Page 49 of Reverence

On her shoulder, Katarina flinched, and her breathing changed, turning ragged. Juliette tightened her arms around the trembling figure. Just as with the night terrors she had interrupted earlier in their cohabitation together, she felt powerless and worried. In the twilight darkness, they lay in silence for a moment that transcended reality itself.

“The nightmares are the worst of it, really.”

It was the voice of a very young Katarina, the one that occasionally disappeared into the closet, hiding from a bad dream, afraid to let the night in. Juliette had heard this tone several times now and recognized it, even as her heart broke every time it made its presence known.

“The fact that those don’t seem to be nightmares but memories might actually be the worst of it, Katarina.”

It wasn’t her business. Juliette had told herself time and time again the same refrain. The life Katarina had led prior to their collision at that fateful party for the touring Bolshoi was none of Juliette’s affair. And yet every single time, she felt compelled to act, to save, to intervene, to say things she had absolutely no place saying.

Katarina had mentioned only the smallest shreds of her past, the large canvas of it remaining a mystery. But even as sheltered as Juliette was, she had seen a slice of the world and had found this strong, independent, amazing woman in a ball of tears and terror in the closet enough times to understand that the canvas in question would be covered in atrocities.

“My mother was arrested when I was five. They tell you, in books and such, that children that young don’t hold memories for very long. Yet, I am rather certain I’m not an outlier. In the orphanage, even in my short time there, I met toddlers who had recollections of their parents being arrested or murdered or tortured in front of them. And those memories never went away.”

Juliette’s arm tightened on the shoulder that seemed suddenly so fragile another ounce of pressure would surely break it. Snap it like a little bird’s wing. She tried to relax her hold, but Katarina burrowed deeper into the space between her neck and collarbone, and Juliette held her close once again.

“She was tried and convicted of espionage. My father attended every hearing. He stood outside of every jail she was held at and waited for the truck that transported prisoners to pass by for a single glimpse of her.”

Katarina’s fingers reached for Juliette’s and grasped firmly, as if she needed another anchor to get through this.

“She was a ballerina. Perhaps the biggest ballet talent Estonia has ever produced. She was allowed to travel outside of the Iron Curtain, and they say she was recruited by the US on one of the tour stops.” Katarina’s voice was growing more matter-of-fact with every word, emotion leaching out of it entirely.

“My father was an interpreter who worked for the government. Decoding things. Secret projects. Later, during his trial, they said she married him because she wanted to steal those secrets.” Katarina made a sound, something Juliette could only describe as a scoff that somehow ended in a deep sigh.

“Every Saturday, she made him pancakes and he walked the dog and bought her flowers. There was always white cherry preserves, because it was his favorite, and she’d make it every summer, dozens of jars. And there were more often than not tulips, because after an entire life spent getting roses, she adored the simpler things. And they touched. All the time. You know, the way two people who cannot keep their hands to themselves do?”

Juliette nodded, trying to hold back the tears. She knew they’d spill; it was only a matter of time. Katarina’s memorieswere already heartbreaking and she had not even gotten to the worst parts of them, Juliette was certain.

“I was a child, but it was such a wonderful feeling. Being in their presence. In the presence of love. It was everywhere. In little notes, in the hugs and kisses, in the late mornings in bed, where I’d find them wrapped in each other. And they taught me English, since very early on. They made it a game, a celebration, and it was so much fun. It was something we did together, the three of us, and then just my father and me. He was adamant I learn. He was adamant I work on my accent, on my pronunciation, on my idioms. I think he knew one day I’d need it.” Something wet fell on Juliette’s skin, and despite Katarina’s voice still sounding very much like a historian’s might dispassionately recounting the facts, her tears spoke of a different story entirely.

“She killed herself in her cell. That’s what they told my father. That it had been violent and therefore the body was in the most awful condition. He was persuaded to sign papers stating that he demanded no autopsy, no investigation. Said persuasion resulted in him coming home with broken ribs and blackened eyes. But he never relented. He kept going to all sorts of government institutions, to his and Mom’s former friends. I say ‘former,’ because after a year of this kind of insistence, he became a pariah. All he wanted was to know what had happened to her.” The tears kept dripping on Juliette’s collarbone, each feeling like a paper cut, each deepening the wound.

“After three years of ringing every bell, accusing the prison officials of torture, he was institutionalized. They call it psikhushka. It’s a place people go in and from which they never return. Long hallways with little white rooms, no windows, lights on at all times. Drugged-out-of-their-mind patients, living years on end with no trial, no sentencing, nothing that would allow them to ever leave. After Stalin died, the Soviet Union‘modernized.’ Gulag was terminated. But the people who were still ‘bothering’ the powers that be—political prisoners—needed to be disposed of. Madhouses were a solution.”

Juliette chewed on the inside of her cheek to stop the sob from escaping. The horror of the revelations, which only kept coming, was devastating. And Katarina didn’t seem close to done.

“I was allowed to see him twice. The first time, I was nine. I remember that corridor, the light of dozens of fluorescent lamps buzzing, some blinking. And the screams… The screams of hundreds of people going mad. I remember looking into each of the rooms and it was clear to me, even at nine, that the people who were insane to begin with were not the ones howling. The cries were of desperation, of impotence, of losing what vestiges of one’s mind these people still possessed. Those who were ill had no reason to scream. The sane ones—every single one of those reasons. And the moment you stopped screaming? That’s when you began to belong in the psikhushka.”

Katarina sniffed, but Juliette was sure she hadn’t noticed because her tone didn’t change. She just kept speaking.

“I will hear my father till the day I die. His fear. His horror. His pain. They still institutionalize people against their will in the Soviet Union. All someone has to insinuate is that you’re dangerous. And as you know, the danger is often in the eye of the beholder. Or an enemy.”

Juliette bit her lip so hard, she felt her teeth cut the skin. The taste of blood in her mouth grounded her, allowing her to lie still and not get up to throw something, break things, scream herself raw at the dreadful size of the evils being described. So much about Katarina’s life was becoming clear. When exposed to the sun, some of the demons she carried in her heart showed their faces, their reasons for existing.

“What happened to you?”

At the sound of Juliette’s voice, Katarina sat up, her eyes swimming in tears, drowning in grief and remembrance. She looked down at Juliette as if she had forgotten she had not been talking to herself, that she had an audience.

A smile. A sad, lonely smile tugged at the corners of that mouth, slightly swollen from all the kisses. Katarina lifted a hand and touched Juliette’s cheek.

She was telling her the most frightful things she had lived through, and still she was the one drying Juliette’s tears.

Well, fuck, isn’t it just like her? To take the full brunt of the pain? Of the sorrow?

Juliette caught the trembling fingers and brought them to her lips, kissing each one, pouring all the reverence she had for this woman, for the weight of the entire world on her shoulders.

“Nothing much happened to me.” Katarina’s smile was gone, and she looked down on Juliette with a forced nonchalance that did not suit the moment.

“Tell me, please.” At Juliette’s plea, the teary eyes closed. When they opened again, they were clearer, but that only made the sadness in them appear deeper, all-consuming.

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