by Sophia Henry
I laugh. “You were one of the sweaty, smelly hockey players.”
“Yes, but some of us have better hygiene than others.”
Dmitri’s obsession with cleanliness wasn’t something I’d expected. He has a woman come every two weeks. I offered to take over her duties, but he said he enjoyed having a professional come in and disinfect everything. If the man’s g quirk, not wanting me to clean is one I can live with.
“Are you sure you don’t mind me living with you for a bit longer?”
“Stay as long as you like, Stasya. I enjoy having you in my space.”
It’s not the ideal situation, but Dmitri is all I have until I get my feet on the ground and establish my new normal.
5
Stasya
May 1991
A few weeks after I moved to New York, the famous restaurant, the Russian Dining Room, reopened after a massive renovation. The location is a few blocks from my store, so when it opened I couldn’t help but find it. The deep, red canopy over the sidewalk and scrolling gold RDR logo stamped into the concrete directly in front of the door intrigued me. Though regal in its own way, the outside doesn’t prepare someone for the treasure they’ll find inside.
The first time I entered the space, my breath caught in my throat. The attention the designers paid to every single detail in recreating the original space astounded me. From the elegant, extravagant decor and gorgeous, gold-framed art adorns deep green walls to the red banquet tables with white linens that frame the room—it’s like stepping into a museum or cathedral in St. Petersburg. Scattered through the middle of the restaurant are square tables with room for two or four patrons.
It’s a breathtaking space. Sometimes I wonder if Kirill knew I’d love it here, and that’s why he rented the location for my store that he did. I wouldn’t put it past him, as he was always thinking of me in the kindest ways.
Since then, the Russian Dining Room restaurant in Midtown Manhattan has been my absolute favorite place to spend time. The first time I told one of Dmitri’s teammates’ girlfriends I enjoyed the RDR, she told me it was silly. A “real” Russian wouldn’t hang out at such a touristy spot.
Maybe she’d never been there, or maybe she’d never paid attention to the clientele, but the iconic restaurant originally opened by members of the Russian Imperial Ballet in the late 1920s is a refuge for many people who came to New York City from the former Soviet Union.
Sure, there are other places, less lavish and homier, but the RDR is a shining beacon in a city that can feel stark and gray. It’s a place to meet others who were in the same situation as I was—nervous and scared, displaced by so many changes in our home country in such a short amount of time. We have things in common that people who have never experienced it could ever comprehend.
Though former Soviets are now free to go to America and hockey players can sign with NHL teams without repercussions, Dmitri is still the only Russian on the Americans. However, there are many in New York. The Brighton Beach neighborhood in Brooklyn has a huge Russian and Ukrainian population. So much so that the restaurants and stores all have signs in Cyrillic. It’s a wonderful place to visit, but I don’t get there nearly enough.
Dmitri and I live in Manhattan. He plays hockey in Manhattan. My store is in Manhattan. Even with Brighton Beach being so close, between work, games, and his travel during the season, we never find time to visit. We’ve been there a few times in the summer when he has the most time off, but that’s a big season for my store, so it’s hard to be away.
Without the Russian Dining Room, it would have been much harder for me to adapt to the United States. I can’t imagine how lonely and isolated I would’ve felt if Slava had made me live with him in Charlotte or sent me to live with someone in another part of the country where there wasn’t any culture or things to do.
Slava—who now goes by “Stan”—owns a tattoo shop in Charlotte, North Carolina. I visited him once a year ago. The city stunned me. It was desolate—boring even. His coworkers were nice enough, but they seemed a bit—uneducated—is the only way to phrase it. When I visited the shop, they asked me how I knew Slava. I told him we were friends from Moscow.
He must not discuss life in Russia much because they didn’t have a clue where I was talking about. Not one of the three guys in his shop could point to Russia on the globe sitting on the shelf in the back of the shop near the bathroom.
How could anyone understand what life was like in the former Soviet Union if he doesn’t talk to them about it? But it makes sense for him to keep quiet. When he accompanied me to America, he started over completely.
I shouldn’t have been so shocked by their lack of knowledge, as it’s a common thread I’ve noticed since being in America. People here barely even know their own history, so it’s stupid of me to expect them to know Russian history. I guess I expected more because the fall of communism and the Soviet Union breaking apart into independent states was a pretty enormous part of world history.
Nope.
I used to wish Kirill sent me to live with Vanya in Detroit, but I knew why that wasn’t an option. Detroit was too dangerous as it would have been the first place Sobokin’s men would have looked for me. Being with Slava wasn’t an option either, as I would’ve been even more homesick and alone in Charlotte.
When Kirill Konstantinovich Antonov jumped in front of a spray of bullets to save my life, I lost a part of myself. There is a void in my heart that I’ll never fill. Physically, mentally, spiritually. I walk through life on autopilot. Existing, but not truly living.
The only reason I’m still alive is because he sacrificed his life for mine. It would be disrespectful to his memory to not let that go.
After two rigorous months of working on the space with a contractor and an interior designer and finally deciding where I’m going to have the clothing made, Prekrasny is almost ready to open.
