The Russlander by Sandra Birdsell

Lydia’s drinking cup on the brick wall enclosing the well and leaned over the wall, immediately feeling a chilly dampness emanating from the water below. The reflection of her head on the black surface blotted out what light there was from the moon.
    Then someone called her name. She would remember for the rest of her days that someone had called, and would hear the voice among other voices in a crowded restaurant, coming to her on a lake shore while she watched over grandchildren at play, the voice would travel across the water, clear and distinct,
Katya
. If only she had answered, Yes, I’m here. But she hadn’t. No, instead she had picked up Lydia’s cup and held it over that chasm of damp darkness, and thrown it in. She had willfully thrown Lydia’s cup into the butter well.

hey arrived in Rosenthal during night, when it was too dark to see much of anything, certainly not the storks nesting on the
Zentralschule
, which Greta had written Katya she should be sure and look for. She would likely hear the clacking of the birds’ beaks before she saw them, Greta said. They had started out for Rosenthal in the morning, and had stopped only once, to eat and to rest the horses. Katya’s arms ached from holding her brother, Peter, on her lap. He’d been asleep for several hours and now she was clammy from his heat, her feet chilled from not being able to move. A light shone from a ridge of hills beyond the town, someone walking with a lantern, she thought, and when she pointed it out, her mother said it was the silver dome of an Orthodox church.
    They passed a lone man, a watchman going along a sidewalk shaking a rattle, and he tipped his hat to them as they went by. Lanterns hanging from lampposts were welcoming circles of light illuminating the
volost
building, a store, a pharmacy. She was relieved when at last she saw a light glowing in a window and knew it was her grandparents’ house. As they came to a stop in front of the gate,her oma Schroeder came running from the house and down the steps in her slippers.
    â€œWhere’s that girl of mine?” her grandmother called, and a dog in a neighbouring yard began to bark.
    Oma gathered their mother and baby Daniel in an embrace, then took Daniel and unwrapped him there in the street, anxious to see how much he’d grown since she’d come to attend his birth in winter. When Daniel awoke with a shiver and smiled, Oma shouted to a woman across the street who had come out to watch. “Look at this one. This one is just like Kornie’s Wilhelm’s Jasch. Kornie’s Wilhelm’s Jasch would give you such a smile even when he was wet and hungry,” her grandmother said.
    They had all come to Rosenthal to fetch Greta at the end of the school year, as Lydia was not returning home but going off on holiday to the Azov Sea, and Greta was not allowed to travel alone. Abram had lent them the use of a
federwoage
, and its cushioned seats and strong springs made the trip seem shorter than usual.
    â€œWelcome, welcome,” her grandfather sang out as he came through the garden. When Katya embraced him she felt his fingers press a coin into her palm. Greta came from the house behind him, anxious for a greeting, and when Katya hugged her, she realized her sister had grown. Gerhard, eager to prove his strength, rushed between the house and the carriage, carrying several bundles at once. He would have carried his sister Sara too, but for their uncle Bernhard, who came from his house at the back of their grandparents’ yard and scooped Sara from his arms.
    Within moments they were drinking tea and crunching
roll-kuchen
dripping with watermelon syrup, her grandmother hovering over the table refilling empty glasses, touching Katya’s shoulder, Gerhard’s head, in passing. Their grandfather’s eyes went from one to another while he plied her father for news, how much land had he seeded, how many lambs and calves had been