Garden Under the Stern Sky.The stormy, heavy gray sky of 1939 seemed to press down on the village houses, their walls bathed in leaden tones.
Vera Artemyeva sat by the kitchen window, her fingers instinctively kneading the smooth leather strap on the table. The seconds ticked slowly on the wall clock, each one striking her chest like a weight.
Her daughter had once again failed to arrive at the agreed time. How many times had this happened in recent years… Seventeen-year-old Anna seemed to deliberately test her mother’s patience:
she lived her own life, fast and loud, ignoring all rules and quiet hopes.In the house alongside her were two younger children: eight-year-old Gennady, serious and thoughtful-eyed, and six-year-old Svetlana, a quiet, cheerful little girl always ready to help.
They were Vera’s quiet joys, islands of peace in a sea of constant worry. Anna, on the other hand, was the child from her first, long-crumbled marriage
—as if born of another world: capricious, daring, living in the melodies of the accordion, in laughter, and in endless neighborhood gatherings.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock. On the threshold stood Klavdiya, the neighbor, her usual kindness mixed with unease. She fidgeted nervously, shifting from one foot to the other, as if afraid to speak.
— Vera… I’m sorry to bother you… I know you’re busy, brigadier, but… I can’t stay silent. Maybe you should rein your daughter in before something happens.
— What do you mean, Klavdiya? Say it.— It’s about your little Anna. Today I saw… in the meadow, across the river. I went to water the cow, and there… your daughter was lying in the tall grass, next to a man’s shirt, her clothes…
I called out, she laughed, said she was just resting. But the bushes… I thought perhaps it was Pavel, and I got scared. When the cow broke free, I ran after it… by the time I returned, no one was there. Only this little handkerchief remained.
Klavdiya handed Vera a small, embroidered piece. Vera froze inside. It was her handiwork, a gift she had made for Anna’s name day.— You tell no one, Klavdiya. Please.
— Calm down, Vera. I just feel sorry for you. Your daughter is full-grown, but like this… who would take her as a wife?After the neighbor left, Vera sank to the table, tears flowing on their own.
This was no longer mere shame, nor just the fatigue from gossip. It was fear—the fear of ultimate ruin, the shame casting a shadow over everything: herself, her position, the younger children. She felt paralyzed with helplessness.
When finally quick, light footsteps sounded at the threshold, Vera stood, the leather strap feeling heavy in her hand. But it was not who she had been waiting for.
Ilya, her husband, father of Gennady and Svetlana, Anna’s stepfather, entered.— What happened, Vera? Your face is pale, and what’s in your hand?
— I want to teach Anna a lesson. Words don’t reach her anymore. I wish you were strict just once!— Beat the girl? That’s not my business. She’s not mine by blood, and this isn’t my method.
They spoke in whispers so as not to wake the younger children when Anna entered. She stopped in the doorway, eyes on her mother’s strap, then her usual mocking, sly smile appeared.
— Giving advice again, or is it just whipping this time?— No, Anna — Vera’s voice was unusually soft. — There will be no more advice.She stepped closer.
Ilya tried to intervene, but Vera pushed him aside. The first strike burned the air. The second… the third… And then Anna suddenly slid to the floor, arms shielding herself, shouting:
— Mama, stop! I’m not alone!The hand froze, the strap clattered to the floor. Vera stepped back as if burned, and the silence was shattered by unstoppable, bitter sobs.
Ilya, pale, helped Anna up and led her to the garden. Their voices filtered through the walls, a muted, chaotic hum.When Anna returned, Vera sat her down. Her voice was dry, lifeless.
— Who’s the father?— I have no father — the girl stubbornly lowered her eyes.— Who were you with? Tell me!— No one. I won’t say.Don’t worry, I’ll go to Aunt Darya, she’ll brew something, and everything will pass.
— You think that’s enough? — Vera looked at her daughter as if she were a stranger. — You are a disgrace. I tolerated it, but now… You’re going to the city. You will study.
— Study? That’s not for me! — Anna flashed.— I don’t care. You’ll disappear from my sight. If you don’t want that — you’ll work at the pig farm. Choose.
Ilya reentered the argument:— Girls, wait… Going to Aunt Darya leads to the cemetery. She must give birth. We will raise it. All together.
— Are you crazy? — Vera could not believe her ears. — We need to know who the father is!— She won’t say. Stubborn. People… will say anything. Autumn is coming, winter.
You… you pretend to wait. When the time comes, we’ll say it’s ours, late. No other way.They argued until dawn. With the first crow of the rooster, Anna and Vera, exhausted and utterly weary, accepted the absurd, desperate lie.
Winter that year was harsh, lead-gray. Warm, heavily lined clothing hid everything. Vera skillfully concealed pillows under her clothing; the village slowly got used to the idea that Brigadier Artemyeva was expecting a fourth child.
Anna appeared rarely, and when she did, she wore loose, oversized clothes.By mid-March, as the last traces of frost still glimmered on the windows, Anna went into labor. A boy was born, officially named Nikolai Ilyich Artemyev, Vera and Ilya’s child.
Vera hoped motherhood would change her daughter, warm her heart. But when Anna reached for the child, she turned away from the wall.
— No. Now this is your son. Let him be my brother.— How can you do this? Hug him!— Your mother Gena had no milk, and yet he grew up. Kola will grow too.
— You… are not a mother. — Vera found no words. — Should we take him to an orphanage instead, tell everyone he died? — she asked coldly.
Another slap cracked in the silence. Vera looked at her hand with disgust, regretting only that she hadn’t hit sooner, harder, more strictly.
Three days later, Anna left the house with a small, quick pack. Ilya accompanied her to the train station with a dark, lost gaze.— Did we do the right thing, Vera?
— There was no other way, Ilyushka. There wasn’t… I raised a little monster. Where did I go wrong?Anna began working at the central factory, forgetting about the boy, studying, and the house.
Vera, meanwhile, warmed her grandchild beneath her heart, slowly beginning to forget the terrible secret. Kola became just the youngest boy, everyone’s favorite.
Gennady and Svetlana, knowing the truth, protected their mother and little brother. Ilya adored the little boy. Life seemed slowly to find order again, finding fragile peace.
But 1941 was already knocking at the door…
