Weekend with Déduška
1. Martie
"Maman, non, j'ai déjà dit- ugh! Maman, je ne suis pas idiot!" Vanya cannot help but laugh, watching his grandson argue with the nation's daughter on the phone. They still have some time before they have to get going from the airport, and where they're heading there's no phone service. On the one hand he can understand Anya's concern. On the other hand she's kind of ridiculous, just like her own mother.
"Women!" Martie yells in Russian, hanging up the phone and turning it off.
"You argued," Vanya starts as the man throws himself into the seat beside him, "in Russian while in France, and in French while in Russia?"
Martie eyes him with those blue eyes from his father, eyes that are all German. In some ways Martie is the one who looks least like a Braginski, but that look of pure non-amusement is all Erzsi and Anya, a look Vanya knows all too well. "Don't judge me," the young man states flatly, slouching in the chair, hands shoved into his pockets.
"Don't worry Mart," Vanya chuckles, "soon we'll have no phone service."
"God bless remote Siberia," Martie says, nodding his head, eyes unfocused.
It takes hours and several forms of transportation before the pick-up truck pulls up in front of the small cabin. Looking at his phone Vanya can see he's lost service, did several hours ago; with one last look at the picture of Erzsi and Anya from his daughter's birthday he has set as his background, Vanya powers down the phone.
"Remind me again," Martie says once they step out into the cold. It's warmer than it was in the dead of winter, but it's still Siberia, still further north than most people can handle, the furthest away from civilization you can still go in the modern world. "You got this cabin on which banishment to Siberia?"
Vanya laughs and sighs inwardly at the same time as they load up their backs with their things; no need to make two trips when the women aren't here insisting they'll hurt themselves carrying everything in one go. "The one where the tsar didn't want to send me away but knew he had to."
"And how many times were you banished?" Martie asks, taking the keys to unlock the door.
"Seven." Vanya pats the wall before entering, closing the door behind him.
It's not a big cabin, nor a fancy one, though he has given it some modern updates. It only ever gets used on odd weekends like this, where Vanya needs to escape the world and just be, truly and utterly alone. Or when Erzsi gets so fed up that it's like watching her soul be consumed and Vanya could never let that happen to the one he loves more than anyone else, could never let the one who saved him have a heart that grows even the smallest amount black. Or when Martie's home and his mother's mollycoddling him despite the years he's spent in military training. Martie can appreciate it, Siberia, the cabin, can appreciate it the way Vanya can.
In some ways Martie is the greatest Braginski of the four grandchildren.
He watches his grandson chop the wood, stopping him every once and a while to correct his strikes. Martie, exasperated, tells Vanya to give it a go then.
Raising the axe up high over his head, the Russian breathes in deeply, his eyes closing for a moment, before his body tenses and all effort is focused in that singular point on the log. Every muscle in his body works in unison as he swings the axe over a shoulder, his large chest turning, his strong legs keeping him rooted, his fast arms delivering the final blow without mercy in a display of power only possible by the largest nation that ever was.
The log splits cleanly in half.
Martie claps before asking jokingly, "Who's face were you picturing on that one Déduška?"
He lets the axe stay in the post, leaning on it and breathing deeply. Violet eyes sweep over the landscape before him: as barren as ever, devoid of human contact, frozen through. What he loves most about Siberia is that it reminds Vanya of himself, the fear it inspires, the beauty it truly holds.
The loneliness.
"Déduška?"
"Yeah Martie?"
"How often do you think about death?"
Vanya lets his eyebrows rise as he turns his head to look over his shoulder at the boy. Martin, at twenty, is not nearly as tall as his grandfather but is damn close, taller than his father by several centimeters. And he stands taller from the discipline the military put in him, the pride he carries himself with. On the off days where he's home, the days where his mother doesn't have to tick off days on a calendar counting down his return, Martin's self-control still shows through from dealings with his sisters to the respect he shows to his parents.
Where it breaks down is with his younger brother, when Martie's wearing his skinny jeans and large cardigans, a scarf wrapped loosely around his neck as he colors with the eight-year-old. Because he's still just the little boy Vanya first held in the hospital so many years ago, who took piano lessons for twelve years, who got in fights at age nine defending his sisters' honor. The teenager who broke his mother's heart when he said he wanted to go into the military, the one who spoke with Vanya and Erzsi and Gil and Francis about serving his country and protecting the people he loves. They had understood him, because he understands them. He understands that desire they have as countries.
"Sometimes," his grandfather finally says, standing to shift his weight. "Why do you ask Mart?"
His hair is light; not silver like Vanya's and Anya's, but blond tinted an almost-caramel from his father. It blows in the wind as he asks, quite simply, "If you are no longer Russia, are you no longer immortal?"
