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Sofia Andrukhovych
a Ukrainian coffin maker!”
But Petro never accompanies
her, and how could I let her
go all by herself?
Petro is not a coffin maker.
He
makes
statues
for
headstones. And all these
young ladies shed cascades
of tears till their noses turn
blue when they see at the
cemetery Petro’s mournful
angels or marble maidens
with flowing unbraided hair
who have grown forever cold.
Petro works in Casimir
Bebnowicz’s workshop in
Sapiezynska St., across from
the steeply rising Lutheran
church. Just where a poplar
alley leads to the cemetery.
But now he is completing
marbleworks inourcathedral:
in the main nave the marble is
dark green, in the side naves,
cream-colored. He says the
iconostasis has already been
painted and gilded. That they
will put in gas lighting.
I bring him lunches there
daily: blood sausage with
kasha, smoked corned beef,
beans,
liver
dumplings,
potato
pancakes,
pea
croquettes. They have done a
poor job clearing the streets
from snow, and the droshky
can get stuck in snowdrifts
easily. It starts getting dark
soon after three o’clock, but
the lamplighter is in no rush
to light the street lamps. At
every step there are crowds
of young guys warmed
by booze. Our city liquor
monopoly made them an
unheard-of holiday present:
a liter costs only 66 cents.
This amount of money won’t
get you enough to eat, but
you can get so much to drink
that not only will you forget
hunger—you also won’t be
able to recall your own name.
And then they don’t know