Root of Russia

The Root of Russia

I really didn’t know her that well. A couple of coffees, a few dinners that I was dragged to with our husbands who were mutual friends and that was it. That is not to say we did not have deep talks. I tend to talk deep no matter who I am with. I hate wasting my time with small talk. Most people are taken back by this but not Deena. She was Russian, much younger than her boisterous husband who had a quick wit and an insatiable appetite for alcohol. Still, when you do not waste time with petty conversation you can make lasting impressions on a person. She certainly did with me.

Deena was from Russia. She was close to her grandmother. Born and raised Russian orthodox Deena had lost her faith in a desperate attempt to fit into our American world of subjectivity and judgment. She had an icon necklace of the Blessed Virgin Mary that was given to her by “Babushka.” Fearing the eyes of judgement Deena would not wear it. She felt lost but deeply longed to feel closeness again. The longer she lived in the United States the more distant she felt from her roots.

Deena had a simple Russian life. Her mother was a Russian Orthodox Catholic, raised by her deeply religious grandmother. She never spoke of her father. I did not press her. I don’t press in conversation. I do not ask pointed questions or targeted questions that make people uncomfortable. I care little about the house someone grew up in or what their father did for a living. I ask about their childhood, how they felt when they got married, what were they like as teenagers. This reveals their burdens and their hopes. It became clear to me in our conversation how much she loved Russia, how she missed her family, her land, and her faith. I realized her loneliness. The Russian soul cannot maintain a joyful facade for long before it gives way to the melancholy beneath the surface. She was not conscious of it, but sorrow waned from her like a faded perfume when we met. There was a yearning inside her. A longing that would change the course of her whole life and the lives of those who knew and loved her.

It was not clear to anyone why she decided to go boating that day. Her house was in order. Bills were paid, the garden was tended. No sign of a woman planning not to return. A roast was laid on the counter to defrost for dinner and laundry was in the washing machine. By all accounts Deena would return from her boat trip. She had learned to sail from her uncle. He was a fisherman though there were rumors he brought in more than fish to the little Russian port town that was their family home. Lady Gossip spreads her legs for hate and ignorance. Tongues wagged about ties to Bratva and her marriage a ruse to obtain a green card.

She ventured out that day and looked the part. Her outfit made complete with white, snug nautical shorts and a blue stripped, long sleeve shirt in preparation for the wind on the water. The slight crisp air was more biting in the shade but the sun provided ample warmth. Her Twins baseball cap was pulled tightly over her fresh, sweet round face and ice blue eyes. She had beautiful cheerful face even as storms loomed behind her eyes. The day she chose to sail fit her beauty in every way.

She pulled her small Laser from the shore that day and sailed away. What she thought about, what she desired no one will ever know. There was no note left behind. No evidence of wanting to leave the world behind. They found her boat abandoned and partially succumbed to the lapping waves. They looked for days on the muddy Missouri. Her lifeless body was never recovered. Deena had vanished. After two weeks she was presumed dead. Her picture on the news showed a happy and beautiful woman. Every channel around the country flashed her visage. People she never met sent flowers in memorial. Her three beautiful girls were too young to realize the depth of the loss. Their sweet Russo-Irish faces looked numb to the eventual pain they would feel. They shuffled to and from and were doted upon by family and strangers alike.

Tearfully, I sat at the funeral, thinking of those sad and lovely eyes. Startled, I woke from my reminiscence when a man approached saying, “you will need to come to our office’s in two days for the reading of the will.” I recall my subdued shock at being included in such an intimate affair, for someone I did not know intimately. In my mind, the reading of wills and final testaments is reserved for blood family and those laying claim to fortunes surviving their owners passing. After offering condolence to family and friends, both true and feigned, I left the funeral sad and bewildered. Nothing could prepare me for what would come.

In a room too small for the people that filled it, I found myself among strangers for the reading of the will. The only exception was Casey, the widowed father of three. I took a seat in the back of the room, to appear as clearly unimportant as I thought myself to be. Strange and suspicious eyes glanced repeatedly in my direction. The rightful attendees shared my thought, “What am I doing here?”

