Slim, with a sculpted figure, brown-eyed, with a straight Semitic nose (and a very sharp tongue), with long dark hair that didn't need dyeing, despite her approaching middle age. Looking at such a woman, a Polish nobleman might exclaim: “Jaka postawa!” — That woman’s got an attitude!
I would occasionally visit her in her office, a small room at the end of a long corridor, lined with shelves of folders. Among the shelves, she sat at her desk, the archivist and registrar of scientific inventions at our All-Union Research Institute of Polymers.
"Want some coffee?" she would ask, reaching for the electric kettle.
"Sure," I would agree.
With sugar or without?"
"With, of course."
"I'll have mine without sugar. It's bad for the heart."
We got to know each other better at the kolkhoz, a place of frequent work trips for scientific employees during the Soviet era. Once, while hacking at weeds in the beet patch, I caught up to a woman sitting in her own row alongside mine. It was her, Olga Goldshtein.
"Taking a break?" I asked her in a cheerful, almost overly upbeat tone.
"Taking a break, Sery," she replied, lowering her eyes sadly.
"Something's wrong with the motor," she placed her hand on her left chest.
"Hey! Need some help?"
"Thanks, but no. I'll sit for a bit, and it'll pass on its own. It's not the first time. You go on, meet your quota."
She never mentioned her heart problems to anyone. Because of this, she was considered healthy and a perfect candidate for weeding beets, harvesting potatoes, drying grain, gathering hay, and other types of agricultural work during sowing and harvest seasons.
At one department meeting, where among other internal issues, the topic of who and when would go to help the Motherland with the food program was discussed, she bluntly stated:
"I'm not going to the kolkhoz."
"What do you mean?" The party organizer leading the meeting was taken aback. "Are you, Olga Abramovna, disagreeing with the party's agricultural policy?"
"I disagree. It's fine to help out once or twice in an emergency. But it seems we have emergencies every year. They send schoolchildren, students, soldiers, and scientific staff to the kolkhoz. Yet the stores are still empty."
"So, you're not going to the kolkhoz?" the party organizer persisted.
"No, I'm not going. I'm an archivist, not a milking machine operator."
"Fine," the party organizer hissed. "We'll remember this."
"Remember away," Olga Abramovna concluded under the frightened gazes of her colleagues.
When I stopped by her office again, she asked me unexpectedly.
"Seryozha, will you help me?"
"What's up?"
"I need to learn English."
"Why?"
"I'm planning to go to America. I'm tired of wallowing among bootlickers and kissing up to the bosses. I have an uncle and a cousin in Los Angeles. They'll take me in for the time being."
"Learning a language is like biting a rock," I said, offering a banal piece of wisdom.
"I'm a persistent and curious person," she replied.
"Really? Do you know what your surname, Goldshtein, means?"
"What?"
"Golden stone."
"I'm not a just any old rock, Seryozha. I'm flint."
She bought a self-study book. We started lessons. I came to her office during lunch breaks, explaining grammar, teaching pronunciation, and giving and checking homework.
She turned out to be a very capable student. She absorbed the language easily and quickly. During our lessons, we exchanged information about ourselves. She was divorced. Her husband had been a lazy drunk. Her son was serving time for drug dealing.
"What more did the fool need? I clothed him, shod him, found him a decent job. But the parasite didn’t want to work. Fifty percent Jewish blood, but two hundred percent Russian stupidity. Just like his father."
"Is he getting out soon?"
"Next year. I've already bought everything for him. No matter what, he's still my son."
Once, she handed me a bag.
"Take this."
"What's in it?"
"Salmon and butter."
"Why? I’ve got a job, don’t I?"
"Don't be proud, Seryozha. You have two small children. I work two jobs. I’ve contracted with a company to clean floors in the mornings. I have money. So, take it..."
One day, perhaps noticing my gloomy mood, she asked directly, as usual.
"What's wrong with you? You look like you're drowning."
"Nothing. Just a temporary funk."
"I know why you're down."
"Why?"
"It’s because you weren't sent to Japan with our institute's delegation."
"As if I care about Japan!"
"You do care, Seryozha, very much. A translator without overseas assignments is like a swimmer without a pool. Our party organizer sent his favorite — excuse me, his lover — instead of you, even though her English is nowhere near as good as yours. And unlike you, she doesn't know Japanese. That's why you're gloomier than a storm cloud. Am I wrong?"
I said nothing.
"I’ll take your silence as agreement," Olga said. "All right, don't be sad. Here's an address and a phone number. It's a young company with potential. They're involved in foreign trade, meaning they sell off the Motherland bit by bit. The pay is decent. Tell them you were sent by Olga Abramovna."
I went to the address she gave me... I started a new job, and business trips followed. I flew to Malta, Germany, the UAE...
One day, after a significant break, we ran into each other on the street. She had the same proud posture, the same dark, undyed hair, but now with significantly more makeup. I was very happy to see her and told her so.
"Glad to see you, Olka. You look great, makes me want to kiss you."
"What's stopping you? Why not kiss a beautiful woman?"
I kissed her on the cheek.
We chatted. She had retired and working part-time for some Azerbaijanis at the market, selling vegetables.
"Ahmed is a great guy. He pays well, no tricks. But I'm on my feet all day. I'm as tired as a dog. And my heart aches. Sunday is my day off. Come over and we'll have a drink."
She gave me her address. Rummaging in her bag, she pulled out a cardboard packet.
"Here, take this."
"?"
"It’s a cleaning product for the kitchen stove. Take it, take it. Your wife will thank you."
After coordinating by phone, I visited her. She greeted me with business-like cheerfulness, showing me her not very large but cozy and tastefully furnished apartment.
"America's canceled," she said. "My uncle died, and my brother needs me like a rabbit needs a stoplight. I’m staying in Russia. Do you like my new apartment?"
"Yes, I do."
"And I have a new husband, Vitya. He's at work now. He's a great guy, a jack-of-all-trades. He cherishes and loves me. What more does a woman need? We're saving up some money to buy a little house in the country. We'll live surrounded by nature. It'll be wonderful!"
In the kitchen, she treated me to some delicious red wine, pouring herself just a little. I felt like I was talking to a wise woman, almost like a mother, even though she was only a couple of years older than me.
"Don't be a stranger," she said as I left. "Call me."
I called her from time to time.
One day, I heard some news. She and Viktor had bought a house thirty kilometers outside the city. Well, it was little and old.
"Vitya renovated everything; we can even live there in winter. We're building a greenhouse now. Come visit."
"Which district?"
"Dubensky. The village of Kaznacheevka."
"Really? That's where my father and my uncle who died in the war are from!"
"All the more reason to visit."
"But there's no road. You can't get there."
"There is one now. Come on, it's beautiful here!"
"Okay. I'll get ready and come."
Finally, I got ready. I convinced my wife and son to go with me in his car. I just needed to call first and arrange the details.
I called.
"Hello! Olga?"
"No. This is Viktor."
"Can I speak to Olga?"
There was a long pause... Finally, I heard Viktor's muffled, strained sobs.
"Tomorrow, it will be nine days since she passed away..."
"Oh no, I'm so sorry. I didn't know. What happened?"
"Her heart. Please remember her in your prayers."
"Yes, of course, I will..."The next day, I went to church though I’m not particularly religious. I stood by the icons, remembering her, paying my respects. Once again in life, I was too late. How can I thank you, Olga? God willing, someday I'll write a few lines about you...
...And so, as best as I could, I wrote this.
(translated by James McVay)
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