Baba Dunja's Last Love (14 page)

I decided to write you this letter for that reason, so that you hear about things from me and not (only) from your mother or the television. Because the television is a good source of information, but it is also good to hear about the events from someone who was actually there.

I've never been to prison before. It's called pre-trial detention because the crime is not yet proven. But I can't tell you exactly what is different about it from real prison.

Let me describe it.

There are ten women in each cell. The cell isn't very big, more like cozy. Aside from me, Lenotschka and Marja are here, they are two women from Tschernowo. Lenotschka always looks sad because she has no children. She used to worry that they would get sick, so she never had any. I have to say, it was probably a good decision.

Marja is my neighbor. I've already written to you about her. The other women we only met here. Many of them are nice. Tamara had a fight with her husband. Natalja picked up a stranger's baby without asking, Lida mixed up some medications, and Katja insulted a good man, probably by accident.

At first they were worried that we wouldn't be a good fit in the cell together, but the situation has improved.

I haven't seen the men from Tschernowo but I hope they are doing well.

I must confess that your old grandmother has been feeling a bit down here. I sometimes find myself in a bad mood. It's Marja who cheers me up. She makes sure I eat my soup and that I have space on a bottom bunk to sleep, and when we talk she keeps me from getting too melancholy. She says I shouldn't shut down, after all she's the one who just got married and should be far more depressed than me.

Naturally the marriage isn't recognized in prison, and Marja and her newlywed Sidorow are strangers in the eyes of the court and must testify against each other.

My dear granddaughter Laura, I don't know what they are saying on German television. I sometimes glance out the window when I am taken for interrogation. But all I can see is barbed wire and walls.

That's enough for now. I send you a hug, your loving grandmother Baba Dunja.

 

 

I know how it feels to be helpless and not to know what to do. But I'm not familiar with the feeling of not knowing what is right and what is wrong. I should have told Laura that I can't read her letter. But I'm a little ashamed about it. And besides, I have to assume that Irina will read my letter, too. I'm not used to thinking about so many angles, I've always been straightforward.

I just hope I haven't disgraced Irina and Laura with this stupid arrest.

It is night in our cell, and I hear the others snoring. It's strange how quickly people get used to one another when they have to. In our cell, I get along particularly well with Tamara, Natalja, Lida, and Katja. Tamara killed her husband with an electric iron. Natalja stole a baby out of a stroller in front of a butcher shop. Lida sold sugar tablets as American aspirin, and Katja spray-painted obscenities on a bishop's garage door.

At first they didn't want to talk to us, they didn't even want to be in the same cell with us because they were afraid of radiation. They banged on the door and screamed until a guard came and switched off the light.

Somewhere in the distance metal utensils clatter. I'm caged like a guinea pig. We never had a hamster or bird at home, no animal that you had to keep in a cage. I was against locking up animals.

When Marja turns over while she is sleeping the entire cell shakes. I feel very sorry for Marja. Lenotschka less so; she looks no different here than in Tschernowo.

I take out Laura's letter, which I always have with me, and go slowly to the door with it. The light is out in our cell but dull light from the hall comes in through the grated window. I try to read the words but they still make no sense to me, just like so many times before. So I linger on the signature in Latin letters—Laura.

A guard has picked up on the movement in our cell. She walks up to our door with steady, heavy steps. Many of the women here have bodies like men, thick in the middle. The window opens.

“It's me, Baba Dunja,” I whisper quickly so she doesn't start shouting and wake up the entire block.

“Go to sleep, granny.”

“I can't. Grannies are wakeful.”

“Then lie down and button your lips.”

“What is your name, daughter?”

She pauses. “Jekaterina.”

“That is a beautiful name. Do you know German, Katja?”

She is a big woman. Her face hangs in the window, bloated, round and pale like a full moon. You can tell that she works nights and drinks a lot. And that nobody is waiting for her at home.

“I learned French in school. And if I hear another word out of you, granny, I'm coming in.”

I fold Laura's letter until it is small enough to fit into the palm of my hand. My greatest fear is that it will disintegrate before I find out what it says.

