MysteriousFaith

Short Story - Enough for a Day

The story of an old man living in Moldova, cut off from his family, and waiting to die. A story of hope, of sacrifice, and of what it means to live without knowing if you will have “enough for a day.”

Old age had made these mornings unbearable. Where once the muscle of youth and then, yes, the extra weight of middle age, had provided some measure of warmth and resistance to the cold Moldovan morning, old age had robbed him of both. His eyes opened slowly and cloudily gazed around at his home.

As he had grown accustomed to, before he left bed, he stopped to listen to his sleeping wife’s breathing. Since her stroke, her life had gotten much worse. He fully expected to wake up one morning and find that his beloved had died. Her stroke had robbed her of the ability to speak; such a cruel theft as now, in old age and only with each other, they had time to themselves to talk, to reminisce and to grow together even more.

It seemed now each morning that less and less of his wife remained; it was almost like watching a tree give up its leaves before winter. Day by day, morning by morning, fewer leaves would be on the tree and more would be littered at its roots. And so it was with her; he had long ago seen her once beautiful hair turn gray and thin with old age. Her once bright eyes had lost their color. “The eyes are the windows to the soul” said one wise sage. If so, her windows were now closed and the shades were drawn. Her body, once vivacious in a way only they together had enjoyed, had transitioned from youthful beauty to the proper shape of a woman who had borne him three children. But even that radiance had been lost in old age as cold, poverty, and a desperate lack of food robbed them both of their health and their bodies.

Yet, for their fifty-three years of marriage, he had never loved her more than he now did. What life had thrown them, they had dealt with - together. What difficulties one of them had, they both shared. Now, that final disease of death, was the only thing they could not share in together. She must pass through death’s door alone. Such a solitary experience when they had seen so much, endured so much pain - all together.

As he quieted his mind, he could hear her small, timid, almost bird-like breathing. Some recent mornings he had to turn and look for her body to rhythmically, but slowly, rise and fall - so slight was her breath.

Knowing that she still held on to life this morning, he slowly exhaled and set his mind to the day before him. Such planning was something that in old age he relegated to each day. No longer did he plan ahead at all. With only his meager pension (gone by the middle of each month no matter how little they bought), food was only something else to worry about. He knew they had none.

Such a realization no longer shocked him. He had long ago learned that their survival was in the hands of others. Maybe today one of the children would send them some money. But they were almost as poor as he; and they had their own family to provide for now. Better he and his wife know more hunger so that his grandchildren could know less. Perhaps someone from the village would stop today with some bread. Such was unlikely. Most Moldovan villagers were like him - old and impoverished.

He laughed to himself quietly, thinking of his still alive friends. “Of all things we know how to do, dying is not one of them.” The Germans had tried to kill them, but they had survived. The Russian’s attempt to liberate them from the Nazi’s, then collectivize their farming, had almost starved them. “And that bastard Stalin,” he thought - luxuriating in a thought he still eleven years after the fall of Communism could only think, and not verbalize - “he couldn’t get his fingers around us like he did in the Ukraine.” They had survived the Communist pogroms only to see life without Communism be more hell. “Freedom”, he laughed to himself, “freedom makes my stomach just as hungry as did Communism.”

About a month ago he had realized he no longer held out hope his wife would get better. With this realization quickly came another; as soon as she passed it would be ok for him to give up as well. Truthfully, all that held him now to this world was knowing that if he passed first, she would slowly die alone. Knowing his Natania, she would hold out a long time: her body refusing to give up, her soul unwilling to be separated from her body. He knew that when she passed he would see to it that she was properly buried and then go home to die. Unlike youth, in old age one comes much more easily to understand the purpose of life. His now was to be sure she did not die alone.

Their one room hut was not what they had been used to. Moving into it had been marked by resignation to poverty and to death. Once his back, legs and hands had been strong: he worked the fields well, knew his land. In fact, he grew enough to sell his surplus in the village. His children had grown up knowing the taste of milk, cheese, meat and good bread. “Better not to think of such things” he quickly reprimanded himself. His body could ill afford the hope of ever again tasting such food.

As he shuffled around their one room hut, he felt his body slowly loosening. The cold was not kind to the arthritic hands, knees and back. As muscle had given way to old age, his body had become more riddled with arthritis. He could no longer walk without a cane. His walk had become laborious; the act of placing one foot in front of another more arduous and painful than he could ever remember from all the days of labor in his fields.

