by Alina Adams
Besides, they no longer had a piano in the house.
Daria tried asking Edward about his work, but his monosyllabic answers made her think he was ashamed of how far he’d come down in the world. From packed concert halls and ecstatic fans throwing flowers to background music for oafish little girls. Even his daughter wanted no part of it.
Then again, Daria wondered what Alyssa did wish to be a part of. Certainly not becoming reacquainted with her mother. While Daria’s repeated overtures to Edward were met with a vague politeness, Alyssa’s answers to Daria’s questions were equally monosyllabic—and a great deal more hostile. She didn’t speak, she hissed. And she responded to any request from Daria by making it clear she was performing under duress. If Edward was in the room, he ignored her behavior. If Isaak Israelevitch was present, he actively encouraged it.
Mama would have never tolerated such disrespect. Daria was willing to accept it as her due. But Daria’s tolerance failed to extend to the way Alyssa treated Gosha.
The toddler adored his big sister. Gosha eagerly followed Alyssa around, tripping over his unsteady feet to keep up, only to be left behind in the courtyard as Alyssa dashed off with her gang of friends, or to receive a door slammed in his face. He’d dangle from the knob with both palms, too short to turn it, plaintively calling out, “Issa! Issa!” Then he would pull up a tiny chair and sit patiently, waiting for her to return.
It broke Daria’s heart to see the little boy who’d stopped asking for Papa, having realized that he’d never get an answer, now face such additional rejection on a daily basis. Daria might not have been able to break through to either Edward or Alyssa on her own behalf, but she’d be damned if she allowed her son to suffer.
Daria told Alyssa, “I’m going to the store. You need to watch Gosha.” It wasn’t a request; it was a command. It was the way Mama would have done it.
Up to this point, Daria had been tiptoeing around Alyssa. Couching all communication in a soft, subservient voice. “Would you please, Allysochka,” and “If you wouldn’t mind, Allysochka.” The change in tone shocked her daughter to where she didn’t argue as Daria hurried out the door.
Daria realized she was taking a risk. For all she knew, Alyssa would abandon Gosha to his own devices. Or she might stuff him into a corner and forbid him to come out. Pinch and taunt him as a way to get back at Daria.
And yet, Daria retained faith that the little girl who’d taken care of Anya while her parents were dragged into the forest, the one who’d stopped fighting and given in when Daria explained she had to return to Odessa so she could take care of Papa, the one who’d shared her precious allotment of sunflower seeds, no matter how grudgingly, would do no such thing.
Daria didn’t go far. She lurked just outside their door. If Alyssa and Gosha ventured outside, she could pretend to be returning from her shopping trip. Daria didn’t bother actually purchasing an item to make her cover story plausible. Nobody would find it odd if she came back with an empty avoska.
Shamelessly eavesdropping, Daria first heard Gosha’s muffled voice entreating Alyssa to play with him. Her initial answers were brusque, but Gosha refused to give up. After fifteen minutes, Daria heard Alyssa responding in a more pleasant tone. And then she heard giggles. Followed by music. Alyssa was singing, urging Gosha to join in. The tune was familiar.
It was the tune Alyssa and Edward had hummed as they buried Anya.
Daria staggered away from the door as if singed. But then an equal burning force propelled Daria forward. She burst through the door, unsure of what she expected to find.
What she found was Alyssa giddily spinning, Gosha perched on her hip, holding his hand in hers, both their arms outstretched.
“Waltz!” her son proclaimed happily, cheeks flushed with excitement, curls whipping into his face. “Issa, Gosha waltz!”
Alyssa appeared caught in the act, looking guilty when, as far as Daria could see, there was nothing to feel guilty about. And then Daria realized that her daughter wasn’t feeling guilty before Daria. She was feeling guilty before her grandfather. And her sister.
Attempting to defuse the situation, Daria swallowed the question she’d truly wanted to ask, the one about the tune Alyssa had been singing, and, instead, pivoted to a more harmless one. She adopted a jolly tone when she teased Alyssa. “Papa is right, you’re a natural dancer. You should be taking classes at his school.”