 

 

My dear granddaughter Laura,

I handed in the first letter, but I doubt you will have received it yet. It is a little difficult for me to write you because I don't know for sure what you are up to. It takes a long time for mail to get from here to you in Germany. My interrogator, the head investigator from the military police, is getting nervous because he's not getting anywhere in clearing up the crime and the dead man's next of kin are getting impatient. I think the dead man must have had a lot of money and people knew his face. What good was it to him?

I now have a lawyer. He is paid by the state and is still quite young. His name is Arkadij Sergejwitsch.

Baba Dunja, he says to me, if all you ever tell me about are the potato bugs in Tschernowo, I can't develop a strategy.

And I say, Strategy? What does an innocent person need a strategy for?

Yesterday he said that a German magazine asked him to put them in touch with me and provided him questions for me. Naturally I wondered whether your mother had something to do with it? Why else would a German magazine be interested in me?

I wanted to tell you a bit more about prison life in general, so I'm not always writing about myself. One can get by here. The girls are getting along with each other better. Marja saw a report on television that said it was easy to come by drugs in prison but I told her and the others that we weren't having any of that in my cell, that our cell would remain clean. Marja was mad, she said I'd spoil any fun.

And she said the others didn't listen to me because I'm Baba Dunja from Tschernowo. They don't read the papers. They listen to me because they saw the eye tattoo on my hand. In prison, only important people have eye tattoos, and everyone is afraid of them (Marja figured out).

Of course, it's not an eye but a letter O like Oleg. I tried to fill in the O with color because I didn't want it anymore, and that's why it looks strange. Even good ink slowly fades over the course of seventy years. But that's another story.

The food is alright. In the hall by the cafeteria there's a display case where every afternoon they put a sample portion of the soup or gruel so nobody grumbles they got too little. An old woman doesn't need much, I can usually give some of mine to Marja.

I don't want to think about the state of my garden while I'm in here. I hope you are doing well, and that you are getting good grades in school.

Your loving Baba Dunja.

 

 

My dear granddaughter Laura,

Baba Dunja writing again. You are probably wondering why I am writing so often now.

It's not just that one has more time in prison. One also has more to write about.

In two days there will be a court hearing. It will take a long time according to Arkadij Sergejewitsch, the little boy with the briefcase. The charges will be read and witnesses will be questioned, and there will be so many of us in the dock, the entire village. There will probably be people in the gallery, too, because the case is so unusual and because some people out there seem to think they know me even though I don't know them. I asked myself whether I should be ashamed and then decided: No, I have no need to be ashamed because I didn't do anything wrong.

I have to think about a few things that I'm going to say in court. I'm not used to speaking in front of a lot of people. But if Arkadij Sergejewitsch reads a statement from me it's possible that some people won't believe the words are really mine. So I have to do it myself.

Whatever you hear about me, never forget: your Baba Dunja holds no one more dear than you, regardless of the fact that we've never seen each other.

 

 

During the night I'm awakened by Marja, who is sitting on my cot, crying. I can see the trembling outline of her body. She is trying to be quiet because Tamara, who killed her husband with an electric iron, doesn't like it when anyone makes noise during bedtime hours.

“What is it?” I whisper. Marja just breathes haltingly.

“I don't understand, Maschenka.”

I press myself against the wall as she tries to stretch out beside me. It's an awkward undertaking: either Marja is going to crash to the floor or she is going to lie on top of me and suffocate me with her bosom. I suck in my stomach and try to make myself as narrow as possible.

She puts her arm around my neck and presses her lips to my ear.

“I'm so afraid, Dunja,” warm tears trickle into my ear canal, “I'm afraid they're going to convict us all and shoot us.”

“They're hardly going to shoot us, Marja. Maybe fifty years ago they did that.”

“You have it good, nothing ever rattles you.”

I don't say anything.

“Obviously it's true that we buried him together, but only one person killed him!”

Marja's tears burn in my ear. I free up a hand and pat her shoulder. She's worse off than I am, her lawyer didn't show up. I asked Arkadij whether he could defend her, too, but he said it was prohibited. I'm getting the impression that a particular chaos prevails here in prison. And then add to that the camera teams outside which disturb everyone as they are working.