us souls. The monks walked back and forth between the workers in their long, dark robes, keeping a sharp eye on their property, both the land and the people working it.
‘What do you think is underneath a monk’s robes?’ Christina asked me now, saucily.
I shrugged. ‘Can’t be much, or you’d see it through the cloth.’
‘Especially when they see you,’ she answered.
Her words reminded me of Tanya’s insults. ‘What do you mean by that?’ I asked tersely.
‘Aren’t you meant to be older than me, Marta?’ she cried. ‘Don’t say you haven’t noticed the way men look at you. They’ll all want to dance with you at the fair and no one will pay me any attention.’
‘Nonsense! You look like an angel. An angel in dire need of a bath. Come on!’
Down by the river we settled at the shallow spot we’d found the previous year. A little path wound down through a birch grove and some low bushes. Early buds were on all the twigs; wild iris and bedstraw would bloom here soon. On the riverbank I sorted the laundry, putting all the men’s good linen shirts and breeches on one side and the sarafan dresses and linen tunics we women wore on feast days on the other. We had spent many a long winter evening embroidering colourful floral motifs on the flat collars. Perhaps we could swap some of Father’s woodcarvings – small pipes, bowls, spoons and cups – for new thread at the fair tomorrow. I wound my hair into a loose knot so it wouldn’t dangle in the dirty foam, and folded my faded headscarf to shield me from the sun. Then I knotted my sarafan’s wide skirt around my knees, though the fabric was lined and quilted aganist the cold, and tugged at the long strings threaded through the seams of my sleeves, gathering the cloth into countless pleats. From afar I must have looked like a cloud on long, bare legs.