Daria had been aiming for a light remark that wouldn’t upset her daughter. But instead of laughing or simply dismissing Daria’s suggestion, Alyssa’s expression darkened. She let go of Gosha. He slid down her leg, hitting the floor on his bottom with a thump, looking quizzically up at Alyssa, wondering what he’d done wrong.
Daria was wondering the same thing.
“I’ll never go there,” Alyssa snarled.
Daria couldn’t understand what had provoked such an extreme reaction.
“You said everything would be all right”—Alyssa tried to cling to her anger, but it wasn’t powerful enough to hold back a sob—“as long as we followed the rules.”
Yes, Daria had said that. She’d even believed it once.
“Papa followed the rules.” Alyssa angrily wiped the tears from her cheek with one palm. “You lied.”
Daria stood outside the door to the studio where Edward played piano at the Lenin School of Dance. Not wanting to upset Alyssa further, she’d intended to bring Gosha with her. But, much to Daria’s surprise, a still sniffling Alyssa had taken his hand and, attempting to sound nonchalant, offered, “He can stay with me. If he wants.”
Of course Gosha wanted. And it made it easier for Daria to stand to the side and remain unobserved as she watched the proceedings through the tiny window in the door.
A dozen little girls, no more than eight years old, all dressed identically in black leotards with white tights and ballet slippers, their only individuality expressed in how big and how many hair bows their mothers had managed to affix atop their heads, stood in solemn rows, facing a bony, angular woman, her gray hair swept in a bun, a ruler in her hand long enough to reach even the farthest child. The piano was off to the side, by the window, meaning that Edward was little more than a shadow. He sat patiently, waiting for the minuscule nod from Madame that indicated he should begin playing.
When he did, she barely let him get past the first few bars before the ruler whipped out to thwack the top of the piano, missing Edward’s face by centimeters. Unlike back at the camp, when any noise made him cower, Edward had gotten so used to the abuse that, now, he didn’t flinch.
“No! Imbecile! Too fast!”
Edward obligingly began again.
“Too slow! Did they not teach you meter at that prestigious music school of yours?”
Another try. This time, Madame allowed him to finish the exercise before asking the girls, “Did you hear this? This is what happens when zhidy force their internationalist playing into good Soviet spaces. Absolute butchery of our great Tchaikovsky.” She commanded Edward, “Again! In rhythm this time, perhaps?”
Edward played. Madame stopped him. It went on like this for the duration of the forty-minute class. He was playing the wrong piece. He was playing the right piece badly. He was off tempo, he was off pitch, he was clearly doing it on purpose, he was obviously too incompetent to be capable of sabotage.
By the end, Daria was shaking with rage. Edward just kept playing. He sped up when told to speed up; he slowed down when told to slow down. He never blamed the piano, which even Daria could tell was out of tune, or the conflicting instructions. He just played. At the end of the lesson, as the girls curtsied to their teacher, he sat on the bench, hands on his lap, waiting for the next class to begin. A few of the girls, presumably out of habit from previous instruction, also bowed their heads in thanks to Edward. At that, he offered a smile in return.
But Madame cut them off. “No,” she barked, pounding the floor with her ruler. “In this class, we don’t salute enemies of the state.”
&nbs
p; The door opened to let them out and the next batch of ballerinas in. Daria ducked out of the way, lest Edward see her. She told herself that what she felt for Edward was pity. She didn’t want to humiliate him any more than he obviously was already each day. But the self-deception could last only so long. What Daria was really feeling toward Edward was anger.
How could he just sit there and take this abuse? Edward, who’d once held gigantic concert halls in thrall, was allowing some skeletal nobody barely good enough to instruct clumsy children in a dingy ballet studio to criticize his playing. He was letting her call him names and even forbidding him from receiving the piddling accolades to which he was rightly entitled. Why didn’t he speak up? Why didn’t he play something so wonderful, it would crack that ruler of hers straight in half? Why was he being such a . . . such a . . . coward?
