“Jesus Christ!” he cried. Was this the moment of arrest he so feared?
“Oi!” moaned the woman as he smashed full front into her, jabbing his parcel into her stomach.
“Molodoi chelovek!”
“Oh… excuse me.”
The clawed feet of a dead chicken poked out from her large purse and left bright red scratches across his arm.
She sneered at him, gathered herself together, and brusquely marched on.
From then on the tension subsided and Nick began to search for a phone. He was, however, still hesitant, still unsure of the situation. It had been so obvious before. So blatant. The men observing him had walked with him, stood in line with him, admired books with him. Once, smashed together on an overcrowded bus, Nick had even read the grocery list in the pocket of the man who had been following him.
They had doggedly tailed him for more than four months. So why stop now? Each time Nick went out he still expected the KGB goons to be there, perhaps not visible at first, but detectable with his simple tricks. But they weren't. So why had they stopped? Why after so long? Nick shrugged. Perhaps the political climate really was improving. Or perhaps it was just Kiev. Foreigners were a more familiar sight here and maybe the local Party wasn't so paranoid about capitalists infiltrating their city. Still…
Nick assumed that his room phone as well as the pay phones in the immediate vicinity of the hotel were monitored. Satisfied that he was now a safe distance from the hotel, he found a public phone on the next block. He stepped into the glass booth, setting his package on the floor, and searched his pocket for the carefully saved two-kopeck piece, another item in shortage. After he had located it, he scanned the street. No one. Suddenly, breaking the stillness, a light green taxi shot by, its long antenna bobbing in the wind. Then all was more quiet than before.
He reluctantly accepted his good fortune, positioned his coin, and dialed 37-54-32. The receiver was picked up on the third ring.
“Da,” grumbled a deep male voice.
He released the coin and it fell into the telephone. The static-filled connection clicked on.
“This is Nicholas Miller.”
Silence. The voice, making no pretense at being friendly, asked, “Who?”
“Nicholas Miller. I'm an American—with the exhibit—and Margie Ander—”
“Ah!” The introduction was complete and the Russian relieved. “You're a friend of our Margie? From America?”
“Yes.” Margie and he had been in the same graduate-level Russian class at the University of Michigan.
“This is Boris.” He was quite eager. “When can we meet?”
“Tonight? She sent you a package and I've—”
“Of course, tonight is good. My wife, Masha, will be home soon.”
“How about seven o'clock?” Nick, smugly, had always named his time and a Russian had yet to turn him down.
“Da, da, da. Where?”
“By the Leningrad Restaurant?”
“Good. We live very close to it.”
“Okay, I'll see you there. At seven,” concluded Nick.
“Da, okay.”
Nick hung up. Margie had been in Kiev for three months the year before, and had asked Nick to deliver a package to Boris and Masha, her best friend in Kiev.
It was 6:30. Checking the street again, he picked up the box and stepped out of the booth. The Leningrad Restaurant was located at the other end of Kreshatik and Nick tried to recall precisely which statue of Lenin it was near. He had seen so many monuments to the revolutionary leader that he couldn't remember if it was the one in marble, steel, or granite, or the one charging, pondering, or lecturing. If he was not mistaken, the one on Shevchenko Boulevard featured a much larger than life red granite Lenin, beckoning to the people as if he were making a dramatic speech.
Several blocks later Nick walked a sloping street downward to the busy Kalinin Square. The dense, mid-rise apartment houses on the street were mainly postwar structures, this central area of Kiev having been nothing more than ankle-deep rubble after the Occupation. Lingering near one of these buildings were four “droozhniki”—a “good friends” citizen patrol—who eyed Nick, an obvious foreigner, with caution. Farther down, a couple was snuggled together in the shadows of a tree. The man, in a gray suit and pink shirt, jokingly punched his girlfriend, and she laughed, hiding her face in his chest and embracing him. Nick eyed her fashionable miniskirt as it traveled up her thigh.
