The Nesting Dolls

by Alina Adams

  “Dima is a person. Why aren’t they fighting for him?”

  “He doesn’t have as good of a story yet. Begun was arrested while the American president Nixon was visiting, and Sharansky is a translator for the dissident Sakharov. Felix Kandel is a famous cartoonist—you know Nu Pogodi? And Ida Nudel is a woman!” That last one seemed to be the only category in which Natasha could compete. But Miriam had something more ambitious in mind. “Nobody, though, has a pregnant girlfriend they left behind. That’s even better than Ludmilla’s husband and little boy.”

  Natasha suspected that delight at still being called Dima’s girlfriend should not have been her first emotion. It was followed by dread as Natasha made the realization. “You want me to be Dima’s face for the Americans?”

  “Yes! They’ll love it! And even the KGB wouldn’t dare arrest an internationally renowned pregnant woman!”

  Natasha liked the sound of internationally renowned. She could see it now, her and the baby on posters and placards held by marching students in New York City, Paris, London, Rome. She would give rousing speeches in front of cheering crowds, grant interviews to magazines, and have her picture taken. Then, thanks to her tireless advocacy and heroic sacrifices, she and Dima would be triumphantly reunited, their first embrace and the tearful moment when Dima finally laid eyes on his strong, healthy son (or would a precious daughter dressed in pink be more stirring?) broadcast around the world. Dima would be physically—though never mentally—broken from his time in captivity. Natasha’s love would nurse him back to health, and they would marry in a lavish Jewish ceremony, attended by those generous Westerners who’d supported them. This was even better than her original fantasy. But then there was the inconvenient fact that the KGB never had any moral qualms about arresting pregnant women, or young children. Just ask Mama or Baba Daria.

  “You want me to publicly confess my connection to Dima?” Soviet citizens didn’t confess to anything publicly, unless as part of a show trial where the defendants confessed to what they were told to confess. In order to facilitate the process, confessions were written out in advance, sometimes in a language the criminal didn’t speak.

  “Yes!” Miriam glowed. “We can smuggle out your statement with a photo. It’s the best way to draw attention to Dima’s cause. Men like him are sentenced to ten, twenty years’ hard labor in Siberia. The authorities will want to make an example of him. Show what happens to those who try to leave. The only way to shorten his sentence is to exert international pressure. Once they hear about you, the Americans will demand Dima be released so he can see his child. At the very least, they’ll ask for his sentence to be reduced to internal exile so you can go be with him. That, honestly, is the best Ludmilla’s husband is hoping for.”

  Was it just a few weeks ago when Natasha had been romanticizing Dima and herself as political allies à la Lenin and Krupskaya and she had been brought down to reality by the fate of Mrs. Karl Marx? At least Mrs. Marx got to be miserable and exploited in Brussels, London, and Paris. Natasha wouldn’t be that lucky.

  “The KGB will come after me.” Natasha balked, which wasn’t exactly an answer.

  “We’ll make sure the world knows of it,” Miriam said, halting Natasha’s objection, which wasn’t exactly a denial.

  Chapter 31

  “I will marry you,” Natasha informed Boris. After a night of samokritika-level struggle, Natasha had come to the depressing conclusion that she had no option in the matter. She could either believe Miriam was conveying Dima’s true wishes—and how could Natasha be certain of that, it could be a setup by the KGB—and risk the ax coming down to chop her head off like the tallest wheat in Baba Daria’s parable, or she could marry Boris and get herself, her parents, and Dima’s child to America before the truth of her insurgence came out. Natasha owed it to her innocent family to give up her well-earned glory in order to keep them safe.

  Natasha’s intended had been sitting at the kitchen table, slurping a bowl of noodles cooked in milk. He looked up, popping in one more spoonful, his expression curious, though not surprised. He was that confident she’d agree? It made Natasha want to take her words back.

  “You have to take my parents to America with us, too. We can go to ZAGS tomorrow.”

