Poor Girl

Ludmilla Petrushevskaya.

- Anna Friedrich

The wretched mother could easily have lost her sanity watching her husband love their daughter—the way he stroked the child when she was falling asleep or waking up, his blissful expression when they touched, the fact that he bathed her himself, believing it to be his right and his responsibility. His happy laughter when he recounted to his guests how, in the tub, Manya always tried to cover her privates with her hands (leaving the rest exposed, the guests surmised). That was how matters proceeded until the girl turned eight and insisted on bathing alone, and the mother grew even more worried, wondering what might have gone on between the two.

The mother, Irina, kept their home spotless; she had hands of gold— they actually did feel like gold or another metal, and how could they not, when they constantly peeled, chopped, cranked the meat grinder, boiled, fried, mopped, dusted, beat rugs, and changed sheets? She made holiday pies for guests, and every winter she washed and sealed all the windows, and every spring she unsealed and washed them again. Plus, in the summer, there was a shack with a vegetable garden, where everything required cleaning, dusting, and mopping, and also sowing, watering, weeding, and, later, harvesting, pickling, and preserving. The resulting preserves included Irina’s signature cranberry drink and her gooseberry wine, which tasted exactly like champagne.