In front of him a lopsided woman stopped to rest her heavy string bag of cucumbers on the sidewalk. Groaning, she picked up her load and achingly trudged on. She was about to rest again a few short steps later when she spotted a huge line emerging from the square. Seeing the queue, she summoned what energy she could muster and ran forward, yelling, “Who's last?” as she frantically searched for the end. Nick's interest was aroused too. Whatever they were selling had to be good—why else would so many people be lined up?—and as he passed the woman, who was now settled at the end, he heard her shout, “Comrade Citizens, what have I gotten in line for? What is it they have for sale here, hey?”
Dozens upon dozens of people stood in line, their bulging string bags, purses, and backpacks draping from their sides. Yet there was no discord and no shoving. Obviously there was enough of whatever it was, and at the front Nick peered into the center of activity. Alongside a transport truck was a makeshift barrier of crates, behind which stood three matronly women in white hats and robes. On the ground, next to a battered scale, was the prize: two large piles of watermelon. Tempting memories filtered through Nick's mind and his mouth watered.
“Comrade,” he asked a woman, her purse full of beets, “how long have you been waiting?”
“Not long,” she responded, shrugging her shoulders and not looking at him. “Thirty minutes or so.”
Unable to recall the last time he had had fresh fruit other than little green apples, he closed his green eyes and conjured up memories of watermelon.
The woman in the miniskirt, a professional with years of experience, moved slowly, and observed Nick at a distance.
“Where?” whispered the man in the pink shirt, her colleague, overtaking her from behind.
“Just beyond Dairy Store, by Bread Store Number 43.” She directed herself toward a display window featuring an enormous pyramid of canned peas. She counted to ten, and then, according to the routine, continued.
The man who had just overtaken her was now in the lead. She was number two. Somewhere behind her was number three, the man with the cropped blond hair. Behind him was number four, the man who had bent over and blown his nose on the sidewalk to prevent Miller from seeing his face. And out there on the street somewhere was the light green taxi, their radio control center, whose only distinguishable feature was its long bouncing antenna.
IV
“Shit.”
He had called that woman in line “comrade” and he didn't even know her. He hadn't even seen her before. Comrade. It had slipped out all too easily. Not only that, but he had also been tempted to jump right in line without even knowing what was for sale. How Soviet. He'd definitely add that to the list the guides kept at the exhibit called “How Are You Turning into a Sov?”
He knew he had reached Shevchenko Boulevard when he came to the granite statue of Lenin on its monolithic black base. He rounded the corner and halfway down the block saw a tall, thin man in his twenties pacing in front of the Leningrad Restaurant. Nick readjusted the package under his arm. After all this, it was hard to believe that his box was not full of secret codes and plans, but blue jeans, records, and cigarettes. And now that he could get out and move about freely, he was excited to meet Russians and make friends.
The Russian was anxiously sucking on a pungent Soviet cigarette, frowning as he scrutinized those walking by. A broad grin emerged on the uninviting face, however, when his eyes rested on Nick, the obvious American on the sidewalk.
“Nick!” He threw his cigarette to the ground.
“Bo
ris Lupin?” Nick smiled. Margie had told him not to worry, that he could totally trust Masha and Boris and that they would welcome him into their home like a long-lost brother.
“Da, da. Oh, it's very nice to meet you.” He eagerly took Nick's hand in his and shook it. “Do you have any news from Margie? How is she? What is she doing? She has not written us for months.”
“She's fine and she sends her very best.” His arm ached from carrying the package. “Here,” he said, shoving it outward, “this is for you. From Margie.”
“Oh!” His eyes opened wide, wondering what treasures it contained. Then he caught himself, recoiled and looked about. Only when he was sure there was no one watching did he accept the package. “Thank you. It's very nice. The most important thing you could bring us, though, is news of our Margie. You must come back to our apartment.” He took Nick by the arm,” I telephoned Masha at her friend's and she'll be home soon. She'll be furious if she misses a single word.”
Nick knew he couldn't refuse, nor did he want to. Russians were given to expressing their friendship and love in terms of food and vodka, and this evening would surely be no exception.