  Never had Natasha pondered how apt it was that one of the Russian words for getting married was razpesaleese. It meant “to sign.” Because that was all she intended to do, sign her name in order to get the emigration paperwork started.

  Boris reached for a napkin, wiped his lips, and returned his spoon to his bowl. He half rose from the wooden stool he’d been sitting on and stood face-to-face with Natasha. She braced herself for Boris to ask why she’d changed her mind, what was the rush, and how was she expecting him to deal with the presence of Dima’s child?

  But all Boris did was lean in and peck Natasha on the lips. She responded politely, startled to note Boris’s kisses didn’t feel that different from Dima’s. Then again, a mouth was a mouth—how much variation could there ultimately be? She wondered if the same would apply to all aspects of married life. Natasha was equally startled to realize the thought of it didn’t fill her with the expected dread and revulsion.

  Just a low-key indifference.

  And that, pretty much, was the state she remained in for the next several months, as if the passion she’d expended working with Dima had exhausted Natasha’s lifetime supply.

  There were papers to be filled out and bribes to be distributed to make certain those papers went through. The Crystals and Rozengurts sold as many things as they could and gave away the rest to friends, rather than leaving them for the neighbors to loot. They packed wooden cartons to ship ahead of them, via the United States embassy. Papa managed to get (no one asked how, so get was the verb they went with) four discarded shipping containers off the docks. They reeked of herring that had overstayed its welcome. Boris’s mother procured plastic garment bags from a department-store clerk who was willing to smuggle out a dozen, one at a time, in her purse, which they used to wrap their belongings and pretend the smell wouldn’t permeate during the multimonth journey.

  They left in the heat of July, pushing their way through the stinking armpits and dripping necks congregated on the sizzling steel platform, wading toward a train that didn’t fully stop, only slowed to a crawl, prompting a mad, trampling rush to climb on. Each of the six adults had been allowed one travel case, but Boris was so scared someone would get left behind that he shoved Natasha and their parents on board, then proceeded to run up and down the platform, picking up their abandoned suitcases and sliding them in through doors and even windows, alongside parents who were doing the same with their young children. The two fathers reached out their hands to pull Boris in just as the train picked up speed in preparation for exiting the station, and he collapsed into the cabin, soaked with sweat and out of breath.

  They were processed in Chop, the last border town before leaving the USSR. The guards not only unpacked all their luggage, confiscating—and slipping into their pockets—such vital-to-national-security-interest items as six silver-plated spoons that belonged to Boris’s grandmother; Mama’s gold hoop earrings, which had been a wedding gift from Baba Daria to replace a family heirloom lost years earlier; and Papa’s camera. They also ordered Boris to drop his pants and Natasha to lift up her dress to verify they weren’t smuggling anything else of value.

  Once, Natasha had imagined this scene with herself as the fearless heroine, clandestine intel sewn into her undergarments, glaring defiantly at her oppressors as she struck a triumphant blow for freedom and dignity. Now, she waited passively for a teen border patrol agent with razor burn along his jaw to finish jabbing her bloated stomach, as if a strategic poke might release a jackpot of contraband. She thought of Dima, enduring much worse treatment at the hands of much less apathetic guards. And then she thought how nice it would be to take a nap.

  Natasha napped through the remainder of their journey to Vienna, Austria. Everyone else gaped at th
e historic sights—Imperial Palace! Ringstrasse! Albertina!—they’d never dreamed they’d get to see in person. Natasha gorged herself on local delicacies of the dessert variety—Buchteln! Strudel! Bohemian plum cake! What was so great about America? she wondered. As far as Natasha was concerned, they could settle down right here.

  Except that, of course, they couldn’t. Austria didn’t want them staying any longer than they had to, when terrorist groups like Black September were being arrested for plots to blow up centers housing Jewish refugees. So within a few days, they were loaded onto buses headed for Italy, each clutching a one-day tourist visa—with instructions not to come back.