Just thinking the word snapped Daria back to reality like the most frigid of Siberian winds. She had no right to do this. She had no right to judge Edward. It wasn’t her husband’s fault that his early life had been too easy, too privileged, too genteel. Unlike her, he’d been conditioned to expect special treatment, to be feted like a prince, to be allowed to forget what his true place should have been, if not for all that prodigious talent. No wonder he broke in Kyril. There was no place for a man like him there. And if a man couldn’t be a man, then he became a machine, doing what he was told without complaint or resistance. A cowering animal fearing the lash.
Daria was to blame for making him this way. She’d said if they followed the rules, they’d be all right. So Edward had done as she’d said. He’d buried their child as she’d said; he’d accompanied her to Adam’s as she’d said. And he’d left Kyril. As she’d said. It wasn’t Siberia that destroyed her husband’s spirit.
It was Daria herself.
This time, there was a Chaika limousine. But it came right after dusk, not just before dawn. Every building surrounding their courtyard held its breath, wondering for whom they were there. A lone officer mounted the steps to their apartment, as all those he’d passed by exhaled in relief. He knocked on their door. He asked to speak with Isaak Israelevitch Gordon.
Their communal neighbors scurried out of sight as Daria’s father-in-law trembled down the hall, his legs giving out so that Edward had to grab him under the elbow, and half carry him the rest of the way. Daria rushed to follow, telling the children to stay in their room. Neither listened.
“You are acquainted with KGB officer Roman Anatolyevitch Luria?” asked the KGB officer who did not feel the need to share his own name.
Was it a trick question? How could it not be?
Daria’s father-in-law opened his mouth to speak but managed only a dry gargle. A single twitch of the chin constituted a nod. Roman Anatolyevitch Luria had signed Daria’s release papers.
“He has been arrested,” they were informed. Naming the charge was irrelevant. The charge was irrelevant. “We are investigating known associates.”
“Concerts,” Isaak Israelevitch croaked. “He would come to my son’s concerts. Many years ago. Before.”
“We would leave him tickets,” Edward said.
Was that delight in the officer’s eyes? “Bribes?”
“Tokens of respect,” Daria interjected.
Why wasn’t Edward doing anything? Couldn’t he see what was going on, the danger they were all in? Adam would have done something. He would have sized up the situation, understood what the officer was really after, and found a way to give it to him. Adam would have known how to save them. But Edward just stood there, as accepting as always, braced for whatever happened, instead of making something happen.
Was it up to Daria now? She took stock. The officer had arrived alone. That was unusual. They usually traveled in pairs, sometimes more, in case the prisoners caused trouble. And so they could keep an eye on each other. He came in uniform and in an official car, but not at the traditional time. It was too late for daytime working hours, and too early for the morning assault.
So that was it . . . of course . . .
Daria whipped around, rushing past Alyssa and Gosha to their room. She squeezed beneath the bed and dragged out the traveling case she’d brought from Kyril. Ripping at the lining, Daria found the hoop earrings she’d hidden there and hightailed it back into the hallway. Isaak was still in the process of trying to assemble a coherent sentence, while Edward stood by, watching.
“Would you be kind enough to do me a favor?” Daria dredged up a flirtatious demeanor she hadn’t seen fit to unleash since . . . she’d gone begging to Adam. She held out her earrings to the officer. “These belong to Roman Anatolyevitch’s wife. I borrowed them. Would you please see that they are returned?”
Did Roman Anatolyevitch have a wife? Daria had no idea.
The officer accepted her jewelry in the spirit in which it had been given. He studied them closely. He held them up to the light; he jiggled them and listened to the sound they made. He did everything but bite them to test the karats.
He slipped them into his pocket and bowed his head slightly in Daria’s direction. “I will make certain they end up in the right hands.”
And he was out the door, his “Thank you for your cooperation, Comrade” echoing in the stairway as a lesson for eavesdropping others.
Isaak slumped against the wall, teeth chattering, the nails of one hand scraping the flesh of the other until it bled. Daria hadn’t exactly been expecting thanks, but she had been looking for some sort of acknowledgment of what she’d done. If not from Isaak, then at least from Edward. Did he recognize the earrings? Did he remember how she’d lost them? Was he curious about how she’d gotten them back, or why she’d been hiding them?
