"Vanka" (1886)

This very short story by Anton Chekhov packs an emotional punch, which is likely as intended, published on Christmas Day in 1886. It's a letter written on Christmas Eve by a 9-year-old boy to his grandfather. The boy, an orphan, has been apprenticed to a shoemaker in Moscow, who may or may not be cruel but certainly he is a disciplinarian and impatient with foolishness. The boy is miserable. He wants out. He wants it so badly you can feel it through the page. As his circumstances and backstory are sketched in, it's evident that won't happen, and also his situation might not be as bad as he thinks. But that won't help him in the weeks and months ahead, because we already know something he doesn't. By addressing it only "To grandfather in the village, Konstantin Makaritch," the letter will never make it to his grandfather. All his hopes enclosed in that letter are in vain, we know even on this Christmas Eve, but the boy will suffer through diminishing hope and a sense of abandonment all winter. It's poignant and well done, and in Russia, according to Wikipedia, it even contributed a figure of speech: "the village, to grandfather" refers to mail sent in such a way that it will never be received. I'm not sure why I have such confidence that the boy will be all right with the shoemaker. A fair number of 19th-century storylines involve the ill treatment of orphaned apprentices. By the boy's account he's not treated that well by the master, but it reads more like junior-high teachers I remember getting impatient with me or others and snapping. A 9-year-old is still a handful. And I feel for this boy. The story reminded me of going to summer camp when I was 11 or 12, which was bad enough, being away from home for nearly two weeks. But then we went on a miserable canoe trip, in the sweltering dog days of August, with portages and other outrageous creature discomforts. I found myself utterly desolate one late night at about 4 a.m., huddled up in a stuffy pup tent with two others. They were sleeping but I could not, had not been able to all night. I crawled out of the humid canvas space thinking I might find relief at last from a nagging constipation, only to find instead a creepy orange-light vibe and all the stall doors removed in the outbuilding bathroom facilities. I felt like I was in hell. The bugs were really bad too and I was afraid of seeing someone at that hour. That's the kind of misery I feel coming from this boy, and I sympathize. But I also know I was back home within days and things were back to normal. For this boy, however that's not what's going to happen. Great story, all done in the boy's voice.

Delphi Complete Works of Anton Chekhov