  In Rome, Natasha continued eating—Cannoli! Panna cotta! Zabaglione! Did pasta count as a dessert?—and avoiding questions from her mother. She’d been doing it since before the wedding, ducking Mama’s attempts at girl talk, where she prodded about when Natasha began finding Boris attractive, how did they fall in love so quickly, and why in the world would they have hidden it from their parents, who were obviously delighted at the match?

  Natasha told Mama the truth. She’d known Boris all her life, but it was only recently she’d realized how much she needed him, how perfect he was for her, and how foolish she’d been for ignoring what was right under her nose. It was so perfect, she’d wanted to keep the wonderful news a secret for a while, lest it tempt the evil eye into ruining their great fortune.

  “A husband, a baby,” Mama said. “This is what you need. It will be good for you. Take your mind off unimportant things. There will be no more nonsense, yes, Natashenka?”

  “Nonsense?” Natasha trod carefully. Afraid of what Mama might say, yet unable to squelch her curiosity. “What nonsense?”

  “The kind that can make a girl sick. Girls get caught up worrying about the wrong things; you do not even realize how it is hurting you. Do you remember that morning, before we received our permission to emigrate, when you were looking so out of sorts? It took my pointing it out for you to realize that all was not well, that you should rest until the feeling passed.”

  “I remember . . .”

  “I’m happy you listened to your mother.” Mama attempted to sound jovial, but there was no mistaking the steel undercurrent behind each word. “I listened to my mother. Your Baba Daria told me it’s more important to get the things you need than the things you think you want. The things you want, they do not always come in the ways that you want them. But now everything is fine, yes? Better, in fact.”

  “Everything is fine,” Natasha repeated, wondering if Mama had just told her what Natasha thought she’d told her. Wondering if Mama had known all along what was going on with her and Dima? If she’d known exactly what she was doing that morning, advising her daughter to spend the day in bed? “Better, in fact.”

  Mama wanted Natasha to believe that. Natasha wanted to believe it, too. She’d done the right thing. For her parents, for Boris, for the baby. It proved surprisingly easy to convince herself. Much easier, in fact, than it had been convincing herself to go along with all of Dima’s plans.

  “Everything is fine. Better, in fact,” Natasha told anyone who asked.

  Even her baby’s delivery. This wasn’t a Soviet hospital, where you were lucky if the medication you required hadn’t been stolen and having access to sterilized instruments was asking for too much. In Brighton Beach, everything was not only free—“Tell them you’re poor,” they’d been advised upon arrival. “The poor get everything here, and no one checks if you’re telling the truth! Americans are so stupid!”—you didn’t need to bring gifts for the anesthesiologist or bribe a nurse to change soiled bedding. Though there had been some confusion the first day, when an orderly came for the sheets and Natasha thought he was spiriting them away for good because her family hadn’t paid up, which resulted in a brief Russian-Spanish obscenity-laden tug-of-war match.

  Natasha allowed Boris to name the baby. He selected Julia, after the month in which they’d emigrated, which was fine by Natasha. Anything to make the semi-opaque infant—her eyes were like mirrors, brows and eyelashes so faint they appeared invisible—more connected to the swarthy Boris and the rest of his clan.

  Thanks to America, taking care of Julia was not the all-consuming nightmare Natasha had dreaded. There were disposable diapers, and a washing machine for everything else. There was formula she paid pennies for, thanks to the Women, Infants, and Children welfare program they’d also been advised to sign up for. The first thing that went through Natasha’s mind when Boris announced he’d found a computer-programming job was whether it would cost them their benefits. She was furious when she found out it would, and even more angry when she learned that Boris’s new boss had offered to pay him under the table so they could keep on receiving welfare, but Boris had refused.

  She tried reasoning with him, reminding Boris, “In Odessa, the rules were set up to work against us. Here, we can make the rules work for us.”

  “Not by lying.”

  “If they didn’t want us to lie, why would they make it so easy? They’re just testing to see who is smart enough to take advantage.”

