Katrina by Richard Krause

What is immoral is simply what we don’t want people to do.  If anything is expeditious to us, of benefit, if it accords with our own plan, we will not only sanction but applaud what would otherwise outrage us.

Scene: Russia, the nineteenth century. 

Situation: Grandpa seems on his last legs and has not gotten on the nerves of his family yet that they would prefer to see him gone.

In fact they are amused by Grandpa, fond of him, his liveliness, his playfulness, the estate he will leave would be no different in his absence.  He has been a kindly, docile old man who is given to impish tricks that harm no one.  In fact his jolliness will be missed.  And contrary to many families his family does all they can to rouse his flagging interest in life as a result of the debilitating malaise of old age.  Had Grandpa run off with a servant girl, been a gadabout, jeopardized the inheritance in any way, the family would have been glad to see him gone.  But he has been a perfect gentleman that they have done all they can to resurrect his flagging interest in life.  Some have resigned themselves to the fact that his time has come, but others have not and searched their brains for one last expedient.

One afternoon as Grandpa is dozing, Katrina is called by her father and mother.  She is only fifteen.  Her parents explain that Grandpa may die any day, or he could possibly recover.  Katrina brought up on Russian fairy tales looks with wide and trusting eyes at her mother and father.  Her father then gets up and says that her mother will explain everything, and he leaves the room.  After the mother explains to Katrina who sits, the embodiment of flush-faced warmth, she gives her a smile and Katrina, ever obedient, whose eyes have been lowered, smiles back but looks up from lowered eyes after having taken in all that her mother has said.  Her two blond braids long on each side are as if a representation of her that is that far apart in her head.  Each is a whole youthful fancy.  Dreams of princes, fairy tales of white knights and golden-haired maidens teem inside her brain, but the reality and beauty of her braids separate her life from her imagination.  Her mother talking to her in the dimly lit room, the fire sending out its progressively dim light into the corners, shows that Katrina is now taking part in a fairy tale that she never dreamed of.  It is a fairy tale that has been lifted out of some obscure page of Russian tradition and worked its way down to Katrina’s family.

Katrina leaves and starts her chores for supper, to feed her brothers and sisters.

She is excused from doing the dishes and allowed to take her bath early.  Her father heats up the water and Katrina steps onto the wooden planks of the bathing area where the mist of the hot water floats up and fogs everything as she with two candles glowing takes off her clothing, gently removing one article after another with a seriousness she never really had before since she has gotten accustomed to the full-bodiness of her breasts.  She slips into the warm water and soaks herself.  Perhaps you might think that she is dreaming her customary dreams of fairy tales, of elves fed by sweets, and the stories of her mother and aunts.  But no, she is concentrating this night only on her own body.  Her body curves and fullness, the warm sensation of the water on her, the innocence of her inexperience.  Her imagination has stopped and been adopted by artifacts—bathing facilities that have been in the family for decades—and by the curious transit of her own youth.  She wonders how it has reached such a point as she now soaks and reviews her life.

She gets out of the tub and dries herself.  He mother brings her one of her own robes.  An ornately beautiful weaving of red and silver and gold on a background of solid blue.  She helps her daughter on with it and then Katrina moves beside the fire to warm herself.

“Is Katrina all right?” her brothers and sisters ask.

“Hush,” their mother says.

Katrina’s nine-year-old sister returns with Grandpa’s soup bowl.

“He hardly touched it,” the mother says as she takes the tray.

Meanwhile, Katrina’s skin is glowing before the fire. The robe is slightly parted and her arms and legs crossed and folded close to her body are red. Her brothers and sisters, sensing something is wrong, approach her but go back to their games when she is unresponsive. Soon they go to bed.

Katrina’s father comes and sits down, attempts conversation, but is unable to say anything that Katrina can respond to. He retires to his room after giving her a good night kiss. 

The lights in the house are put out one by one. The father has banked the fire in each of their rooms.

Katrina’s mother comes over to the child. They sit in silence. 

Finally she says to her daughter, “Are you ready?”

Katrina nods her head and rises. They both go to Grandpa’s room. Grandpa is resting as usual somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, pretending to be asleep.

It is not certain if he ever sleeps now. Only takes these catnaps.      

Katrina’s mother kisses her daughter and lets her slip quietly into the room and closes the door. Katrina approaches her old grandfather’s bed, stands and looks at him.

She undoes the braids of her hair and unties her robe. 

She bends down and whispers gently into Grandpa’s ear, “Grandpa, may I get in bed with you and warm you up?”

“What?” he asks vaguely and moves over for her.

She picks her robe gently off her shoulders and lets it slide to the floor. Completely naked, she raises Grandpa’s covers and slips into bed with him. She throws her arms around his neck and frees his hands to take life from her body so she can bring him back from the death he is slipping towards, so he can once more return to the family having his spirits revived and his interest in life reawakened by the warm body of his granddaughter, Katrina.

Richard Krause

Image: A rumpled pile of white bedding from Pixabay.com