While his body acclimated itself to the morning, he realized that today was the day the Americans were coming. The village mayor, that pompous, sanctimonious ex-Communist everyone voted for only out of the latent sensibility that their former Communist system would rise again (and better to have him as a friend than an enemy), had told them how he had worked and bargained to make sure the Americans came to their village. What the Americans were bringing, no one was quite sure of.

The old man was no beggar. Taking hand-outs came hard to him. His body might be old, but his spirit was not. He could love and hate as well as he could when he was a young man. Not being a beggar meant not wanting to be pitied. He knew instinctively that the Americans would have plenty of pity. They might also have food, money, maybe even good medicine. In the end, he told himself, he went into the village out of curiosity and nothing more. He was comfortable with death; hope was meaningless, but curiosity could still be enjoyable.

As he prepared to begin his walk to the village, he put a kettle of water over their paltry fire. In two small enamel cups he dropped pulverized wood chips and the remnants of some dried herbs. Allowing the hot water and paltry tea substitute to steep, he had to fight the anger he quickly felt rise up within him. “No one should live like this” he said, his gums rubbing together in absence of teeth to grind. And just as quickly, the anger was gone, in its place fear and self-loathing. He knew this was not how life was to be; had he done something so wrong that God hated him so?

He tottered over to his wife, who lay trance-like in their bed. Unable to get her to sit up any longer, he went about his new morning ritual. First, he rolled her over, as tenderly as he had ever touched his love. He then cleaned her as they had both once cleaned the children. With such little food taken in, she had little waste. He allowed himself the slightest of chuckles thinking what was the greater evil: to be starving but mobile, or fed but incontinent?

Next, he gave her the tea. One spoonful at a time, he dropped the tepid, tasteless liquid into her mouth. Her withered lips did not move, only the faintest movement of her throat told him she had received what little nourishment he had to offer.

His morning chores now completed, he readied himself. Today was the day to wear his best clothing. What that meant was adding his only sweater to his typical outfit consisting of his only pants and his only shirt. His jacket, long since given way to the strain of over-use, had patches on patches. It would have to do. To its lapels he attached his two pendants.

While lustered and somewhat tarnished with age, they both had a precision and machine-like modernity that nothing else in his life had. They were, in some ways, the only anchor he had to remind him of the age he lived in. And yes, they also gave him pride. One reminded youngsters he had fought for the mother-land; the other that he had once been a member in good standing with the Party.

His preparation complete, he began his journey. As the withered vestige of a door opened to the cold morning, even this burst of cold air did not loosen his fixation on his wife’s bed. “Goodbye my love” he said out loud. In general, he had given up speaking to her. It had maddened him. What he had to say, his devotion to her said more loudly than any words could. But this, this he had to verbalize. Knowing that death could easily come in his absence, he wanted his words to be with her should she finally pass.

As he set out to the village he began to think of the Americans. He had never seen one. What color would they be? Pink - no, no, white! Yes, a white that only a life spent inside can create. They probably were huge. He remembered the films he had seen as a young man at the village’s political center. Mother Russia wanted its village people to know that only its best, brightest and strongest were standing in harm’s way; ready to fight the capitalist pigs as they had the fascist dogs. If those pure Soviets he saw on film - so tall, strong and brave - could not beat back the vile capitalists, then these vile capitalists must be huge!

Pink, enormous … what else … ah yes, they would be fat. What else could a society of greedy capitalists breed but a generation of over-fed cowboys? Of course, he knew from his children (who had long ago smuggled themselves into Germany in the hopes of finding jobs) that all Americans are loud. So there he had it: white (maybe pink), enormous, huge, over-fed, loud cowboys. Only curiosity kept him from turning back in fear!

To be honest, his only real expectation was to have his curiosity assuaged. As he massaged his tired old frame around the corner, he saw the first signs that the Americans had arrived. The school yard simply buzzed with excitement. It was uncommon to see so many children in a group acted so excitedly. He remembered only one time his own children acting so excitedly - and it was had certainly not been this excited. That was the day Comrade Pyolev had come to the village with the newest agricultural machinery Mother Russia was going to provide to the Republic of Moldova.

The school children were allowed to climb onto the tractors, pretending to lead the communal farm to a bountiful harvest - all as a result of the wonderful machines. But, like many of Mother Russia’s promises, this too was a lie. The equipment never arrived (strangely the collective farm did, however), prosperity never began anew, and man’s trust of government grew even weaker.

“Focus” he sharply told himself. “The minds of old men wander too easily” he reminded himself. He hoped to drink in the day’s experience; such distracted thinking was not helping his already foggy memory.

