The Birth of Peter — Chapter from the Novel "Stone" by Volodymyr Shablia
The
Birth of Peter
Stone — Book One: First Steps Toward the Light and Back —
Chapter 1
by Volodymyr Shablia
January 1920. Ukrainian People’s Republic. The village of Tomakivka, Katerynoslav Governorate.
1920… Chaos steeped in fear, lawlessness, civil war, disease, and endless changes of regime.
The Reds with their grain
requisitions, the Whites with their haughty imperial plunder, the Makhnovists
with their anarchist expropriations and redistribution of everything around
them, the bands of Hryhoriev, Marusya, and countless others… Each with its own law.
Yet all of them took and killed, raped and looted.
Only one institution in
Tomakivka continued to function — the hospital. Every warring authority, every
general and ataman, needed it: the wounded and the sick had to be treated, and
the able-bodied troops fed and given shelter for the night.
Iryna Dyrikova, the hospital’s
longtime cook, peeled potatoes out of habit: breakfast had to be prepared for
the patients. Work was work, and for now she remained the family’s only steady
provider. Yet today her thoughts were entirely at home, where her pregnant
daughter Mariia had spent the past week bedridden with typhus, alone and in critical
condition. As ill fortune would have it, there was no one else at home. Her
son-in-law Danylo had only recently found employment, and such luck could not
be squandered.
Usually Iryna managed to visit
her daughter during the day, but today the hospital was overwhelmed: another group
of wounded men had arrived. A mother’s heart yearned for her child… though what
help could she truly offer?
Iryna wiped her hands on a
towel and approached the icon of the Mother of God holding the infant Jesus.
Falling to her knees, she folded her hands against her breast and fixed her
eyes upon the face of the Blessed Virgin.
“Most Holy Virgin Mary, grant
my daughter the strength to overcome this terrible illness. Save and protect my
child, my own flesh and blood — I beg you, I implore you! Glory to You, Lord!
You alone grant us both joy and sorrow; You are almighty. Take my soul, but
help my poor Mariia! In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy
Spirit. Amen.”
Her heartrending prayer,
accompanied by the sign of the cross and bitter tears, grew quieter and
quieter, gradually dissolving into an indistinct murmur.
As she prayed, Iryna’s soul
seemed to merge with the divine, renouncing all that surrounded her. It was as
though she became one with the images of the holy martyrs and dissolved within
them. She had learned to enter such a trance as a young girl in church. The
lofty vaults of the sanctuary, the majestic faces of saints reaching toward
eternity and penetrating the soul itself, had always drawn her in. The scent of
incense, the sacred chanting, the holy images — all of it enveloped her in a
feeling of serenity, boundless depth, and goodness, stripping away all sense of
space and time. Iryna surrendered herself completely to that wondrous floating
sensation, drinking it in and savoring moments of heavenly rapture.
In time, she learned to enter
this state while praying before an icon even at home or at work. And now she drifted
once more through a trembling luminous depth, striving to draw nearer to the
mysterious flickering halo.
Suddenly, that radiant heaven
seemed to twist inside out and collapse into a black and bottomless void.
…
Iryna lay on the floor. Her
shattered body slowly returned to consciousness. One thought hammered
relentlessly at her mind, filling her entire being: she had to run home at once
— something had happened there.
With great effort she rose to
her feet and staggered toward her friend Polina, the midwife on duty at the
hospital that day.
“Polina, my heart forebodes
disaster. We must go to Mariia! During prayer I fell into hell. The same thing
happened when Marfa, my eldest daughter, was dying. Hurry!” Barely able to
stand, Iryna trembled from head to toe, yet her eyes burned with determination.
 |
| Sisters Maria (right) and Marfa (early 20th century) |
“I’ll gather my case — you go ahead. I’ll catch up,” Polina replied at once, understanding immediately. Never before had she seen her friend in such a state.
'I must hurry — but first I’ll
take something to ease the typhus symptoms,' Polina thought as she rushed with
her obstetric bag to the first-aid room. There she seized another emergency
satchel and bolted after her friend.
The sharp frosty air had
quickly restored Iryna’s strength. Yet the more strength returned to her body,
the more vividly horrific visions flared within her tortured mind. In them the
fear of possible tragedies at home mixed with scenes of the most tragic events
of the past... The bloodied corpse of her husband murdered by bandits… a Red
commissar with a Mauser walking straight toward her, only to choose their
neighbor Mykhailo from the crowd for a public execution… eighteen-year-old
Marfa lying beautiful and serene in her coffin… Mariia delirious with typhus
fever… A nurse collapsing from a bullet during the battle for the hospital,
when the Reds used the medical staff as human shields.
…
At last — the house.
Iryna burst into the bedroom. Mariia
was thrashing upon the bed, drenched in sweat. Her entire body convulsed
violently. She cried out, then moaned. Her mother rushed to her side,
struggling to keep her from falling to the floor, and immediately felt the
terrible heat radiating from her body and the stiffness of her muscles.
“Hold on, Mariia, hold on.
Polina will be here soon — she’ll help you. Everything will be all right,” Iryna
murmured soothingly. But the fear began to grow in her mind and crept slowly
down her spine, spreading through her inch by inch. Somewhere deep within her
it spread wide before surging upward again, breaking across her brow in large
beads of sweat.
“Mother, save me! I don’t want
to die!” Recovering briefly from another attack of agony that tormented her whole
being, Mariia looked pleadingly at her mother.
