Chapter 15
Echo across the river.
We spent every summer here before the Revolution.
We were standing on a small hill overlooking the river and a young pine forest that had been planted only a few years earlier. The tiny trees stretched across the blue sky like thin green lines.Together with the other village children, all of us barefoot, we listened to two very old people who still remembered the years before the Revolution of 1917.
"Our cows used to graze where those trees are now," one of them said. "We came here, sat by the fire, cooked soup, and listened to stories—or told our own."
The voice continued without stopping.
Names of people.
Dates.
Stories.
Little by little, everything began to blend together—the old folk tales, the night sky, the stars, the food we had brought from home, the fresh milk we drank by the fire.
The river was beautiful.
Dark blue.
Light blue.
Lavender.
Gold.
It reflected the sky so perfectly that the water seemed to hold the same stars waiting to shine.
Then I heard a harp.
Out of the white evening mist, an ancient Slavic boat appeared below the hill.
I could see how it had been built from long wooden planks.
Its curved bow reminded me of a swan.
Several men were sitting on the sand beside it.
They looked like ancient warriors—tall, with blond, curly hair.
Some wore long red and white tunics.
Others carried round metal shields.
They were playing a game with carved wooden cubes, tossing them into the air.
A young boy was playing with them.
It looked as though the warriors were teaching him.
He was dressed differently from the others.
His clothes were clean and finely made, like those of a young prince.
His cheeks were flushed, and he wore a small decorated hat.
Then I noticed a young woman standing on the boat.
She was dressed in soft cream-colored clothing.
At first, she looked down at the warriors.
Then she slowly turned her gaze toward the river and the distant shore.
Behind her, several young girls laughed.
An older woman quietly told them to stop.
They laughed a little longer before falling silent.
The young woman continued looking into the distance.
She wore a beautiful old Slavic headdress, large earrings, and delicate embroidery across the front of her dress.
Then she began to sing.
Softly.
In a language I could not understand.
I leaned forward, trying to see more clearly.
As soon as I moved, the boat disappeared.
The voices of the old people returned.
They were speaking about the Revolution.
The Entente.
The North.
Children running barefoot seventy years before.
Old stories.
The river flowed on, carrying them all together.
The voice continued without stopping.
Names of people.
Dates.
Stories.
Little by little, everything began to blend together—the old folk tales, the night sky, the stars, the food we had brought from home, the fresh milk we drank by the fire.
The river was beautiful.
Dark blue.
Light blue.
Lavender.
Gold.
It reflected the sky so perfectly that the water seemed to hold the same stars waiting to shine.
Then I heard a harp.
Out of the white evening mist, an ancient Slavic boat appeared below the hill.
I could see how it had been built from long wooden planks.
Its curved bow reminded me of a swan.
Several men were sitting on the sand beside it.
They looked like ancient warriors—tall, with blond, curly hair.
Some wore long red and white tunics.
Others carried round metal shields.
They were playing a game with carved wooden cubes, tossing them into the air.
A young boy was playing with them.
It looked as though the warriors were teaching him.
He was dressed differently from the others.
His clothes were clean and finely made, like those of a young prince.
His cheeks were flushed, and he wore a small decorated hat.
Then I noticed a young woman standing on the boat.
She was dressed in soft cream-colored clothing.
At first, she looked down at the warriors.
Then she slowly turned her gaze toward the river and the distant shore.
Behind her, several young girls laughed.
An older woman quietly told them to stop.
They laughed a little longer before falling silent.
The young woman continued looking into the distance.
She wore a beautiful old Slavic headdress, large earrings, and delicate embroidery across the front of her dress.
Then she began to sing.
Softly.
In a language I could not understand.
I leaned forward, trying to see more clearly.
As soon as I moved, the boat disappeared.
The voices of the old people returned.
They were speaking about the Revolution.
The Entente.
The North.
Children running barefoot seventy years before.
Old stories.
The river flowed on, carrying them all together.
