Natalia's Find

Natalia did not believe in blind luck. One had to work hard, just to survive one month to the next. Life had taught her that; namely, her parents. Russian immigrants, they had settled in New York in the 1970s; her mother already pregnant with Natalia. Her father was a baker, and soon had moved his wife from the poorly maintained building they were staying in, to a small, but clean, two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn, New York, due to him having procured a reliable job as head baker in a popular nearby bakery. Fondly, Natalia recalled her younger life, waking every morning to the aromatic, warm smells of cinnamon, or the yeasty tang of bread dough proofing, as her father prepped in their tiny kitchen. Every day, he would rise from bed at 4:00 A.M, doing his best to move around the apartment quietly, as to not disturb his sleeping family, while he worked. Often, five-year-old Natalia would wake though, and creep as close to the kitchen as possible, so she could watch her papa, as he expertly mixed, kneaded, rolled, and layered everything from bread doughs to a spongy Russian honey cake, called medovik. Those took the longest to make, so in her mind, that meant they must be the best – her taste buds certainly thought so. Sometimes, papa would notice her sleep tousled head peering around the wall that separated the kitchen from the rest of the living space, and he would act surprised, every time she was “caught”. He would call her over to him, pick her up, and set her on the counter right beside where he was working. She loved to watch him create delicious things from simple ingredients. He would add flour and some other mysterious powders together. To another bowl, he would blend butter, sugar, and eggs until they looked very different from when they had first entered the bowl. “Now,” he said, mixing everything together slowly, “see how all of these different things, which are not so delicious on their own, come together, and create something new, which is delicious.” He placed a dollop of the finished cookie dough (for that was what he had been making – butter cookies) on the tip of her tongue, and laughed when she exclaimed, “that is yummy papa!” Natalia had many memories similar to that one; she had always cherished those early mornings with her papa, while he patiently explained each step of his baking process. It was never boring for her to listen to him talk about something he was so passionate about; even at five, she could respect that. Most mornings would end with one of his flour- covered fingers bopping lightly on the tip of her nose, making both of them, laugh. Once she had asked him, “Papa, why do you get up so early every day, just to bake pastries that are going to be eaten up by other people so that you have to do it all over again? Seems like a bunch of hard work to me.” He had laughed heartily at her, not unkindly, but with great humor. Placing large, but gentle, hands on both her shoulders, he replied, “Malyshka, anything in this world that is worth something to you, is worth working hard to keep. When you love something, you do not mind working hard, to keep it yours. You understand?” Natalia sagely had nodded her head, grasping what her dear papa was telling her. He gave her a big smile and hugged her to his chest, where she rested her head, breathing him in, those warm cinnamon, and yeasty bread smells, permanently imprinting him into her memory. She thought of him now as she was sitting in the attic of his home, surrounded by boxes filled with pieces of their family’s life. Her father’s propensity for hard work, coupled with his passion and talent for baking, eventually had paid off, and when Natalia was ten, he had surprised his wife and daughter with the news that he had bought them all a “real” house – complete with a garage and back yard. Those years that had followed, were, the best of Natalia’s life. Her parents were working at a bakery which her father owned, she herself was making new friends at a better school, though still in Brooklyn, and she finally had a bedroom that wasn’t next to the only other room in the house. But then. Natalia figured fate had noticed her family’s contentment, and stepped in, uprooting it. The summer Natalia turned 16, her mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer. She would die before Natalia’s 17th birthday, leaving papa to raise an obstinate, moody teenager, alone. He did alright, Natalia supposed, musing to herself. They had been alright, once they found a routine that worked for both of them. Dad baked and she ran the bakery when she wasn’t at school. Needless to say, she hadn’t had the greatest social life. She had moved out when she was 20 but still worked for her father. The pay was great and it afforded her the ability to get her own little studio apartment, a short walk from the bakery. Things had been flowing just fine until fate took notice of them once again. The proverbial “rug” had been pulled out from under her just one week ago, when she got a phone call from the hospital, informing her that her dad had suffered a heart attack. She went to see him and was grateful she at least was able to say goodbye. It had been 2 days since the funeral and until this morning, she had not been able to cry. She had come here to her dad’s house last night to sleep, knowing she would be going through his things today. When she woke up this morning, it was the first time in her life, at this house, that she had not smelled the reassuring scents of cinnamon and yeast wafting from the kitchen. The reality of her papa’s death penetrated her heart, and she wept. Great, wracking sobs of grief, both for the loss of her father, and grief for herself – knowing she was now alone.