"I'm still Russia," Vanya says definitely, "they cannot take that from me. I may not work for them, I may no longer have duties, but I am Russia. That I have become… rebellious, let's say," and both men chuckle, "is the Russian collective swelling up in me. Though, that I have a tendency towards being rebellious is probably more from me being a stubborn one than anything else."
"Is that why they fired you?" Martie asks. "Because you're a troublemaker for them?"
"Yes and no," Vanya muses aloud. He had been contemplating the question himself, and having someone to bounce the ideas off of, someone who wouldn't react like Erzsi but understood more than Anya, is a nice way to work through the thoughts. "I think they don't like that I represent the opposition to their government, but it's probably my record too. There had been several personal missteps I made during the reign of the tsar-"
"Siberia?" Martie interrupts.
"Da. But those were short banishments and I understood the punishment, it was equal to what any other Russian would have been given. And then the revolution came and-" Vanya laughs. "I'm pretty sure there's an essay in my file about how I am a bad Soviet, a bad communist, how I stuck to the tsar and what would that mean going forward."
"Who wrote that?"
Vanya snorts. "Lenin, I imagine. Maybe Stalin."
"Were you there? When the tsar's family-"
"No." That one he cuts off because it hurts, and though Vanya loves how Martie asks him questions, it's still after all this time too painful to talk about to talk about that day. "They told me I would be, but in the end I think they knew I would cause them trouble. I loved those girls," he admits.
"Nagyi'd said you did."
"Hmm."
There's a moment of silence before Martie asks the question no one's asked but they all know the answer to. "That's why Mama's named Anastasia?"
Vanya doesn't respond.
As they sit at their holes in the ice, fishing rods in hand, Vanya asks, "How's the army treating you?"
"Good," Martie chuckles, "though Mama would say something different."
Taking in the boy, Vanya smiles. He's crouched over the same way his mother does when she comes to Russia in the winter: forward enough to show she's uncomfortable, but still relaxed because the cold is a part of her bones, a part of being Russian. "That doesn't surprise me in the least Mart."
"Nagyi said," and Martie looks at his grandfather with those blue eyes again, "it was because of Afghanistan?"
Oh right, Vanya thinks; he'd forgotten that that had been the direct cause of sending his daughter to the West. "That was a bad one," he sighs.
"Aren't all wars?" Martie quips.
Several minutes of silence pass, a fish coming up to bite but then swimming away. "It's not that your mother's a pacifist," Vanya finally says. "Maybe it's my fault, in the end. I'd tried to protect her but once the war broke out- I couldn't. Erzsi and I'd decided we'd tell your mother the whole truth after her 16th birthday, but we hadn't been expecting a war at the same time. And your mother, her mind's too quick like her own mother's, she immediately started asking about the revolution in Russia and the two world wars and the revolution in Hungary and every military conflict I'd like to forget about."
Martie nods, thinking quietly, before asking, "What did she say? When she found out… why Nagyi and the others were living with you in Russia?"
Closing his eyes he can still see that day, his daughter fidgeting with her hands in her lap, her eyes cast down. Erzsi had sat beside him, both supportive of him and defiant; he'd forgotten the magnitude of her anger, knew that that hatred was still there but had thought maybe he'd righted some wrong that he hadn't. And when his little, beautiful Anya had glanced at them with those emerald eyes, she'd looked right at her mother and asked-
"So are you a prisoner of Papa's?"
Without missing a beat Martie adds, "And what did Nagyi tell her?"
That had been a heartbreaking moment on par with hearing how the tsar's family had been murdered. Erzsi had always told him he'd have to answer for this one day, for the sins committed against others; she'd been so angry in those days, that tension always bubbling just under the surface. He had begged her to explain, to make Anya see, because they were both prisoners and Erzsi alone understood that about Vanya, the vulnerable position he was in, because of her. She'd told him she didn't want Anya to resent her father the way Erzsi still resented Roderich Edelstein.
But all Erzsi had done in that moment was nod and say, "Yes," Vanya echoing the tone as it rings through his mind.
His grandson shifts, a bit uncomfortable. "I know," he starts, "that it's difficult for our family, being in the army. But I have to protect them, I have to know nothing bad will come of them. Mama said you understood though she didn't like it, and I know it's hard," and Vanya turns his head at that. He's never seen Martie so swept up in those feelings that were driving him forward, the ones that had caused him at age eighteen to enlist. "But someone has to Déduška," he finally says, "and I wear that uniform proudly for my mother."
A hand falls upon his grandson's shoulder, squeezing it, before Vanya puts down his fishing rod and hugs the boy tightly. "I know Mart, I know."
