‘Let’s begin.’ I reached out for the first of the linen and Christina handed me the precious soap. I dipped the washboard in the clear water and painstakingly rubbed the soap over its sharp ribs until they were thickly coated with a slippery layer. Making soap was hard work; your whole body ached afterwards. Mostly Tanya gave me this task in autumn, when the monks had been slaughtering to pickle, smoke and salt meat for the winter larder and had bones to spare, or in spring, using ashes gathered throughout the winter. All the women would help mix rainwater and ash with pork or beef lard and ground animal bones to make a caustic lye, which they boiled for hours in great cauldrons. The grey, slimy brew – its big, hot bubbles bursting on the surface with loud splashes – thickened slowly from one hour to the next. We had to stir it constantly until it felt as if our arms were about to fall off. In the evening we poured the liquid soap into wooden moulds. If we could afford to add salt to it, we ended up with a solid lump. But mostly we needed the salt for the animals, or to pickle meat and cabbage for the winter, so our soap was more of a slime that you added to the washing water.
The river glittered and Christina and I worked fast: the prospect of bathing spurred us on, as we dipped the clothes in the water, scrubbed them hard, beat them on the flat stones – ‘Imagine it’s the Abbot,’ I goaded Christina so that she would beat them harder. She threw back her head and laughed, her blonde hair slipping free from its bun. We wrung out the garments and hung them to dry on low-hanging branches along the shore. ‘On your marks, get set, go!’ Christina shouted, as I was still straightening and smoothing the last of the shirts. She undid the knot of her belt, pulling the simple sarafan and rough tunic over her head as she ran, and stood naked in the spring sunshine. How different she looked from me. Christina’s skin was as pale as skimmed milk, her body slim, with narrow hips and high budding breasts that looked as if they’d fit just so in the hollow of her hand. Her nipples were like little raspberries. She was already able to bear a child: her blood had started to flow the previous year. I, on the other hand – well, Tanya was probably right about me looking like my mother. My hair was thick and black, and my skin the colour of wild honey – or dried snot, as Tanya used to say. My hips were wide, my legs long and strong, my bosom large and firm.
Christina was splashing about in the shallow stream close to the bank. Her head bobbed up and down between the rocks where water gathered in pools. The sand of the riverbed shone white between her feet when she rose. ‘Come on, what are you waiting for?’ she laughed, then dived headfirst into the waves, allowing the current to sweep her off into the deep. I undressed as fast as I could, loosened my hair and hurried after her. We splashed and dived and – deliciously forbidden! – scrubbed our bodies with the precious soap; I opened my eyes underwater, grabbed at water snails, broke off sharp reeds from the riverbank to try to spear an eel and tweaked Christina’s toes, pretending to be a fish – anything to have a laugh after the dreary winter months!
The water was still icy. I was the first to get out, goose-bumps instantly rising on my skin. I shook my hair and flying drops of water sparkled in the sun before I wound it into a bun. ‘Better than the bathhouse,’ gurgled Christina, still drifting in the shallows. ‘At least you don’t get whipped with twigs here till you’re all sore and almost bleeding.’
‘Oh, I can see to that,’ I said, snapping a switch off a bush. Christina squealed and ducked underwater. Just then we both heard sounds: horses neighing, stones crunching under cartwheels, men’s voices. ‘Stay in the water,’ I ordered her, and looked up the road. Three riders surrounded a cart covered over with pale canvas. The man in the driver’s seat had pulled the horses to a halt in their traces. In spite of the distance between us, I felt him scrutinising me and desperately wished I could reach my long sarafan.
‘Who is it?’ Christina whispered, drifting back and forth in the shallow water.
‘Shh! I don’t know. Stay where you are!’
To my alarm I saw the man get down from the cart, throwing the reins to one of the other riders. I counted three armed men while he turned down the little path towards our stretch of riverbank. I ran to the bush where my clean sarafan was drying. It was still damp, but I slipped it on nonetheless. I had just managed to pull it down over my thighs when the man appeared before me.
He must have been the same age as my father, but had certainly never worked as hard. His long Russian coat had a dark fur collar and his breeches were cut from soft leather and held up by a richly embroidered belt. His high boots were spattered with mud and dirt. I shielded my eyes with my hand. Sweat glistened on his forehead, although his face was shaded by a flat beaver-fur hat. He had a full beard, as all Russians did in those days. He looked me up and down, then took off his gloves. He wore several rings with bright stones on his short, thick fingers. I’d never seen anything like it: not even the Abbot wore this much jewellery. I took a step back. To my dread, he followed me.
‘Can you tell me the way to the monastery, girl?’ he asked in harsh German. He still had all his teeth, but his gums were stained dark red from chewing tobacco and he smelt of sweat from the long ride. It would have been rude of me to make a face and offend a travelling stranger, though, so I stood there uneasily while he looked me and up and down. I sensed that the outline of my breasts was visible beneath the thin, wet linen. Feeling my hair slipping from its knot, I instinctively reached up to tighten it, and the dress slipped, baring my shoulder.
His tongue darted across his lips, which made me think of the snake my brother Fyodor and I had spotted the previous summer in the undergrowth of our vegetable patch. It was pale green and we could almost see its intestines shining dark beneath the taut skin. It had slithered towards us, slowly at first. Although he was smaller, Fyodor pushed me behind him. The reptile looked deadly, but my brother bent down and picked up a heavy stone. At the very moment the snake darted forward, jaws agape, he smashed its head in. The nerves in the beast’s dead body made it go on twitching and wriggling for some time afterwards.
The man took another step towards me, and Christina screamed: ‘Marta, watch out!’ from the water.
He turned his head and I bent to grab a mossy stone. I might have been a virgin, but I knew all too well what he wanted. We had a cock and hens in the back yard, after all; and my father had to hold the mares for the stallions in the monastery stables. Besides, in the izby, where families all slept together on the flat oven, bodies and breaths mingling, there was little room for secrets. I knew what he wanted and I wasn’t going to let him have it.
‘The monastery’s straight ahead, just down the road. You’ll be there soon if you hurry!’ I said curtly, even though my shaking voice gave me away.
He didn’t respond but took another step towards me. ‘Your eyes are the same colour as the river. What else is there to discover about you?’ he asked. There was little more than a breath separating us.
I stood firm and hissed, ‘If you come any closer, I’ll smash your skull in and bake a pie with your brains. Get back to your cart and go to the damned monks.’ I weighed the stone threateningly in my hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his three companions dismounting, shaking out their limbs after the long ride and allowing their horses to graze. I bit my lip. One skull I could smash, but we didn’t stand a chance against four men. My heart pounded in my breast as I tried not to give in to the fear of what might happen. The first of the men seemed about to head down the path. The stranger smirked, sure of an easy victory. Christina sobbed in the water and the sound made me furious: anger laced with strength and courage. ‘Get out of here, Russian!’ I snarled at him and he hesitated; then, all of a sudden, he held up his hand, stopping the other man in his tracks. The traveller smirked at me.