Casey, with red and swollen eyes, slurred a slightly drunken greeting that offered as much warmth as his new state in life would allow. Briefly, he recollected his wife, her kindness, her beauty, and her love. His devastation, not quite set in, hung from every word he spoke. The once suspicious glares soften slightly as his words revealed his affection for a friend his wife had treasured, even beyond my knowing. One by one, the man in charge read names of people present and handed them items or envelopes. The surreal moment was broken by the reality of my name being called. My heart was racing, although I know not why. As I stepped to the front nervously, a small, yellow envelope was pressed into my hand. A paper, turned my way on the desk was accompanied by the soft command “sign here please.” As the names continued to be called, I slipped quietly from the room.

Checking up and down the hall, feeling an innate need for privacy, I carefully peeled open the sticky seal on the envelope and tipped the contents into my hand. The first this I noticed was a small, oval medal. As I looked more closely, I saw it was the medal of the Blessed Virgin Mary her Babushka gave her. “Our Lady of Tenderness”, the small letters around the image read. Tears welled up in my eyes as I recalled our short and beautiful moments spent together. Still in the envelope, was a small black notebook. I opened it and saw no writing, no indication that it was ever used. Perplexed, I stared at the book trying to figure out its meaning. Following an urge from within, I began flipping through it slowly. Somewhere in the middle of the book I saw writing. In blue ink was written a name and under it a phone number and two lines drawn in heavy hand to emphasize importance. The writing was a name; Eloise.

At a loss I looked one more time into the envelope to see if there was anything else that would help me make sense of this name, the number and most importantly, its reason. I noticed inside the yellow envelope another very flat envelope stuck to the side. I pulled it out and opened it. Inside this smaller envelope was a cashier’s check made out in my name for $20,000. Suddenly I heard a high-pitched ringing in my ears, and everything seemed to lose color and shape. For the life of me I could not figure out why Deena would leave me $20,000. We did not have that kind of relationship. I decided to take time to pray. I sat inside my car with the sun beating down and I prayed. I do not know how long I prayed. I do know after I prayed, I felt that the money and the number were related.

With shaky hands I dialed the number. After 6 rings a woman answered. Her voice was a whisper and shaking as if she was afraid. I asked for Eloise and the woman in my ear began to cry. She asked me who I was, and I told her. She asked me to meet her in 15 minutes at the park behind our church. Though totally confused, I agreed.

I waited in the park on a swing for this timid sounding woman to appear. Suddenly I saw her. She was too thin. It was as if she was sick, whether in the mind or body I did not know. Next to her side was a beautiful little girl with jet black hair that was unkept. Her eyes were like the sky and almost hurt to look at, but you could not turn away. She stared at me with the greatest wisdom I had ever seen. Her mother kept looking around her left and right like she was expecting someone to be watching. She asked me how I knew Eloise. I told her I thought it was her. She told me it was a code name and that a friend had given her a cell phone and told her that if it ever rang to answer it and meet with the person calling.

I noticed the bruise under her left eye. I noticed scars on her arms. Her daughter also had bruises but unlike her mother she did not have fear. Not once in the conversation did the little girl’s eyes ever leave my face. I could tell the women was Russian as I recognized the accent from Deena. The woman had a small suitcase with her and her purse. I knew at that moment what I was to do.

I recalled Deena mentioning a friend who was in a horrible situation with a cruel man during one of our deep but brief conversations. I remember saying how deeply she wanted to help her but that he watched her like a hawk. All at once I understood that the money I was given was for her. I knew I was asked because I had no connection to this woman. I told her my story and how I ended up here at this moment with her. Pulling out the check, I showed it to her. She began to cry full-throated and loud, giving praise to God above. The wise little girl at her side watched with gentle beauty.

After a few moments we got into my car and headed to the bank where I deposited and then withdrew $20,000 from my account. After handing it over to the humble women, I drove her to the airport. I watched the two people who changed my life walk away, the mother still looking over her shoulder, the daughter with trust and confidence walking by her side. I saw them purchase tickets. I saw them walk into security. I stayed to make sure no one followed them. I never saw them again. I received a text a few days later saying they were safe and thank you. The number was gone forever.

It amazes me to this day how powerful small, seemingly trivial conversations can change lives. How could I forget Deena? A passing relationship with a lifetime effect. Small talk remains just that, small. Conversation with purpose never goes without bearing fruit. Count your mustard seeds and give them freely. Life grows when the soil is tended to.