PLUM BLOSSOM IN THE BELARUSIAN SNOW
CHAPTER 1
THE GIRL WHO WAS LOVED
Morning didn't start with an alarm clock. In Myroslava's house, there were no alarm clocks at all — why would you need one when you have a grandmother? Grandma Valentina called exactly at eight o'clock every morning. Every single day. The phone would rattle on the nightstand in the hallway with that familiar, elderly rattle that Myroslava had learned to wake up a minute before the call.
"Hello?" — Mom's sleepy voice from the hallway.
"Lena, get up, the pies are already on the table, I'm bringing them now." Grandma's voice on the phone was so loud, as if she wasn't talking through a phone but standing in the next room.
"Mom, why so early? Let people sleep..."
"Sleep! My granddaughter is sleeping hungry, and you're letting her sleep? Get up, I'll be there in ten minutes."
Myroslava was already awake. She lay with her eyes closed, listening to this familiar, cozy conversation. The voices of her parents, her grandmother, sometimes her grandfather who would also call to ask if she'd brushed her teeth. The phone was like another member of the family — just as dear, just as necessary.
Then Dad's bass voice would come through the receiver:
"Valentina Petrovna, what kind of pies?"
"With cabbage, with potatoes, with apples... Andryusha, wake Myroslava up, or she'll be late for school again."
"We're not going to school today." Dad would wink at Myroslava, who was already peeking from behind the door. "Saturday. Sunday. Vacation. Time off. We're sleeping until noon from now on."
"Oh, you joker..."
And Grandma would laugh into the phone. Her laugh was as warm as her pies.
Today the phone rang especially early. Myroslava opened her eyes and smiled. The smell hadn't reached her yet, but she already knew: Grandma had baked her favorites. With apples and cinnamon.
She sat up in bed, dangling her legs. The room swayed and settled. Everything was in its place: the pink wallpaper with tiny flowers that shimmered so beautifully in the morning sun you could look at them forever; the stack of books on the nightstand — on top lay "The Little Mermaid" with its worn-out cover, read to pieces; her favorite doll with tangled hair sat in the corner, offended that she'd forgotten to brush it yesterday.
Myroslava jumped out of bed, ran barefoot across the cold floor (goosebumps ran up her legs, but it was even pleasant) and peeked into the hallway.
Mom stood by the telephone table. In her old robe that she'd worn for what seemed like a hundred years, with her hair down — a rare sight, because usually it was pulled back in a strict bun. She was smiling into the phone, and her face was completely different — not that strict, school-speech-therapist face, but a homey, soft, familiar one.
"Okay, Mom, we're waiting," she said and hung up.
She turned, saw Myroslava, and her smile became a bit more restrained. But her eyes stayed warm. They always stayed warm, even when Mom pretended to be strict.
"Washed up?" she asked.
"Yep." Myroslava shot off to the bathroom before Mom could check.
The water was cool, invigorating. The mirror showed a funny little face with tangled hair and happy eyes. Myroslava smiled at her reflection — it smiled back.
When she came out, Dad was already standing in the hallway. He smelled of wood shavings and fresh timber, even when he was in a clean shirt, even when he was just getting ready for work. That smell had seeped into his hands, into his skin, into his leather jacket that hung in the hallway. For Myroslava, this was the smell of safety.
"And here's my main helper!" he said, opening his arms, and Myroslava dove into his embrace. "Good morning, sunshine."
"Good morning, Dad."
"Grandma's coming. I already ate two pies while you were sleeping."
"Two?!" Myroslava jumped back, feigning righteous anger. "What about me?!"
"The rest are for you." Dad laughed. "There are plenty. Grandma knows how many you can eat."
The doorbell rang — short, demanding, Grandma's ring. Myroslava raced to open it, beating even Dad.
On the threshold stood Grandma Valentina. In her ever-present flowered apron over her coat, with a big bag in her hands, the edge of a towel sticking out, and from under the towel came that very smell.
"Oh, my little granddaughter!" Grandma pressed her close with one arm (the other was holding the bag). "You're so thin! Don't they feed you?"
"They feed me, Grandma." Myroslava laughed, burying her nose in Grandma's coat, which smelled of the street and her perfume — "Red Moscow," maybe.
"They don't feed you enough. Let me feed you a pie."
The kettle was already boiling in the kitchen. Mom was getting out the cups — the special ones with the gold rim, the festive ones. Even though today was an ordinary day. But Grandma had come — that meant a holiday.
Grandma unwrapped the pies on the table. They lay in neat rows: rosy, plump, with neat little pinched edges. Steam rose from them, and it seemed the whole kitchen would float away in this cloud of happiness.
"With cabbage — for Dad, with potatoes — for Mom, with apples — for my granddaughter." Grandma distributed the pies onto plates. "And these with jam — for everyone who behaves well."
"Was I behaving well?" Myroslava was already reaching for the apple pie.
"You always behave well." Grandma slapped her hand lightly, not hard. "They're hot, you'll burn yourself. Wait a minute."
The phone rang again. Dad picked it up:
"Hello? Boris Mikhaylich? Hello. Yes, Valentina Petrovna is already here... With pies, of course... I'll pass it over."
"Boris Mikhaylich," Grandma took the receiver, "why are you calling? I told you I'm at our granddaughter's... What? Well put it back, I'll sort it out in the evening... Borya, don't touch my jars, I said!"
Myroslava giggled. Grandpa Boris always tried to organize Grandma's supplies, and Grandma always fought with him over the phone.
"That's it, go have breakfast." Grandma hung up. "Grandpa's going crazy without me."
"Stay and eat with us, Mom." Mom pulled out a chair for her.
"I'll stay, of course. Where would I go without pies?"
They sat at the table, the four of them. The sun shone through the window, fell on the tablecloth, on the pies, on Grandma's hands that had shaped them so skillfully. Outside, the yard was noisy, somewhere a dog barked, somewhere children shouted. But here, in the kitchen, it was quiet, warm, and endlessly good.
Myroslava looked at Mom — strict, with perfect posture, sitting as straight at home as she did in class. At Dad — cheerful, with his perpetually tousled hair and laughing eyes. At Grandma — small, round, in her flowered apron.
She didn't know yet that not everyone had this. That not every house had grandmothers calling in the morning, not every table had steaming pies, not every girl was held so tightly and loved so deeply. She just sat there, nibbling her apple pie, feeling like the happiest girl in the world.
Because she was the happiest girl in the world.
Outside, the sun was shining. On the phone, Grandpa's voice rattled. Grandma gathered the empty plates. Mom glanced strictly at the clock — time to get ready. Dad finished his tea, already figuring out if he had time to stop by his workshop before the weekend.
And Myroslava just sat there, smiling. Because she had everything. Her whole small, enormous, happy life was right here, in this kitchen, around this table, among these people.
She didn't know yet that one day all of this would become a memory. That she would write this chapter many years later, sitting on the balcony of her Minsk apartment, with a ginger cat on her lap and "Stay" playing in her headphones.
She didn't know yet. But she already felt it. She felt that this morning would stay with her forever.
This was how this story began. The story of a girl who was loved.