So, she had had her cry this morning, and now she was determined to make a dent in the mess in her father’s attic. Looking around she saw a multitude of stacked boxes, furniture covered with sheets, and some travel trunks – which she assumed were her mothers. She was grateful for the light coming through the one window, as it made it much easier to see all around the space. Deciding to tackle one of the ancient trunks, she approached it, wiping away years’ worth of dust. It was not locked, so she opened the massive lid, straining slightly, and locked it into position so it would not fall. Intrigued, she just stared at what was nestled inside. It was a book. One, thin black book, sat alone, in the center of this hulking trunk. This made no sense to her. She studied the bottom and sides of the trunk – they seemed to be made of dark red velvet material. Thinking of every adventure novel she had ever read, she wondered if she should pick up the black book, or not. It looked like a writer’s notebook; a journal one would take with them when traveling – perhaps it was her mother’s and she had used it when journeying to America. She carefully lifted it out of the box and was surprised at its heft. Though thin, it was a well-made notebook, with black leather covering both front and back. Opening it, she found a note inscribed on the bottom left: “To you who find me – not all can see – I will reward you – when you do one good deed- 20 pages here you’ll find- on each page, you’ll write how you were kind”

Natalia shook her head in wonder and disbelief, considering what the poem meant, and as she read it aloud a few more times, an idea began to form. She counted the pages in the notebook – indeed, there were 20. She repeated the instructions without the poetic lilt, and she figured it was telling her that, somehow, she would be rewarded if she did a good deed and wrote down on each page what good deed or kindness she did. 20 pages, 20 deeds. Not one to run away from a mystery – no matter how insane or improbable it sounded – Natalia decided to do what the poem suggested – what did she have to lose? Taking the book downstairs, she set it on the dining room table and wondered where she could start, right around here. A thought suddenly came to her and she darted outside, into the early afternoon light, crossed the yard, and bolted up the steps of the house next door. Ringing the bell, she waited, a smile forming. She could hear shuffling and then the door opened, revealing the deeply lined face of Dolores Johnson, aged 84, widowed friend and neighbor to her family for years. “Natalia!” she exclaimed with obvious delight at seeing the young woman. Leaning in for a quick hug, Natalia said, “Mrs. Johnson, I don’t have a lot of time right now because I’m cleaning out dad’s house.” Dolores’s face fell at the mention of her father, but Natalia continued, “I was wondering if you would like to set up a weekly date with me – I would love the company and I figure you would as well. I’m sure it will be a bit lonely around here now that papa is gone.” Dolores smiled brightly and agreed, going on for another few minutes about how sorry she was about Nat’s father passing, and yes, What a fabulous idea. The company would be a welcomed change.” Natalia said goodbye, with promises to see Dolores next Thursday at 3 pm, then ran back to her house, feeling warm inside. She realized she felt good. Even if there was no tangible reward – she felt a positive glow knowing she was helping someone else feel better themselves. In the house, she took the book and turned to page 1, penning what she had done, and how she felt about it. Feeling a weight lift from her heart she wondered what magic was involved in all of this. Closing the book, she set it down and went into the kitchen to grab a glass of water, suddenly quite thirsty. Returning, she saw the book was now open, whereas she knew she had left it closed. That was not the only thing different about it; inside the pages, between the cover and page 1, nestled a crisp $1000 dollar bill. At first, Natalie just stared at it. Then she picked it up, studying it. It seemed real enough. Was THIS real? How was this possible? Was $1000 going to be the reward for each good deed? 20 deeds, 20 pages, $20,000! She grinned. She was going to do this – and not for the reward. Well, not just for the reward. No one would believe she would be doing good things just for the sake of doing them – but truly – she liked the way she felt when Dolores had lit up at the prospect of company, and having something to look forward to. Yes, the money was a lovely surprise, she was curious to see the challenge play out, but it wasn’t the leading reason she was going to take it. Somehow she knew that book didn’t show up for just anyone. She remembered the second line from the poem – not all can see. This magic picked her for a reason. Yes, she was going to continue to do positive things. Help others, be kind. And if she got $20,000 in the process - fantastic. She could use it for the bakery and feed people. And she wasn’t stopping at 20. She was just getting started.