Irina stood behind the counter hunched over the library book she’d checked out the day before. Her eyes darted over the text becoming wide as if they were devouring each and every word.
“Rinka!” Her mother’s voice broke her concentration. She looked over at her mother who waved her hand toward a booth of customers. Sadly, Irina closed the book and approached the table.
She quickly took the patrons’ orders and made her way to the window behind the counter. “Order in,” she said as the tapped on the rusty bell.
Turning back she noticed her mother studying the book’s cover. At that moment her father entered the deli and bakery that stood on the corner of 7thand 54th.
“Pasha,” her mother quipped. “Would you look at that?”
Her father pulled his scarf and coat off and hung them on the rack by the front entrance. He walked to the counter and ran his hand across the book titled Russia: A History and Its People. “So?”
Tamara huffed, folding her arms tight across her chest.
Pavel Kozlov and his wife, Tamara, migrated from Russia 24 years ago in search of the “American dream.” A former art historian, Pasha dreamt of teaching at one of America’s prestigious universities. Unable to find a job in education, he drove cabs while his wife worked as a seamstress. But he never gave up on pursuing a better life for him, his wife, and their 2-year-old son, Sergei.
As the years passed, the family grew with the addition of another boy, Fedor. While they struggled financially, Pasha always found a way to make ends meet and somehow managed to save a little bit of money over the next 10 years. Then one day, a passenger offered him the opportunity to buy the restaurant. It wasn’t teaching but this would allow him to provide more for his family. Two months after they’d opened Little Dubna, their third and last child, Irina, was born.
Pasha was a gentle man who loved both his wife and daughter equally. He always said time and time again how he hated to get in between the two when they disagreed upon things.
“There’s nothing wrong with her wanting to learn about her heritage,” he defended. Tamara sighed throwing her hands up in the air.
“Mrs. Kozlova?” Oleg, one of the line cooks, called out from the open kitchen window. “We need more plates. A lot of these are chipped.”
Tamara exhaled heavily. “Rinka, can you go upstairs and look in the storage room for more plates?”
Irina jumped and ran to the stairs. Anything to escape waiting tables. But before she could take another step her mother summoned once more.
“And take this nonsense with you.” She slid the book to the edge of the counter.
Irina grabbed the book and climbed up the stairs. With each step she took she looked down at the image of St. Basil’s with its multi-colored onion domes. How she wished she could visit what she called her home country. Yes, she was born in America, but her every fiber belonged in Russia.
She entered the storage room and began rummaging through boxes. Her mother was not the most organized person. Half of the boxes had their contents scribbled on the outside of the carton while others were bare.
Irina squeezed between the boxes. How does mama or papa ever fit in here?She giggled at the thought of her parents trying to maneuver in the tight, filled room. She pushed herself to the back of the room trying to find the box containing the much-needed plates.
Standing on her toes, she noticed a small box high atop the back shelf. Curiously she stepped on top of a crate. She reached her arms up, her fingers fluttering as she tried to reach to box. Then she finally was able to slide the carton to the edge and it toppled down into her hands.
Irina gasped when she saw her name on the address label. She lightly touched the numerous postal stamps that clung to the upper corner of the box. Then she glanced at the postmark….Дубна, Россия.
“Russia?” She sat on top of the crate that had served as her step stool and ran her hand over the packing tape. Staring at the postal imprint she noticed the date of 19 августа 2004 г., which was three months after her birth.
She stared at the box and then gently began to remove the tape. She stopped for a moment, perhaps out of guilt. Why was the box hidden? Perhaps it was meant to be a surprise. But it was addressed to her. Curiosity gave way and Irina ripped the tape from the package and slowly opened the lid.
Inside lay a beautiful, matryoshka doll. This was not the traditional nesting doll with a shiny, colorful lacquer finish. Rather it had a somewhat modest appearance with most of the natural wood exposed and painted with muted colors of light brown, beige and white. Gold and white accents were hand painted on the doll’s garment and veil. The doll was the depiction of an angel with red lips and holding a shiny gold bell.
Irina pulled the doll from the box causing a piece of paper to drop in her lap. She unfolded the paper to discover a note written in broken English that simply read, This is special doll my Irina. Open each stack and make wish. Start with small doll first. Only you can make wish and have them come true. I hope this brings joy and happiness. But be careful, not all wishes may be good. Love your babushka.
Irina carefully opened the delicate nesting doll to reveal a smaller doll. She quickly opened one after the other, each doll housing a smaller figure inside. When she finished unstacking the dolls, she counted 10 in all.
Ten dolls, ten wishes, she thought. She grasped the smallest figure, closed her eyes, held her breath and made a wish…a dream she’d always wanted to come true.
As she opened her eyes, she no longer recognized the storage room. She looked down to see white linen, peasant blouse rather than the grey V-neck t-shirt she’d been wearing. Slowly she stood up and left the unfamiliar room. She walked out into the hallway and was startled by the sight of an older woman.
“Irinka,” the grey-haired woman smiled as she approached her. The lady reached out and hugged her tightly.
“Babushka?” Irina asked in disbelief.
folkfairy 