Talking in hushed voices, they walked up Shevchenko, then cut down a side street, Boris glancing over his shoulder. As they entered the courtyard of a four-story building, the only sign of life from the street was just another light green taxi that sped past them.
Boris opened a door in the corner of the courtyard and hastily motioned Nick through. He checked behind them once more before following Nick up the dark and musty smelling staircase to the second floor. And again Boris paused, peering down the stairwell. He then got out a long key and opened two sets of heavy doors. Ushering Nick through, he spoke only when they were in the security of the apartment.
“This is our place—actually Masha's parents’. Please consider it your home, too. Come, sit down.”
From the cramped entry they entered a windowless living room. Boris turned on a naked overhead light bulb, and Nick's eyes passed immediately to the familiar glassed cabinet that he had seen in so many middle-class Soviet homes, its reddish wood polished to a cold plasticlike gloss. Boris reached into the cabinet's treasured display of dishes and crystal for an ashtray.
Shaking slightly as he lit the cigarette, Boris said, “Margie, Margie… such a wonderful person. Everyone in this family loves her dearly, yet she writes so rarely. Have you ever seen Margie and my Masha together? No, of course not. They're so much alike. All they do is talk, talk, talk. So, you're with the exhibit?”
“Yes, I'm a guide.” They were feeble words to Nick but he knew they were impressive to any Russian. People were traveling five hundred kilometers just to see FARMING U.S.A.
There was muddled shuffling at the door and an elderly woman's voice hollered, “Yoo-hoo!”
“Ah,” said Boris, “it's Masha's babushka.”
“Yoo-hoo! I'm here, come to listen to the short wave.” An attractive, well-kept woman stepped in, her graying blond hair put up in a bun. She froze when she saw Nick and cautiously looked him over.
“Baba Genya, this is Nick,” said Boris proudly. “A friend of Margie's… from America.”
“Yes,” said Nick, grinning. “Margie sent me.”
“Margie?” Her eyes glowed with excitement. “How is she? She has such neat handwriting. So nice and small and concise. Are you a tourist?” She bent toward his ear and shouted, “Can you say anything else in R-u-s-s-i-a-n?”
“Yes, Baba Genya. He speaks better than you.”
She scowled at Boris.
“I'm a guide on the FARMING U.S.A. exhibit,” volunteered Nick.
“Oh, I heard about that on ‘The Voice of America’,” she said. “What is it? Is it a good exhibit?” Then, as if to test him, “Do you smoke cigarettes?”
Accustomed to being interrogated by babushkas, Nick knew how to please her. “Never touch ‘em.”
“Bravo! Very good! Did you hear, Boris? Boris, you smoke too much!”
Teasing her, Boris said, “Margie smokes, Baba Genya.”
“No!”
“She does!” He winked at Nick. “She sat right here and smoked in this very room.”
“Well, she has very nice handwriting… and you still smoke too much!” She reached over and tried to bat the cigarette out of Boris's mouth.
“Now, now, Baba!” Boris jumped back. The door opened. “Oi, Baba, stop. Masha's home.”
She threw up her hands and went into the bedroom. “Young people!”
“Hello!” called out a voice in English. Beaming, Masha stepped into the living room. She was plump and had shoulder-length brown hair. Like many Soviet women, her complexion was smooth and healthy; in the middle of her round face was a small, pointed nose. She spoke with a heavy British accent and her words were slow and precise, as if she had thought of the perfect phrase and memorized it. “Who is it that has come from my dear Margie?” Stretching out both hands and taking Nick's she seemed like an actress from a nineteenth-century English play. “I'm so glad to meet you, Nick.”
“It's my pleasure.” She was entirely readable and Nick liked her immediately.
To restrain herself within the confines of another language was too difficult and she broke into Russian. “My God, I've forgotten it all… all my English. Sit down. Relax. Tell me… how is my Margie? Is she well? What is she doing? She isn't sick, is she? Why hasn't she written? Is something wrong? Has she forgotten me? Does she remember her little Masha? Maybe her letters just haven't gotten through. Oi, tell me everything. I want to know all the details… every last one of them. But have you eaten? Have you had supper?”
