The Gems of Siberia. Tamara Bulevich

stones path set against the cast iron gate. It divided the yard into two parts.

      The father’s forge, as the grandfather decided, was on the clean side, within five metres from the gate. Before the war, he did some small orders for the needs of the station and the villagers. The old, moss-covered fir, which spread its lower branches on the ground, separated the forge from the sauna. And then, right to the fence, there was a hundred-metre-long non-cultivated land, where three powerful cedars generously grew, remembering still the warmth of the hands of his great-grandfather Porphyrius. One-year-old little cedars were rapidly growing around them. Among them, one could find Siberian birches of extraordinary beauty, which almost reached the sky with their thin, white trunks and lacy tops.

      Livestock and poultry were held in sheds in the other part of the country estate. The granary for flour and grain looked like a painted palace. Behind it, there was a hayloft with a stable for two horses. Here, under the high awning, the sledge for work and the carriage for business trips, decorated with cast iron and twisted leather, stood upright, leaning against the wall of the hayloft.

      Dyomin will keep the memory of this place throughout his life, mentally returning to it, as his source of strength and wisdom.

      The war took away the older brothers Alexey and Anton, and the sister Mariya, whom he scarcely remembered and recognized only from the photographs on the walls. They smiled and looked after him, when he, as a pre-schooler, was left home alone.

      His father returned from the war sick with an open, unhealed wound. In the sauna, little Ignat saw how blood flowed from this wound on the father’s chest down to his abdomen. Mother Lyuba, who knew everything about herbs in the taiga, could not help him. He went to the city hospital for treatment and bandaging only three times. «There is no use to go back and forth! Where can I get money for this?».

      Grigoriy died on the eve of the summer when Ignat went to the sixth grade. Lyuba had a hard time coping with the loss of her husband. Soon she weakened, and, as a disrooted flower, fell.

      That’s how the war found her even far away, in Siberia. Having lost three children and her husband, she did not have strength to fight for her life. Being tortured by sadness and grief, she got sick.

      – I feel so guilty, Ignat, my beloved son. Oh, it is all my fault. Why would I give birth and then condemn my child to be an orphan? I am going to die, that’s for sure. In my heart, I feel that my time is running out.

      Ignat was massaging mother’s constantly cold feet with pharmaceutical tincture. He wanted his mother to overcome the sickness and to recover. He pitied her with all his heart and did not allow himself even to think that his mother might leave him.

      – You will recover soon! You will drink some herbs and will eat something sweet…

      Ignat said this sincerely, with boyish vehemence, believing them to be the best medicine. But sometimes, seeing her getting weaker day by day, he began to cry bitterly, like a whining puppy. He spent long evenings trying to find something funny and joyful for his mother. He dreamed to become a pilot some day and to take his mother for a flight high in the blue sky, so it would take her breath away.

      Sometimes, at night, mother uncontrollably and bitterly cried, she could not sleep. Then Ignat told her different funny boyish stories. He would do even impossible for his mother to relieve the pain and make her smile again.

      – Are we alone here, who have lost parents?! We were told at school that only thirty men were left alive in Minino, when one hundred twenty-two men went to the war. If the Nazis kill all the good people, is not that too much?! Then only bad people will live on the Earth. Why did brothers have to die? Why did father have to go to Berlin? They believed, they really believed in the victory and won. And you, mommy, win!

      The son cried out to his mother, persistently returning her to life. But she did not reconcile with the loss, with the widow’s fate. Her heart was still aching. She was slowly dying. She tried to prepare him for the challenges of life by giving him lessons.

      Soon Ignat became an orphan, all alone, without care and support of the loved ones. He refused to go to the orphanage right away. The village council, school, and neighbours supported him. While his mother was sick, he eagerly studied, managed a household, and did not fool around. At the age of fourteen, Ignat was taller than all of his peers. He looked much older than his age. The villagers said: «He resembles his father in both height and complexion».

      After the seventh grade, instead of the Omsk Civil Aviation College, he went to the railway college. «What will happen to your family house?». He still remembered his mother’s lesson. And he listened to it. If only this was the same way in everything…

      … By midnight, the wind got stronger in Snezhnitsa. Eternal rivals – wind and water – met each other in the furious rampage. Their serious battle for the power, for the possession of this beautiful land with varying preponderance of forces, lasted till the morning. Powerful, roaring, moaning flows of wind seemed to tear away and lift up the fundamental house of Ignat. It desperately creaked with its corners and door hinges, hammered, and raised the alarm with crampons and pins of tarred shutters. The chimney fiercely roared, the fireplace ghastly and drawlingly buzzed.

      But a moment later, the wind suddenly calmed down. One could hear how pouring rains fiercely, furiously fell down the ground, threatening to completely wash everything living and lifeless off it and to drown it in the mudflow.

      Ignat continually fluffed up the pillow, as if it was responsible for this insomnia. He could not even think about anything. He turned from one side to the other, languished, listened to the rumbling storm with lightning, expecting something more terrible and irreparable to happen.

      The predawn brightening sky calmed down this formidable element. Ignat opened the shutters and the windows. The house was filled with freshness and fragrance of the washed up, renewed dark coniferous forest, propping up the sky with powerful tops of the age-old trees. The predawn smoky purple silence hung over the taiga.

      Having hastily put on the tarpaulin coat, Ignat rushed to the vegetable garden. The summer brood of four terek sandpipers, or, as locals say, terek, sat on the lower branches of fir that stood in beauty in the middle of potatoes and dried the feathers. Usually, they are nimble, lively, trusting, and curious, but today, being exhausted by the night disaster, they even did not give a sign, when Ignat approached them. The wet brownish grey with white streaks feathers stick together in a wet lump. Bright belly-pieces blackened. Apparently, poor birds, as hard as they could, were holding the turf near the trunk of the fir in order not to be gone with the furious storm. Their parents were not nearby. Though, soon he heard their distant «terek-terek».

      «In less than a month these will leave until the next spring,» – Ignat thought, rushing to cedars.

      From afar, they were glittering with diamond droplets of rain, hidden among the long needles. «Alive! Thank God, they are alive!».

      Sleepless mood melted away, and his body was filled with resilience, healthy desire to immediately enjoy the simple country food.

      The rest of the day went well for Dyomin. One can say, it was good. The authorities complimented brigade for «a good, professional repair», promised to give them the award and to provide compensatory holiday. Now, after hard work in the summer, the brigade of Dyomin could take more than two weeks of holiday.

      When the commission left, Ignat was still smiling. His soul quietly rejoiced. He complimented his men for their work. This was not typical of him.

      In the evening, when he came home, he began the cleaning. He liked the order and was not lazy to keep the house clean. He did not like painted floors. Once a year, he polished floorboards, and then, once a week, he washed them to amber purity of ash water of larch. The floorboards shone, breathing warmth and comfort. The owner never wore shoes in the house. He asked his guests to take off their shoes in the inner porch.

      He was washing the last step of the porch when he heard that somebody opened the gate. The mailwoman Nyusya stood on the paved path. «What on Earth is she doing here?!» – his face reflected extreme inner irritation and displeasure. His benevolent mood immediately disappeared.

      – Good evening, Ignat Grigoryevich!

      – Good