Death of a Nightingale

Audio file #83: Nightingale

“Go on,” says a man’s voice.

“I’m tired,” an older woman answers, clearly uncomfortable and dismissive.

“But it’s so exciting.”

“Exciting?” There’s a lash of bitterness in her reaction. “A bit of Saturday entertainment? Is that what this is for you?”

“No, I didn’t mean it like that.”

They are both speaking Ukrainian, he quickly and informally, she more hesitantly. In the background, occasional beeps from an electronic game can be heard.

“It’s important for posterity.”

The old woman laughs now, a hard and unhappy laughter. “Posterity,” she says. “Do you mean the child? Isn’t she better off not knowing?”

“If that’s how you see it. We should be getting home anyway.”

“No.” The word is abrupt. “Not yet. Surely you can stay a little longer.”

“You said you were tired,” says the man.

“No. Not … that tired.”

“I don’t mean to press you.”

“No, I know that. You just thought it was exciting.”

“Forget I said that. It was stupid.”

“No, no. Children like exciting stories. Fairy tales.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of something real. Something you experienced yourself.”

Another short pause. Then, “No, let me tell you a story,” the old woman says suddenly. “A fairy tale. A little fairy tale from Stalin Land. A suitable bedtime story for the little one. Are you listening, my sweet?”

Beep, beep, beep-beep. Unclear mumbling from the child. Obviously, her attention is mostly on the game, but that doesn’t stop the old woman.

“Once upon a time, there were two sisters,” she begins clearly, as if reciting. “Two sisters who both sang so beautifully that the nightingale had to stop singing when it heard them. First one sister sang for the emperor himself, and thus was the undoing of a great many people. Then the other sister, in her resentment, began to sing too.”

“Who are you talking about?” the man asks. “Is it you? Is it someone we know?”

The old woman ignores him. There’s a harshness to her voice, as if she’s using the story to punish him.

“When the emperor heard the other sister, his heart grew inflamed, and he had to own her,” she continued. “ ‘Come to me,’ he begged. Oh, you can be sure he begged. ‘Come to me, and be my nightingale. I’ll give you gold and beautiful clothes and servants at your beck and call.’ ”

Here the old woman stops. It’s as if she doesn’t really feel like going on, and the man no longer pressures her. But the story has its own relentless logic, and she has to finish it.

“At first she refused. She rejected the emperor. But he persisted. ‘What should I give you, then?’ he asked, because he had learned that everything has a price. ‘I will not come to you,’ said the other sister, ‘before you give me my evil sister’s head on a platter.’ ”

In the background, the beeping sounds from the child’s game have ceased. Now there is only an attentive silence.

“When the emperor saw that a heart as black as sin hid behind the beautiful song,” the old woman continues, still using her fairy-tale voice, “he not only killed the first sister, but also the nightingale’s father and mother and grandfather and grandmother and whole family. ‘That’s what you get for your jealousy,’ he said and threw the other sister out.”

The child utters a sound, a frightened squeak. The old woman doesn’t seem to notice.

“Tell me,” she whispers. “Which of them is me?”

“You’re both alive,” says the man. “So something in the story must be a lie.”

“In Stalin Land, Stalin decides what is true and what is a lie,” says the old woman. “And I said that it was a Stalin fairy tale.”

“Daddy,” says the child, “I want to go home now.”