Baba Yaga Summer

Next morning, the sound of an engine woke up me from a string of nightmares. All night I dreamed of people trying to break into the house, come through my bedroom window, and attack me. I had to stand up, and touch the window glass to make sure it was still intact.

Outside all was quiet, dew hung on the grass. Several minutes later, the sound of an engine gradually increased, until the bus rolled up the driveway of the house. Ewa sat behind the wheel, I could vaguely make out the faces of women packed inside. Quickly, I put on a pair of black jeans and a black t-shirt. I grabbed the signs, kissed good-bye to grandpa, and ran after Baba, who was already out the door. 

The bus thrummed with excitement. All around me conversations about the march erupted. The general spirit was fierce but joyful. But I couldn’t feel any of it. I was still in awe of Baba, still sad about Hana. I wanted her to be here with me. Instead I sat there, next to my grandmother, holding the signs Hana and I painted. I kept staring at the bus window, trying to make it break. Nothing happened.

I saw a girl walking on the side of the road, her hair the same dark color as Hana’s. The more I wanted to stop thinking about her, the more my mind ran towards her. Finally, I turned to Baba and asked: “Have you ever felt betrayed by someone you care about?”

Baba exhaled, “Oh yes, many times.”

She put her hand on my arm, and asked: “is it Hana?”

I nodded. “I can’t believe Hana outed us. I can’t believe she betrayed me– I mean, us. It’s all so stupid. I just don’t get it.”

“Oh honey, sometimes people aren’t ready for consciousness raising. Maybe the idea of a protest was too much for her right now, or maybe she mentioned the circle accidentally. I bet Hana is busy with her own problems, I heard that her father has a drinking problem. That’s not easy on a kid, especially without a mother.”

It was true. Hana’s world was completely different from my own. She didn’t have a mother, she had no siblings to my knowledge, no one to confide in, no one to help her with taking care of her father. I couldn’t imagine my life without my own mom; the idea of losing her was my biggest fear. But even if Hana’s life was messed up, she still didn’t need to send her father and his crew to stone us.

It still hurt, it was still betrayal, or retaliation.

“I didn’t tell you one thing,” I said to Baba, “a few days ago I kissed her.”

“You kissed her?” She asked, in a gentle tone.

I nodded. Now I felt like I wanted to cry.

As the bus pulled up to the city square, I began to get nervous. I looked out for the men, who just yesterday raided Baba’s house, but they were nowhere to be seen. Everyone was a stranger here. The bus stopped, doors opened, I grabbed my sign and followed Baba.

“Oh Ada, sweetheart, it’s okay,” Baba put her arm around me and hugged me, “I understand now. You like her, and she pushed you away?”

I nodded, now softly crying.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Baba repeated, stroking my back. “Maybe Hana wasn’t ready. Out here in the countryside, women loving women is rare. It’s a difficult thing to understand within yourself.”

“I guess.” I wiped the snot from my face.

“Even if she has feelings for you Ada, I don’t think a girl raised in this place would know how to deal with them. Don’t get angry with her, give her time and space.”

Out the window the countryside houses and fields blurred into one. Maybe Baba was right. Joan Snider married Margaret Crammer when she was 72. There might be hope for me.

“What about the consciousness raising circle? Is it safe still?” I asked.

“Don’t worry about that. We’ll survive, we always will.” Baba said calmly.

Wooden country homes transformed into buildings. Gradually, traffic increased until we arrived in the little town of Warka. You could immediately tell something was different that day: women flooded the streets, carrying signs, and coat hangers. There were children, daughters and sons, mothers and grandmothers. Everyone was dressed in black. Some held signs that said: “I can’t believe I still have to protest this.”

As the bus pulled up to the city square, I began to get nervous. I looked out for the men, who just yesterday raided Baba’s house, but they were nowhere to be seen. Everyone was a stranger here. The bus stopped, doors opened, I grabbed my sign and followed Baba.

Outside everything burst into intensity: loud voices, chants, stomping feet. The little town of Warka felt like a wild metropolis compared to the weeks I spent in the countryside. I moved up next to Baba at the start of the group; we inched towards the square, where the protest would begin. It was far less scary than I imagined. In fact, it wasn’t scary at all. It was magnificent: all those people, all those women, dressed in black, moving together towards the same goal. Suddenly someone bumped into me. I turned around. It was Hana. 

I stared at her, my heart thudded in my chest like it wanted to jump into my throat. At first I wasn’t sure if she was real or a figment of my imagination. What was she doing here? Did she come here with her father or did she want to see me? Hana opened her mouth and said something that was immediately swallowed up by the loud crowd. Then her lips mouthed: I’m sorry.

I wanted to ask her a million questions, but at the same time I didn’t care. She was here, she came. I nodded, and she took my hand. Together we held up the two ends of the poster we made. “We’re not incubators for you to regulate!” it read.

Like this we marched, slowly moving towards the square. Baba, still at the front of the group, turned around and for a moment she caught my eye. I squeezed Hana’s hand, and she looked back at me, smiling. An overwhelming feeling of pride filled me as I watched the streets fill to the brim with the moving body of the crowd, one unified group of women. I marched alongside all of them, these hundreds of women, towards the square, softly stepping into my power.

Ania Mroczek is a B.A. student at the University of British Columbia. She was born and raised in Poland. Her work has previously appeared, or is forthcoming, in The Matador Review, filling Station, Juked, Lines+Stars, and elsewhere.