She looked exactly like the tea cozy I had bought for my mother in Russia long ago. She wore a red kerchief and an apron when she cooked. Her cheeks were red from cooking over the wood stove. That is where the resemblance ended. She was not a tea cozy. She seemed quaint, but she was not.

Galya took us in in Listvyanka. She lived on a dirt road just up from Lake Baikal in a traditional Siberian, wooden house with blue shutters, a fence that enclosed the house with a tall wooden gate. The house had a banya and two outhouses. Perhaps Galya was rich. The house extended far back on the narrow property. She said that her family visited her in the summer. I thought of the movies, “Cousin, Cousine” and “Fanny and Alexander” and wondered what those summers were like clap trapping through a big house like that, picking berries, fishing… children with big ears who heard family secrets, spied on the adults through lace-curtained windows.

Galya cooked us soufflé for breakfast… fresh omul, the famous fish of Baikal, with fresh cream and potatoes for lunch. There were borsht, chicken soup overflowing with pelmeni, sour soup made with chicken and pickles… thick sour cream. There was liver and mashed potatoes… homemade bread with rich Russian butter and jam… berries picked from the hillsides in summer and baked into pies… steaming cups of tea. The portions were gargantuan, but after the cold of Siberia we were always hungry.

Galya kept a scrupulously clean house. Her cleanliness had reminded Jay and me of our grandmas’ houses, his Polish and mine Romanian. The linoleum sparkled. The beds were fresh… the soft, mended sheets that had taken on a certain patina with age had the fragrance of winter sun and cold air. We slept late every day because it was so dark in early morning. When Galya thought it was time for us to be up and off, she would open the heavy wooden shutters outside with a wooden pole and the light would pour through the windows.

Galya had a carriage with wheels to haul water from the well each day, because there was no running water in the house. We washed up in the kitchen sink that had a cistern attached at the top. In the late afternoon, Galya built a fire in the banya where we bathed. She built fires in the house every morning and banked them at night. She was retired, but had known what hard work was when she worked on the railroad.  Galya was strong and tough… good, kind and fair. Galya did crossword puzzles during the long Siberian evening, read, watched TV comedies laughing all the while, took her blood pressure each night and fretted at the unsettling figures until she allowed herself to forget.

I felt safe and cared for by Galya. When I left, I put my arms around her and hugged her tightly and thanked her. She packed up the remains of the berry pie for us. How did I know she would do that? She put on her fur hat and boots and rode with us as far as Irkutsk where she would do the shopping, and Jay and I would buy a feast for the train. She had appeared in our lives for just a short lifetime of three days… and, just as quickly, she was gone… and so were we.

I had asked Galya if she liked what she did… taking in strangers for several days at a time. She said, “Why, yes, I love what I do. I really love it.” Galya’s heart was true… clear and sweet like Baikal water.

A young friend would go by herself across Siberia some time later. I sent a small gift to Galya. She had been surprised that I remembered her. How could I forget Galya in far off Siberia picking the berries on the hillside and cooking in her kitchen… but, what surprised me, was that she remembered me.