The front of the school yard was alive with activity. You could easily tell where the Americans were when they were outside the school - the villagers flocked to them. The children hung round, careful to project both childish innocence at the same time as ravenous hope for what treats and toys the Americans might have brought with them.

Their hope would not be unrewarded. Candy flew from these strangers in the same way chestnuts fell from the trees during a storm. It seemed being shy paid off. He noticed that the Americans sought the timid out in the crowd. And for the most quiet and timid children would seem to be the greatest treasure - a toy, a doll, a purse. Such wonderful gifts he had never seen, and certainly never given away with such abandon.

“Fools”, he muttered to himself. His life had taught him that gifts were always extended in the supposed act of reconciliation or in the badly misrepresented ideological statement. “What do they want? Why are they here?” his mind quietly asked him. He had no answer; but whatever their purpose - it could be for no good.

As old men often need to do, the product of being easily exhausted at the slightest of physical exertions, he found a large tree to lean against, gather himself, and observe. The situation was growing more complex, not less. In addition to children being given candy and toys, the Americans had set up a medical clinic. This was of interest to many in the village. Their village had no doctor, only a village nurse who was but a step above gypsy medicine.

He saw as people left the school clutching small bags - bags he later learned had precious medicine in them. His old, tired, now-dim eyes saw people come out with new glasses on. He quietly chuckled to himself, “too many old people are getting glasses. What sorrow these old men must feel at seeing their wives clearly after so many years!” He had little doubt the glasses would appear and disappear as each began to fully associate voices with once diffuse faces.

As the day wore on, he finally saw one of his few old friends totter out, an impish grin on his face that did not fit an old man, but was probably explained by the new glasses and bag of food he held. “Vitaly” he said once, rather quietly. Vitaly did not respond: apparently American medicine had no cure for Vitaly’s hearing problem (not that Vitaly would have wanted help hearing - his nagging wife’s shrill voice made deafness enticing).

“Vitaly!” he said again - this time louder. This time, Vitaly heard him and shuffled to the tree the old man was leaning against. “What are they doing inside?” he asked Vitaly. Vitaly seemed to be stunned - his impish smile gave way to a vague sense of unease - perhaps triggered by the obvious anxiety the voice of his friend betrayed.

In a moment, Vitaly also questioned if what he had just experienced was real. What could the Americans want for all these gifts? But no answer came to Vitaly. He was free to go; they had asked nothing of him, he had been given things freely. It was an experience fully and completely against all his life had taught him. Life had taught them both caustic suspicion of others, especially those that came bearing gifts or promises of a better tomorrow.

The telepathy that old married couples and old friends share was enough: Vitaly shrugged, a sign of profound wonder, and then his old arms slightly raised the bag of food as if to say, “I do not know; all I know is I was sick and they have helped me be made better; I was hungry and tonight I shall eat well.”

The old man was shocked. If Vitaly could find nothing wrong, perhaps he could get something for himself and Natania. As Vitaly shuffled off, the old man made up his mind - he had come this far, he would go but a little bit further. He pushed his aching body away from the tree and laboriously shuffled to the school’s front door.

A young Moldovan man greeted him and asked him what he wanted to have done. The old man was not used to the freedom of choice. His perplexed look was probably enough of an answer. The young man leaned in slowly, gently touched his gnarled hands, and softy asked “dentist, optometry, or doctor?” This was not much of a choice for the old man: his teeth were as much a memory as was his childhood, and he knew death would come shortly after his precious Natania passed. He mumbled “optometry”, was given a piece of paper, and led to a room.

The activity in this room was maddening to the tired old man. Large white chests encircled the room with each filled with glasses. People from the village were trying on glasses and the Americans, with their helpers, were scuttling around the room in what looked like a choreographed dance involving the picking and pulling of glass frames from mysterious little pockets within the plastic cases.

The old man sat down and readied himself. Directly across from him sat his very first, very real American. His first thought: “so clean.” His next thought, “I am so filthy.” But the kind American did not seem to notice. She smiled at him with warmth he had only felt from two other people in his life: his mother and his Natania. It was disarming. The Soviet doctors that used to come through the village were cold; you felt much like a prize cow being evaluated before a farmer purchases you. But these people were different.

This woman’s warmth, in fact this entire experience, had lowered his walls of resistance completely. Through an interpreter, a pretty young girl obviously from the capital city of Moldova, the American woman leaned in and asked “how are you today?” He was completely disarmed already and the question floored him even more. “Why did she ask? Why would she care? Did she really want to know?” And so, he told her.