She seized Iryna’s hand and
squeezed it tightly. Iryna gathered all her strength not to weep, not to let
her daughter see her fear. Yet at the corner of her eye a treacherous tear
still escaped and rolled down her cheek. Unable to restrain herself any longer,
she felt ready to break into sobs.
“Iryna, fetch water and a
clean towel!” Polina, standing in the doorway, needed only a few seconds to
grasp the situation.
In an instant she ceased to be
a devoted friend and became instead a stern, experienced, decisive physician.
Startled by the sharpness of her tone, Iryna obeyed without a word. Polina
approached the bed, touched the sick woman’s forehead, examined her mouth,
chest, throbbing abdomen, and genitals.
“You’ll have to give birth
now, Mariia,” the midwife said gently, yet firmly. “I know you’re in pain and
your strength is failing you. But I’ll give you medicine to help you endure.
Don’t be afraid. I’ve handled more difficult deliveries than this.”
Iryna returned to the room.
“Mariia is going into labor —
the typhus has triggered premature birth,” Polina declared firmly, staring
sternly at her bewildered friend, who stood frozen with a basin in her hands
and a towel over her shoulder. “The process can no longer be stopped. The
contractions have begun. Pull yourself together and help us. I think we have half
an hour to prepare. I need clean sheets, gauze, rags, oilcloth, plenty of
boiled water, alcohol or at least strong moonshine. Go gather everything. I’ll
try to bring down the fever with cold compresses and prepare the instruments.”
Given a clear plan of action, Iryna
immediately set to work. Her friend’s confidence filled her with hope.
Meanwhile Polina soaked a
towel and laid it across Mariia’s forehead. She mixed a tincture intended to
strengthen labor into a spoonful of water and forced the laboring woman to
drink it. Oilcloth and sheets were spread upon the floor, where Mariia was
later moved. Then the midwife placed wet cloths upon every exposed part of her
body. By the time the first powerful contractions began, the fever had been
lowered somewhat, giving Mariia’s weakened body at least a small reserve of
strength against the rigors of childbirth.
“Surrender yourself completely
to the urges your body sends you,” the midwife instructed. “Do not resist the
contractions — the crushing pain in your belly — but try with all your strength
to enter into that pain, merge with it, and then drive it outward. You are very
weak, so you must try to deliver the child quickly, with the first strong
pushes, while you still have strength. The baby is premature and therefore
small, and I believe you can do it. So far everything is progressing well, but
you must fight for it. Now — with God’s help!”
“Mother! Mother! Mama!” The
cries of the woman in labor during each new wave of pain seemed ready to tear
apart the frail walls of the house.
“Breathe faster. And when the
contractions come again, bear down with your stomach muscles — bear down as
though relieving yourself, and you’ll feel the pain begin to weaken,” Polina
instructed Mariia again during a brief pause between contractions.
Iryna echoed her:
“Dive into the pain and help
it along! Empty yourself completely! Push! Do what your body wants. It will
ease the pain.”
Iryna squeezed her daughter’s
hand tightly.
Mariia, who loved her mother
devotedly, had always trusted her in everything. And now once again she
surrendered herself completely to her mother’s guidance and advice. As another
avalanche of pain rose within her, the laboring woman forced herself to yield
to it, striving with all the strength left in her weakened body to carry it to
its utmost intensity.
And — a miracle — the pain
truly eased. To her surprise, Mariia realized she could now control the process
herself.
Several more times she
repeated the method she had only just discovered, and with each attempt she
believed more strongly that she would handle it. At last another powerful push
ended in a strange sensation of emptiness. And moments later the weak but insistent
cry of an infant announced the birth of a new life.
Soon Mariia was shown her son.
He was no longer crying. The child was tiny, frail, and wrinkled all over. Yet
the boy’s lively eyes darted stubbornly from side to side, as though he were
already trying to take in this new world — so immense and beautiful.
“You did well, Mariia! You
have a son! You did well!” Iryna cried joyfully, kissing her daughter’s hand.
“Now everything will be all right. Everything will be all right now.”
At the sight of her baby, Mariia
felt a wave of relief. She longed to take him into her arms and press him
against her breast. But the child was carried away.
After all the necessary
procedures had been completed, Polina drew her friend aside and whispered:
“It’s dangerous for her to
breastfeed — the baby could contract typhus. But he’s only a weak premature
infant born at seven months, and if he doesn’t receive colostrum now, I fear he
won’t survive. The previous mother gave birth a week ago, so she no longer has
any colostrum. I think we must take the risk and put the boy to the breast.
Newborns contract the illness from sick mothers in roughly a third of cases.”
Iryna looked down at her
grandson lying in her arms. He jerked his tiny arms and legs aimlessly, then gave
an awkward little smile.
“God’s will be done,” she said
firmly. “The child must drink his mother’s milk.”
When the breast, cleansed with
alcohol, was offered to the baby, it became clear that his mouth was too small
to take the nipple properly. Fortunately, the nipple of the other breast was
smaller, and the boy set eagerly to nursing.
Holding the flesh of her flesh
close against her breast, feeling the gentle sucking motions of her son, Mariia
was overcome with euphoria. The terrible illness seemed to retreat before the
happiness of being a mother.
Neither Mariia nor the infant
knew anything of the danger of infection. They were simply obeying the ancient
law of nature. Meanwhile, Iryna spent the remainder of the day in prayer, now
begging the Lord for the salvation of two souls — her daughter and her
grandson.
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Stone — Book Two: Difficult Roads to Hell
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