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1937, Leningrad, . . .
1937, Leningrad, Before the Snow
She looks like Rita Hayworth,
Eyes wide open, the colour of Swiss lakes.
Caught, with a wrinkled collar, her blond hair escaping its bun,
She inclines toward her calm yet dispossessed husband,
Half of her arriving, half of her fleeing,
She feels what is days away.
Her face frozen in the moment,
This is the one image that survives.
“Lenochka, let us make a photograph.” He knows too.
He pulls her into the studio and assumes
The stylized pose of redundant gentry.
He leans protectively toward his wife.
1937, Leningrad, before the snows come, this day an outing,
Fur coats, felt boots: “Let me buy you silk under-things, stockings,
Perhaps a little something for Nanny.”
“You old fool,” she says. “We have no money.”
They stare at the black draped box and
The instant approaches that will haunt forever.
The Rita Hayworth eyes flinch as the light and the lens point.
So close. So precise. On target. Her lips are parted.
“We have to go. We have to leave now.” She smells gunpowder.
There is a reflection in those open grey eyes, not of flashbulb,
But of men and big black cars in the dark of night,
The calm of her husband, the stillness of death.
He lies on a dirt floor, one of millions who no longer look ahead.
But she will never hear of this, even though she feels something.
She must look into the camera and not him. If they look into each other,
They will recognize terror, and it will thwart their last outing.
Hands held tight and silk stockings purchased,
He smooths the unruliness of her collar. She straightens his tie.
For Yevgenia Fredrichovna Kaminowa
Nadezhda Petrovic
Posted at September 29, 2005 12:30 PM
What a beautiful poem! Thank you for sharing it and your story with us.
Jen
Posted by: Jen at September 29, 2005 09:46 PM
You got a gift, Nada, and with that comes an obligation to share it with others, even if we are only Mt.Hopians. We want more poems and soon. I am particularly touched by the subject matter since my grandfather was swept away in one of Stalin's purges in 1935. He was 37 years old and was a father of four. The youngest was my father. My grandmother, who died at the age of 83, never got to know where her husband was buried. Thank you, Nada, this poem was a rare treat for me.
Posted by: Irene at September 29, 2005 08:20 PM
this is beautiful. i can see the image crisply. well done. when are you publishing?
Posted by: Kia at September 29, 2005 06:33 PM
Thank you John for your kind comments. This poem is for my grandmother, Yevgenia Friedrichovna, who, along with the rest of my mother's family, was victim to Stalin's Purges in 1930's Russia. We never knew what became of her, nor of my grandfather, only that KGB officers whisked them away in black cars in 1937. I did not know what Yevgenia looked like, but I had listened to the tragedy of my mother's life and losses since I was old enough to hear.
Several years ago, my mother made the trip back to Russia to try and find out what had happened to her mother, father, and two brothers. She brought back a photograph of Yevgenia and Petar (my grandmother and grandfather.) It was the first time I had laid eyes on this vividly imagined woman. "Leningrad, before the snows" is about this photograph and how it eerily foreshadows what was to become of the Kaminovs.
Posted by: Nadezhda at September 29, 2005 02:09 PM
Indeed, nice poem. One of the things I like about this site: the growing collection of wonderful poems. thanks for this addition.
Posted by: kiddharma at September 29, 2005 01:47 PM
I knew we had considerable talent in Mt. Hope. I want to thank you for giving us your wonderful "1937, Leningrad, . . ." for our Poem of the Week.
If you get the time or the inclination, please tell us a little something about the poem.
Posted by: John at September 29, 2005 12:56 PM