  “Oh, my Natasha, be careful you don’t outsmart yourself,” Boris said, which made no sense whatsoever, but before Natasha could ask what in the world he was talking about, Boris turned his attention to Julia.

  He found the child’s every grimace fascinating. He read to her and played with her—Julia dropping things and Boris picking them up. He bought her whatever she wanted, and even items she expressed no interest in, in case she might want them later. He might have spoiled her. Except that, like Boris, Julia seemed incapable of provocative behavior of any kind, good or bad.

  To think that Natasha had been terrified of anyone noticing how unlike Boris and his family her straw-haired, pale, broad-shouldered and square-hipped daughter was, when Julia proved to be exactly like Boris. Woe be to those who broke any rule, including beginning to eat before everyone else was gathered at the table or going swimming in the ocean as the lifeguards were approaching their stations, rather than having ascended to their designated seats. Not that Julia threw tantrums. She merely plopped on her bottom, burying her face in her knees, silent tears dripping down her cheeks.

  Boris always commiserated with her, no matter how stupid or trifling were Julia’s complaints. When she came home bawling because classmates had teased her about having parents named Boris and Natasha, or accused Julia of being a Communist and ordered her to go back to Russia, did Boris back up Natasha’s rejoinder that those children were idiots? If the Rozengurts were Communists, they would have stayed in the USSR, not emigrated to the United States! Did those first graders understand nothing of geopolitical realities? As for the Boris-and-Natasha thing, Julia had no inkling of what true suffering was! She was like all American children, convinced that no one in history had ever suffered the way they were now suffering. Natasha saw this on television and read it in magazines constantly. Julia should better listen to her parents and grandparents recall what they’d so recently escaped, instead of making excessive drama out of insignificant matters.

  Boris merely smiled at Natasha, rather infuriatingly, if she did say so herself. He gently advised, “If it is dramatic to her, then we must respect and take it seriously, to demonstrate that we respect and take her seriously.”

  But who, save Boris, possessed that level of indulgence? Julia was, as far as Natasha could tell, afraid of everything. The dark, loud noises, pigeons. She was afraid of strangers, but also afraid of being chastised for rudeness, so she interacted when commanded, but without meeting their eyes or raising her voice. Most of all, Julia was afraid of doing the wrong thing. That part was all Boris.

  When they first arrived in the United States, Natasha, Boris, and eventually Julia had shared an apartment with her parents, as well as his. It was funded by the same organization that sponsored their immigration. But that was only for a few months. Then they were expected to start supporting themselves. Boris did as told, with a salary
he continued reporting honestly. As a result, unlike their parents, both sets of whom qualified for subsidized Section 8 housing, Natasha and Boris were forced to move into a different apartment, for which they paid, much to Natasha’s outrage, market price. It wasn’t the money. It was the principle. If fools were giving free goods away, it was your duty to take advantage and grab as much as you could carry—then return under a different name for more. Anything else branded you the fool. Natasha had no doubt their neighbors, who lived in the exact same configuration of rooms—sometimes literally next door—but paid one-fifth the rent, were laughing at them. As were the women in fur coats who pulled out their food stamps at the supermarket, while Boris handed over hard-earned cash.

  She tried reasoning with him yet again. Didn’t Boris see that this was their chance to avenge the way they’d been treated in the USSR? Yes, yes, America was a different country, but a government was a government, and just because this one had yet to mistreat them didn’t mean it wouldn’t in the future. They might as well get ahead of the game, just in case, and get their revenge before the authorities got them.

  Her husband refused to budge. There was a right way to do things and a wrong way, and Boris would always choose the right, even if it was to his own detriment. Watching television during every U.S. election, Natasha would hear dumbfounded talking heads asking in despair, “Why would people vote against their own interests?” She thought they ought to meet her husband.

  For more than fifteen years, a grudging Natasha lived with Boris and Julia on one side, herself on the other. Until, in 1991, the world as everyone knew it turned permanently on its axis.

  Chapter 32

  For most, it was the sudden and unexpected collapse of the Soviet Union.