He told her of his beloved, wasting away to hunger and disease. He told her of their precious children who had left to find a better place knowing they would never see Momma and Poppa ever again. He told her of hunger, of cold, of sickness, and of waiting to die. He told her for himself, feeling freedom in knowing that at least one other person in this God-forsaken land would know his suffering.

His eyes betrayed him most of all, for they gave up the most dreaded acknowledgement of his pain - they shed tears. As he quieted himself, he fully expected the American to recoil in disgust or in fake pity. But his cynicism would go unrewarded. As he looked up he saw her eyes also betraying her - she too was crying.

“Damn this woman” he thought to himself. “Let well enough alone” he muttered. Why did he have to feed his curiosity and come today? Why did he tell her so much about himself? Reminding himself to be cautious, he composed himself and sent every non-verbal clue to the woman that enough was enough - to get on with things. And so she did.

Happily outfitted with glasses, the old man pulled himself up and prepared to leave. Before he could compose himself he was being hugged by the woman who still had tears fighting their way down her cheeks. The hug stopped short, however, as the woman felt his emaciated frame beneath his bulky layers of clothing. He had told her the story of his hunger, but his body told it much more acutely.

Where muscle should have been was only bone. Where skin should have been taut and supple it was loose and baggy. Instead of allowing him to pull away from this American’s emotions, his body had betrayed him. She sensed its betrayal and pulled back, trying not to do so too quickly. She smiled and pointed him to the hallway. In the hallway again, the interpreter suggested he take the opportunity to see a doctor.

The doctor was also a kind man, although he could no longer see where his chin had gone to. As the examination ended he once again found himself handed off to the first interpreter he had met. She led him to a small room labeled “pharmacy.” Within it were five women.

After he entered, the door was closed behind him. Panic gave way to fear: he had been right all along. They had wanted something from him. Some piece of information, some lesson the proud Americans would teach the lowly Moldovan peasants. But in their faces, he saw only kindness. One of the older women, obviously from the capital city, bent down and opened up two large sacks.

Within one, a plump goose. Within the other, two chickens. Did they expect him to cook them dinner? For the glasses was he to kill and pluck the animals? In exchange for the medicine was he to take care of the animals for someone in the village? Their corpulent mayor perhaps? The woman came to him and said, “These are for you.”

His mind raced, thinking to himself, “I thought as much. And what must I do for them to pay my debt to you?” His stupor betrayed him as his body earlier had. “I can not take them,” he told the woman. She would not be turned down. “Why not?”

“Someone will think that I stole them. The whole village knows we have no money to buy such things.”

“Nonsense”, she retorted.

He was stunned, but was become increasingly less sure of himself.

“My wife is ill and she can not cook these birds; they will go to waste.”

That drew only a look of bemusement from the woman. She told
him again, quietly, firmly, but lovingly, “these are a gift, please take them.”

One last excuse rumbled out of his now-weary mind. “I am too old to take care of such things.” But he and they both knew this was not true. He had found the energy to fulfill his curiosity in seeing the Americans. Surely he could muster the same for fresh eggs and, someday, when his Natania most needed it, meat. She might die soon, but it would not be of hunger, and it would not be alone.

In that moment, he felt something inside him break. For so long their lives had known only hardship. For too long they had known only loss: loss of family, of friends, of health, of security. It had been too much.

Like any normal person, he had survived by killing that part of his soul that desired human kindness. His mother, his Natania, his children’s love had been solitary moments of such kindness. Even these remembrances had become too dangerous in the harsh world he now lived in. He could afford no material comfort; a reality the comfort of kindness did little but make worse.

He mumbled “thank you”, not wanting to betray how deeply his soul was nourished at this gift, in this moment of need. Needing help to carry the birds back home, he, and the older Moldovan interpreter, began walking home.

He left that day understanding that there is good in this life; that the love he and Natania had for each other, the love they had for their children, could exist between unrelated people a world apart. The potential to love another completely and unselfishly stood starkly against the universal hate and anger he had held within him for too long.

Nearing their home, his thoughts ran back to his childhood home, a home before the Communists robbed them of their ability to believe in anything but the State. He remembered the icons his parents had prayed to and the lesson of universal love they represented. He was sure he would know pain again, he was sure he would soon lose his Natania. But within the bags the Moldovan woman struggled to carry for him no longer were mere animals - it was hope.

Perhaps today was a good day to pray again.

Copyright 2004 - Benjamin A. Shobert

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• March 25, 2004

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