She was a Russian. Olga was her name. She had dragged him from the jaws of death. Her first borscht he vomited out, because he had become used to surviving on bark and frozen potatoes. She didn’t ask for anything, she just gave. Her food, the roof over her head, her body. They swam naked in the river, made love among the mounds of berry bushes, together they went to do work in the woods, together they baked pīragi. He hewed a new little wooden house for her, the like no one there had seen before. He made a table, chairs, a round mirror, a dresser, a cupboard … Bowls and spoons. Cultivated a garden. Everything grew like crazy. He taught her how to make wine.

When Francis was granted his release, he could not sleep for nights on end. He wandered under the star spangled sky, prayed to God to have Him make the choice in his place.

For Christmas Ella sent a picture of herself with the three children. On the reverse side each had drawn out a word or two of a greeting, as best they could: “To dear daddy far away.”

When he told Olga that he was going back to his wife and children, she, without saying a word, fell to her knees, clutched his legs and cried.

Ella in an annoyed voice cuts into his reminiscences: “Now, why do you smile as if you’ve just stepped into warm cow dung? Have you eaten enough? Time to have a poo now.”

She places the flat bedpan under his behind, recites the “number two” prayer, collects the empty dishes and clambers down the spiral stairs. Why, in God’s name, did he create this contraption? Ella used to like it before, but now it’s so hard to go up and down the darn thing.

She places the dirty dishes in the sink. Goes around and examines her flower pots. Checks them for moisture. Ah, my lovely little crowns, how I toughened you up, and how you now bloom for me.

Harden up, toughen up.

Ella really did treat her second daughter badly. After getting her divorce, the daughter thought her little girl would be taken away from her. She sneaked into the school cafeteria, to taste the food her daughter would be eating to see if it was poisoned. Ella immediately sent her daughter off to the loony bin. The doctor told her that it had just been a temporary madness caused by her great heartache. She could have been helped by a bit of understanding and kindness. But Ella took the granddaughter to live with her. Let her daughter take care of her madness herself; probably she had not been toughened enough during her childhood. When her daughter left the insane asylum, she could never find work. She became too passive, drew into herself. This daughter is the only one now who comes to see them occasionally, to help them out. She doesn’t speak much. She prefers to sit by Francis’ bed. It once occurred to Ella that her daughter still holds a grudge about that wrong done to her. But when she tried to talk about it, it seemed to her that her daughter’s eyes started to flash, so she left it alone.