The last time Vanya'd come out hunting had been with Putin several years back; that had been something else. Yet with Martie it's still a contest of who's the bigger man: Vanya has years of experience on his side, but Martie's younger, bolder, and a sharp-shooter. In the end he relents because Martie reminds him of Timo, who Vanya could just never quite one-up when they'd go out hunting. The Finn had been the best marksman he'd ever come across, something he was distinctively reminded of during the invasion of Finland when he had his hat shot off his head. Purple eyes had met purple eyes across the battlefield; Timo'd let him get away that day, the same way Vanya'd let him get away the day the revolutionaries came for him.
He realizes he kind of misses Timo then, as Martie makes the first kill of the day. "Good job," Vanya congratulates automatically.
"Thanks," Martie says victoriously.
He knows perfectly well he shouldn't let his grandkids drink as much vodka as he does, but Vanya considers the clear liquid akin to water and so lets it flow as such in the cabin. "Tell me more about your girlfriend," Vanya says, pouring them out more alcohol. "I"m sure that broke a few hearts."
Martie laughs. "What'd the women tell you so far?"
"Your mother said her family's mainly Russian and that she's from London. Your sisters complained that she's hot." Martie laughs again.
"She is really hot Déduška, believe you me."
"Then let us drink to that!" Having downed their shots, the younger man pours them out new ones. "What's her name?"
"Basienka," he sighs, handing his grandfather his drink. "You'll like her Déduška, I know you will."
"Good girl? Orthodox?"
"Russian Orthodox, freaked her parents out when they found out I was raised Catholic."
"Good parents," Vanya snorts. "What's she look like?"
"She kind of reminds me," Martie starts, "of your younger sister, except that Basienka's got black hair and this love in her blue eyes." Closing his eyes the Russian imagines his Nataliya with long black hair, her eyes kind but just as dark and piercing. He pictures her smiling, the way she used to, with her pale skin and happy life. Nataliya used to dress to match Vanya's military uniform; his mind immediately imagines Basienka doing the same for Martie. "Déduška?"
"Still imagining," Vanya mutters.
"This isn't about Basienka."
Crooking an eyebrow, his eyes still closed, he silently urges the boy to go on, sipping his vodka before downing it.
"I was thinking…." Martie stops before clearing his throat and in a clear voice stating, "I was thinking of changing my name, back to Braginski."
His mind whirls at that, staring at the young man before him. Anya had waited to get married, waited so that her father could be there and walk her down the isle, so her parents could be with her. And his son-in-law's a good man, but he's not Russian. Vanya knows that had been Anya's main concern, just as it had been for his grandchildren when they started dating. For all that he would have liked a Russian son-in-law though, the one he's got is still pretty good.
Yet the children don't have Russian names, not legally at least: Martin, Véronique, Larissa, Aubert. They don't have Russian patronyms, don't have a Russian family name. They do have Russian pet names, but it's not the same, not that he'd wanted Anya to give them Russian names; she'd asked, when she was pregnant with Martie, but that hadn't been important to Vanya at the time. Give them any names and let them be healthy, that had been all that mattered.
"Déduška?"
"What would your change name to?" Vanya asks. Only the youngest one has any sort of Russian name, Ivan for his grandfather.
"Well-" Martie shifts awkwardly and Vanya thinks he must have been considering this for a while to finally broach the subject now. "If you were fine with it, Martin Ivanovich Braginski."
With his fingers Vanya writes the word on the cold window: Мартин Иванович Брагинский. "I could get used to that," the Russian nation finally says, turning his head to see the wave of relief crash over this grandson. He's always considered Martie to be like the son he never had: the one he can take out hunting, to the cabin in Siberia, drink vodka with while discussing politics or take to beauty contests Erzsi and Anya would call degrading and extravagant. Which they are, Vanya knows, but it's a thing for the two men to share, something his son-in-law would never have appreciated and that little Vanya is still too young for.
"You're- you're fine with that?" Martie's joy is growing by the moment.
"When would you do it?"
"After I'm done in the military," he says, because clearly he'd had this all worked out already. "I love France but I want to move to Moscow and so does Basienka, so when I'm done I'm going to change my name and then we'll get married and move there together."
"What'll you do in Moscow?"
"Teach, like Papa. French maybe, though I'll honestly teach whatever they'll pay me for."
"And what'll Basienka do?"
Martie shrugs. "Whatever the hell she wants; I intend to provide for the both of us."
"That's my boy," and Vanya pulls him into a headlock, messing up his grandson's hair until they're both howling with laughter.
"This was a good weekend Déduška," Martie finally says. "Sorry it has to end."
"Me too Mart," Vanya sighs, "me too."