Her husband took his father’s elbow again, gingerly escorting Isaak back to the bedroom. He did smile at her over his shoulder. “You always looked so beautiful in those, my Daria.”
Daria thought that Edward was asleep. If she hadn’t thought he was asleep next to her, she never would have allowed herself the indulgence of tears. Daria sobbed soundlessly, clenching her teeth together and concentrating on taking long, even breaths through her nose, even as her cheeks grew wetter. She buried her face in the pillow to muffle any remaining sound and locked her body stiff as a tree branch, lest shaking give her away.
Still, it wasn’t enough. She felt Edward roll toward her, pressing against Daria, one arm sliding around her waist as he stroked her hair with the other.
“Don’t grieve. They were only things.”
Through sheer force of will and well-practiced habit, Daria raised her head from the pillow, offering Edward a heartened smile to show that she agreed, of course they were just things, things were meaningless, and she was grateful for his comfort. All the while keeping to herself what she was truly grieving.
And so they lived in such a manner for close to a year, saying all the correct things publicly, even to each other, while holding their own protective counsel. It felt unnatural and uncomfortable and stifling. And then it grew impossible to recall that there had ever been any other way. What you said was for others. What you thought was for yourself. So it couldn’t be used against you. Until one day toward the end of June, when Daria opened the door to find Adam on the other side of it.
She could only gape, waving her hands behind her back, as if the flurry of meaningless action might keep Edward, his father, Alyssa, and Gosha from seeing what Daria was seeing. “What—What are you doing here?” she managed to say.
“He sent for me,” Adam said. And pointed at Daria’s husband.
Chapter 17
He didn’t seem real. It was impossible that Adam was now standing in front of Daria. He looked too big for the doorway, too big for their tiny room. Daria was embarrassed at how small her life was. He sucked the air out of her lungs. Gosha looked at Adam curiously, then went back to his play. He still had the duckie pull toy.
Edward stretched his hand for Adam to shake, drew him in, and closed the door. “Thank you for coming.”
&n
bsp; Adam ignored the formality, eyes shifting from Gosha to Daria, but when Adam spoke, it was to Edward. “You wrote they were in danger.”
Daria wasn’t sure which shocked her more, the fact that her husband had told such a blatant lie, or that he’d taken the initiative to do so. “Why would you tell him that, Edward?”
Edward didn’t take his own eyes off Adam. “The Germans, they’ll be here any day now. By end of summer, most likely.”
“No!” Daria objected. “I was listening to the radio. They said it’s only Poland and the other territories. Hitler would never be so foolish as to attack the USSR. The pact—”
“Let them come!” Isaak Israelevitch interrupted. “The Germans are civilized people. Not like these Cossack barbarians. We’ll greet them as liberators.”
“You weren’t there, Papa.” The words came tumbling out of Edward. Daria was reminded of how Anya had nearly thrown a tantrum after weeks of being good and keeping it all penned up, and of how frequently Daria herself had ached to blurt out the forbidden. She’d never imagined it might also be true of her now taciturn Edward. But, then again, why wouldn’t it be? Why should he be different from the rest of them? Why couldn’t Edward be suppressing his authentic voice just as strenuously, and for the same reasons? “You didn’t see. I was in Germany. In 1933, in 1936. I saw. There’s an evil there. It’s festering, it’s growing. They’re coming for us next.”
Daria didn’t understand. “The Germans aren’t bad people. We lived with so many of them, in the camp. Those families were as falsely accused as we were; they didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Those are not the Germans who are coming,” Edward said. “You don’t know what they’re doing to Jews in Germany. I saw their leaflets, I watched them burn synagogues, ransack stores, attack old men in the streets.”
“Ridiculous,” Isaak Israelevitch spoke up. “You didn’t see this. You’ve been listening to capitalist propaganda. That’s all this is, like during the Great War. The West claimed German soldiers were bayoneting babies, drinking their blood! No such atrocities happened—we know that now. It was deliberate disinformation to convince us the Germans were our enemies and the Soviets our saviors. I tell you, compared to what we’re enduring under their rule—”