The biggest concern I have right now is finding someone to work with me at the store. At first, I thought I would do it myself, but after consideration, I realized it would make the most sense to have someone start with me instead of trying to do it all. That way, another person knows the ins and outs of how the shop runs, and if I can’t be there, they can take over.
Debbie McDonald, the wife of one of Dima’s teammates, waves from the door as she rushes in. I’m in love with her multi-colored, oversized sweater and purple leggings. It’s bright and gorgeous like her personality.
“Stasya, hello!” She greets me, sliding into the huge red booth.
I lean over and give her a hug. “Is good to see you.”
Though many of the wives and girlfriends have been very kind to me, Debbie has been my saving grace since I’ve been in New York. I don’t think I would have adapted very well if I hadn’t met her. She’s a bit older—in her early thirties, which isn’t old, by any means, but she has a very nurturing vibe, which might explain why I took to her right away.
Her husband, Dan, is one of the veteran players on the Americans. Dmitri says he’ll probably retire soon, but he’s still in great shape and playing at a high level, so he still has a few years left.
After she invited me to lunch the first time, we’ve had a standing date every week since. It’s been very comforting to have someone to talk to and help me with my English. I don’t know why, but I feel uncomfortable around girls my age. Maybe I’m intimidated. Maybe it’s because I don’t understand the culture or the language and it’s hard for me to jump into a conversation. Or maybe I just get along better with older people.
I miss the wisdom and maturity Babushka brought to my life. Even though Vanya and I would tease her about her stories, it was all out of love and respect. Debbie has been a hockey wife for a few years now. She understands what it’s like to be with a hockey player and fills that void for wisdom, but she’s also lively and fun.
“I just walked by the store,” she says with excitement. “It looks amazing in there!”
Thankfully, she’s been kind enoug
h to me at the Russian Dining Room for lunch over the last two weeks because she knows it’s hard for me to pull away from work for too long recently.
“Is going good,” I say.
The space turned out even better than I envisioned, thanks to some suggestions from the contractor and interior designer. I’m so excited to finally open the doors.
“How close are you to opening?” she asks.
“I need worker, um,” Sometimes I have to think for a minute while I choose my words. I appreciate that Debbie gives me time to form my answers. “Person to be with me. Take money.”
“Have you hired anyone yet?”
I shake my head as I lift my tea to my lips. “No.”
“Can I help?”
My head snaps up, “You know worker?”
Her eyes are hopeful as she points to her own chest. “Me?”
Debbie? Debbie wants to work at the store? I’m so excited, I don’t even know how to express myself.
“Da! Yes! Um,” I wave Sergei to the table. He hurries over.
“Ready to order?” he asks in English, knowing Debbie is a non-Russian speaker.
“No, well, yes,” I say quickly. “But I need help. Can you please translate?”
Sergei smiles and nods. “Sure.”
“You really want to work at the store?” I ask with Sergei translating as I speak.
“I’d love to. I’ve been looking for something to do while the kids are in school. I was in Real Estate back in Edmonton, but I have no desire in getting in to that here in New York,” she says.
“I pick worker,” I say in English, slapping my palm on the table. “Thank you, Debbie. Thank you, Sergei.”
“My pleasure,” he nods, standing up straighter and clasping his hands behind his back. “Shall I take your order so you ladies can get to work?”
Excitement will float me through the rest of the day, but for now, I listen as Debbie orders khinkali—dumplings filled with beef and pork. She tried them last week and loved them.
Despite my delight, it brings another concern of running a business—how in the world am I going to communicate with my new employee? And clients? This is New York, I’m sure there’s a place I can take English language classes. But learning will take time and I plan on opening soon. Maybe Dima can pass on the name of the translator the team used for him when he first arrived.
“You sure you—” I pause, trying to think of the words. “You work with me okay?”
“Absolutely! We’ll figure out the language thing. We do a great job of it already.” Debbie laughs and leans back in her chair. “Dan’s going to be surprised. I go to lunch and come back with a job.”
“Thank you, Debbie,” I tell her again, hoping she understands how much it means to me. “This—I—I very happy. Thank you.”
I honestly can’t believe Debbie wants to work with me. I never would have asked her. Not because I don’t want her there, but because I never thought of asking any of the wives. Everyone is so busy with their own lives, I’d never want to impose on them. I’ve gone from a culture where people help each other in every aspect of life, to people keep to themselves.
“Thank you, Stasya. I’m happy to be able to help.” Her smile is infectious. Or maybe my smile is infectious. I can’t tell who’s feeding off whom at this point.
Since jumping into it with both feet, things with the store have fallen into place in a way I never expected. Babushka tells me that’s how I know I’m on the right path, doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing.
Right now, my plan is simple: I draft in my sketchbook and sew the first pieces myself, using lavish fabrics I handpick here in New York. Once I finalize the designs and materials, I’ll send them to the team I’ve put together in Russia.
