Phoebe read aloud to him from saints’ lives, stories of righteous women who labored in pain but rejoiced. Nancy sang lullabies in preparation. Dora knitted tiny booties from soft wool for the babies.
Agatha got ready to deliver the children. She reread her mother’s old notes describing the stages of labor and what to do if something went wrong. She laid out tools: scissors, thread, basins, boiled water.
Mike helped and learned. Phoebe told him, “Mike, you have to stay close. If something goes wrong, Agatha can’t manage alone.”
“You’re strong. You’ll help.” Mike nodded, though he was uneasy. Childbirth was women’s business.
But there was no choice. He had to be there. In March 1959 Phoebe went into labor.
She woke in the night with contractions.
She woke Mike. “It’s time.” Mike jumped up and went to get Agatha. Agatha dressed quickly and came.
She laid Phoebe on the birthing platform and got to work. Mike boiled water, brought cloths, held Phoebe’s hand. She squeezed so hard his bones felt ready to crack, groaned, and endured.
The labor lasted eight long hours. Mike sat beside her, wiping sweat from her forehead, saying, “Hang on, Phoebe. Almost there. You’re strong.” Phoebe bit her lip till it bled, but didn’t scream.
Old Believers were taught to bear pain quietly. She only groaned low and prayed under her breath. “Lord, help me. Mother of God, stand with me.” Agatha worked skillfully, confidently.
She gave clear instructions. “Phoebe, push. Again. One more time.” And then a cry.
A baby’s cry—sharp, indignant, alive. Agatha lifted the child, red and slippery and yelling. “A boy! Mike, you’ve got a son!”
Mike stared, hardly breathing. A son. He had a son.
Agatha cut the cord, washed the baby in warm water, wrapped him in a clean cloth.
Then she handed him to Mike. “Here.” Mike took the baby in his arms. Small. Light. Warm.
A wrinkled little face. Tiny fingers. Alive. His son.
Mike cried. First time in his life he’d cried from happiness. Tears ran down his cheeks and fell on the baby.
Phoebe lay pale and exhausted, but happy. She watched Mike and the child and smiled faintly. “What do we call him?” she asked.
Mike wiped his face. “Panteleimon. After Elder Panteleimon, your teacher. Let the boy carry the old man’s name.”
Phoebe nodded. “Panteleimon. Strong name.”
They baptized Panteleimon themselves when the river ice broke in April. Phoebe led the rite and read the prayers. Mike held his son and dipped him into the icy water three times.
Panteleimon yelled his objections. Agatha, Nancy, and Dora stood on the bank singing. Mike looked at his son, his wives, the woods around them, and thought:
This is it. This is happiness. Plain and real. In May Agatha gave birth.
Her labor was easier, faster. Four hours. A girl, healthy and pink.
They named her Ann after Mother Ann, the old woman who had died in 1956. Mike held his daughter and was overcome.
Small and helpless. He promised himself: I’ll protect you. I’ll raise you right. In July Nancy gave birth, also to a girl.
That labor was hard, long, with complications. The baby was coming wrong. Agatha managed, with difficulty, to turn her and bring her out.
Nancy cried out and nearly passed out. Mike held her and prayed for real for the first time in his life. “Lord, save her. Don’t let her die.
She’s good. She’s kind. Don’t take her.” God heard him. Nancy lived.
The baby did too. They named her Martha.
Nancy held her daughter and cried from relief and exhaustion. “I thought I was done for,” she said. “But the Lord had mercy.” In September Dora gave birth.
The youngest. Twenty-one. Her labor was quick and easy.
Three hours. A boy, big and loud. They named him Samuel.
After Phoebe’s father, Samuel. Dora laughed, holding her son. “Look at him. Built like Mike already.” Mike hugged Dora and kissed her.
“You did well, Dora. Thank you.”
By the fall of 1959 Mike had four children. Two sons, Panteleimon and Samuel, and two daughters, Ann and Martha. The oldest was only months older than the youngest.
The cabin came alive. Babies crying, fussing, laughing. The women nursed them, swaddled them, rocked them.
Mike made cradles and rocked the babies at night when they cried. Sang lullabies Nancy had taught him. His voice was rough, but the children settled anyway.
He felt happy. Truly happy for the first time in his life. He had a family—four wives, four children, a large, solid, close family.
He was provider, protector, father. That was something worth living for. But Mike understood it couldn’t stay hidden forever.
Sooner or later somebody would find them. The authorities. Local police. State officials. Old Believers were still viewed with suspicion, and sketes had been broken up before…
