In the Queue

Daniela Tabrea

It was 4:30 AM when Mrs. Toader left home. The frigid air was more pleasant than the humid atmosphere in the one-bedroom apartment, where she lived with her daughter, son-in-law and two grandchildren.

Walking across the small town of Pascani, Mrs. Toader could feel her joints loosening. Sugar and oil. Flour–next time. She murmured to herself as she hurried through the empty streets with quick, small steps, like an old goose. The lil’ one… she doesn’t eat… a couple of eggs. She tightened her headscarf under her chin to gain courage. In front of Holy Cross Church she stopped, crossed herself and bowed to the ground. She crossed herself twice more, her pitiful eyes seeking the rusty iron cross atop the church tower. A slight hunch formed in her upper back.

“God, help us!” she cried and hurried once again.

The queue for eggs was longer than usual, and, to her bitter disappointment, Lucretia from the apartment across the hall was at the very end of the line.

“Good morning, Mrs. Toader. I haven’t seen you since last week! Where have you been hiding?” said Lucretia in a high-pitched voice. She was wearing a new coat.

“I’ve been away in the countryside. Visiting my elder sister, Rodica.”

“Rodica! How’s her health? Her legs still upsetting her?”

“That’s the other sister. Rodica’s the one who lives in Brosteni, just past Draguseni. She’s doing well, save for her sclerosis. I brought her some food. Her favorite, potato pancakes. She can’t grate, you see–”

“I was in Brosteni last weekend,” interrupted Lucretia. She looked around before whispering, “The monastery there–have you been? Why, you should! It’s small, but there’s something so… holy about it. Starets Gherasim serves there. On Saturday dozens of people waited to ask for his blessing. A seer-in-the-spirit, he never has a moment's rest.”

“Did you meet him?” asked Mrs. Toader, advancing two steps in the line.

“Of course, I had to! My mother is turning 66 this year and her spirit is not what it used to be. She’s always gloomy, sitting all day long, staring into the void. She even stopped sewing now. She complains she can’t see very well, but I think she doesn’t want to do any work.”

“I pray to the Lord to help her,” whispered Mrs Toader, shifting her weight to the right leg, which was less sore.

“May He give me strength to deal with it. Last Tuesday I spent three hours cleaning her house. I did everything–scrubbed the floors, cleaned the windows, washed the curtains… you know what she said when I finished? You could’ve changed the lightbulb in the kitchen.”

Mrs. Toader looked at Lucretia’s curled mouth and tried to guess what the appropriate reply ought to be. Lucretia continued.

“I told her, Mommy, you don’t even cook these days, why bother? She forgets the light on all the time. Such a waste. And imagine how I felt after everything I’d done for her! Not a thank you, nothing!”

Mrs. Toader pulled her headscarf away from her face and scratched her left ear, but her discomfort didn’t go away. “So what did Starets Gherasim say?” she asked after a heavy pause.

“Father read my soul in an instant. I kneeled in front of him and only said, Father, please–. Lucretia covered her mouth with the back of her leather-gloved hand, choking her emotion. “He looked at me with intent, and told me, Child, your sick mother will recover, but you must have faith. He then told me all the things I ought and ought not do. A heavy boulder lifted off my heart. Such a gifted man, God bless him!” Lucretia pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Indeed… ,” said Mrs. Toader with thoughtful admiration. “You must’ve waited for hours to get in.”

“Well, I know a nun there–she did me a favor. I was in and out within an hour. If you want to go see Father, I am sure she could arrange a meeting for you. She won’t ask for anything in return. Of course, I brought her a loaf of bread and two sets of bed sheets, for the trouble.”

Mrs. Toader weighed the possibility in her head and after a moment, she replied: “Father Gherasim holds a mass every Sunday? Maybe I could write a pomelnic...” For the lil’ one. She’s skin and bones.

“He’s 89, but he serves the monastery with such vitality. Last Sunday he delivered the most beautiful sermon I’ve ever heard.” Lucretia squeezed her folded raffia bag close to her chest and whispered, “A camel will more readily go through the eye of a needle than a rich man through the Gates of Heaven.” She stared into the distance, as if picturing the camel and the needle.

Mrs. Toader nodded and wobbled a bit further. She, too, could only think of the rich man, the camel and the needle. If Lucretia was the camel in this allegory, what would that make her? A sheep? A goose? The Gates of Heaven seemed wide open–her life’s possessions amounted to only the bare necessities, unlike Miss Lucretia who paraded in a new coat and had bedsheets to spare.

Mrs. Toader snapped out of her trance when she realized it was almost her turn. She looked at the boxes and counted the remaining eggs. Lucretia was busy drawing a few banknotes out of her round purse. Behind her, the queue snaked around the street corner. A young woman carrying a child in her arms left her place further down the line and approached hesitantly. She wore dusty rubber galoshes and a long flared skirt–too thin for the frosty weather. The child slept wrapped up in worn-out blankets.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” the young woman addressed Lucretia in a pleading voice. Could you please let me buy an egg? My boy’s hungry.”

Lucretia looked her up and down and, without pausing for a breath, said, “My neighbor and I have been queuing for hours. And how about all the other people in the queue? They’ve been waiting too. Don’t they have the right to buy what’s left?” She grabbed a bag of eggs, and added, “I have a sick mother, you know!” Turning to Mrs. Toader, her tone was measured once again. “I’ll see you around, Mrs. Toader! Let me know if you want me to introduce you to… you know.”

Lucretia’s departure created a void in front of Mrs. Toader. Before stepping in, she peeked sadly at the young woman and shrugged.

“Ten eggs, please!” she said, addressing the cashier.

“These are the last four.”, said the cashier, handing her a bag of eggs. Mrs. Toader handed over the ration coupon and some banknotes. The cashier crossed off E for Eggs under February, 1989, and said to the next person in line, “That’s all!”

News that the eggs were sold out had already spread, and the crowd began to disperse. Mrs. Toader turned to cross the street, but a heavy burden locked her in place. She could still feel the young mother behind her.

“How old is he?” she asked, turning around.

“Three, ma’am,” said the woman, gently swaying the bundle from side to side.

Like my lil’ one. Mrs. Toader looked at the small bundle. A fragile head pressed against his mother’s chest.

“Do you have a bag?” said Mrs. Toader, pulling out an egg.

The woman’s face lit up.

“Bogdaproste, ma’am! Good health to you and your family!”

Passing by Holy Cross Church, Mrs. Toader crossed herself, bowed, crossed herself twice more, and breathed out. “Lord, help us!” Her hunched back eased a little.

Published in Issue No. 7, Littera Novus, April 1st, 2025.

Daniela Tabrea writes from the local library in Harlem, New York. Born and raised in Romania, she moved across borders to learn physics. Home is where her husband is, and where trees grow.