I hired Babushka to be the Operations Manager and Yelena, the woman who managed the seamstresses at Cherikovsky, to run the production in Moscow. Every single item sold in my stores will be made there, unless I sell an original design I create here.
Can I get cheaper labor somewhere else? Of course.
But cheap isn’t my intention. Having all the clothing made in Moscow was one of the most important factors in opening this business. I’m very lucky to have the opportunity to come to America and have someone gift me the money and space I need to open this business. It’s my duty to give back to Russia and create jobs for the people who are stuck there trying to keep afloat while figuring out a new way of life. With the collapse of the USSR, some people lost everything—housing, jobs, and what little savings they may have had. Everything is in disarray with no answers and even less hope.
Between paying my employees and having to have the items shipped over, the cost is greater. Someday, I may have to reevaluate and bring my employees to America or hire Russians who already live here to be more cost effective, but—for now—my plan is to keep the manufacturing operations there.
As much as I love planning this business and doing all the things it takes to get it off the ground, I always thought I’d be sharing these moments with Kirill.
I can only hope the choices I’ve made honor his memory.
6
Stasya
January 1993
Every Tuesday at nine am Eastern time, Babushka and I have a weekly check in call. We both pretend it’s because she’s the Operations Manager at Prekrasny’s Moscow production facility, but we both love the weekly call. She reports what’s happening at the facility and throws in her two cents about how she thinks my life should be going.
“What’s going on with the hockey player?” she asks.
“Nothing much,” I answer, doing some quick math with the numbers she gave me on a sheet of paper. “His team is in the playoffs, so he’s preoccupied right now.”
“Preoccupied? He’s always preoccupied! It’s not like he is at the baza, working every hour of the day. He has as much free time as he wants.”
“Babulya, stop! Just because he isn’t flipping tractor tires while being whipped by Myshkin doesn’t mean he’s not working hard.”
“Why haven’t you moved yet?” She asks point-blank.
Even though I know Babushka isn’t one to mince words, the question surprises me.
“What?”
“You spent all that time and money decorating the apartment above Prekrasny and you’re still living with the clown.”
I snort. “’That clown.’”
“What’s funny? I didn’t raise a weak girl. You are like me. Smart. Strong. You can take care of yourself.”
“I know. I just—” I stop myself.
Babushka wouldn’t understand. She took to living alone right away. How do I tell her I’m not as strong as she thinks I am? I’m not like her. I’m scared of being alone.
“You seemed to enjoy the apartment when you were here. And Vanya stays there too. It’s a great space for when we have visitors.”
“I know that being with the hockey player is comfortable, but you don’t need him, Stasya. Look at everything you’ve accomplished. Did he help with that?”
“No. Well—yes, I mean, he was kind enough to let me live with him. It’s stressful being the designated witness protection person for a former mafia wife.”
It was supposed to be a joke, but neither of us laughs. I cough on a sob stuck in my throat, instead. Kirill has been gone for two years, but the tragic situation isn’t easy to talk about—or to make light of. And I still blame myself.
She has a point. All my life, I thought I needed saving or protection. I lived in fear of my father. Never stood up for myself. Never told Dima how I felt about how he treated me.
I’ve lived a life of reactions…like a victim of circumstances.
The time to react is over. The time to act is now.
If there were any question as to where and what era I grew up in, it’s clear with lines like that. I’m spouting off self-help mantras like I’m reading it straight off a Soviet propaganda banner.
“You are a strong woman, Anastasiya. You don
’t need anyone. You know that, right?”
“But I want to be with someone. I want to be with Kirya,” I whisper. Admitting it puts me over the edge, and I sob into the phone.
When I hang my head, my nose runs, I wipe it away with the back of my hand.
Babushka lets me have a moment, but she’s quick to get me back on track. I wonder how long she truly mourned Dedushka after he died. She says it was only a few days, but I don’t believe that. I think people forget or block it out.
“You went from living with your family to your former lover to your current lover.”
I nod though she can’t see me. “Yes, but I didn’t go straight into Dmitri’s arms. I grieved.”
“Did you?”
Silence is thick in the air between us. I left the love of my life bleeding on a cold Moscow street. I never had a chance to say goodbye. Never got closure.
I didn’t grieve properly.
I moved on.
“You’ve never been alone,” she continues. “Never explored. Or given yourself a chance to see who you are.”
In the Soviet Union, being on my own wasn’t an option. And here, I was shuffled straight to Dmitri. A choice I would have never made myself.
Before we talked through our issues, I would have rather been sent to Siberia than live with him. Kirill knew that and sent me to him anyway. Granted, there weren’t many other options. By 1991, only a few Russians had made the leap to the NHL even after CSA started allowing them to go.
“You have so much pain in your heart. You’ll never heal as long as you are with him, Stasya. Take a break. If you still want to be with him afterward, you can always go back.”
This is why I love talking to my grandmother. She’s the voice of reason. She says the things tumbling through my head but never say out loud because I don’t want to seem ungrateful or like I can’t handle my life.
I’ve done a great job of channeling my grief and energy into the store.