“Feed him! Feed him!” cried Baba Genya from the side room where she sat listening to the BBC evening news on the short wave.
“Yes, come into the kitchen and I'll feed you. Come, but you must tell me everything, you mustn't stop talking. Imagine, from Margie!”
Bustling out, she led the way into the kitchen, a cramped space with a bathtub in one corner and a small window in the other. Boris remained in the living room and smoked another cigarette.
“Sit.” She pulled a stool from under the table. Taking two cucumbers and a tomato from the refrigerator, she began chopping them. “Now, what of Margie? I want to hear all about her… and about you, too?”
“Well, we were in the same graduate program together and we both finished last year.”
“She finished? And now?”
“Well…”
Nick was exhilarated not only to be out of his stuffy hotel room and out on his own, but to be so warmly embraced by people he knew he could trust. He told Masha a great deal about himself and everything he knew about Margie, improvising at times to satisfy Masha's relentless curiosity.
“You know,” said Masha reflectively, momentarily calmed by the shared news, “everyone in this family loves her so… Boris, Mama, Papa, Baba Genya. Papa and Margie talk almost as much as we do—and very openly, too. It seems Americans talk so readily about their country's virtues as well as its problems. Nothing hidden. Bluntly, you know? Americans must be a very honest people because they try to answer so fully and completely—you know, frankly.”
Boris came in and sat down at the table with Nick. Masha went over and hugged him.
“All our friends think as we do and see clearly as we do, but we don't talk—certainly not openly—and we don't act.” She hesitated, then said, “Don't get me wrong. I love my country, and I will support and defend it forever. I don't want to live anywhere else… not even in America.” She looked at him adamantly.
“Yes, of course,” said Nick, playing with a spoon.
He recognized the fierce nationalism instilled in so many Soviet citizens, nationalism that he had at first admired, but later had come to fear.
She added sour cream to the cucumbers. With a softened tone, she said, “I'm not against my country, really, it's just that things have become so loathsome.” She paused in thought. “Boris, get the plates.” Then slowly, deliberat
ely, as if it hurt her, she said, “What bothers me is the extent of corruption here.” While she was full of pride, it was obvious that she did not let this obstruct her view of reality, no matter how painful.
“You know,” said Nick,” I can see why Margie thinks so highly of you.”
Eager to return to the subject, she smiled faintly and shrugged off the compliment. “There's so much of this under-the-table stuff. Nick, do you know what blat is?”
“Of course. Strings, connections, clout.”
“Blat is today's U.S.S.R. We are perhaps the most corrupt country in the world because this blat controls our daily lives, right down to the food on our table. It is impossible to live without it. It's how we all… all function from day to day.
“For instance, no one in this country is starving, but some eat much better than others. Many eat literally nothing more than potatoes and cabbage. Others meat. And why do we eat well? Because Mama is a dentist and she has blat. Big blat. Officially she makes only eighty rubles a month, but she does work on the side. She earns extra income this way, but not too much because instead of charging her patients a lot, she asks them to tell her when they have meat or cheese or cosmetiki… whatever she needs. So with blat she gets in the back door without lines… and before things are sold out. Sometimes people even pay her in the form of caviar or crystal glasses or a book that is in shortage. It's the way the whole country works—by acquaintance with someone who is indebted to you and who is able to get something that you need.” Masha sighed as if she had just made an enormous, painful confession. “Blat… it's how we get produce, meat, clothing, razor blades… even toothpaste from Bulgaria!” Suddenly she grew quite angry. “Oh, I can't believe I live in a country where in order to live a decent life you don't have to achieve—you have to connive!”
“Blat,” said Boris, soberly, “is the only way I got my job. Masha's father is a Party member.”
“But he understands everything, sees everything. Papa is a very good man,” she said defensively. Then, ashamed, she added, “Still, it's very difficult to get an apartment anywhere—particularly near the center of Kiev—and the only way we got this one is because Papa is a member of the Party.”
The Cross and The Sickle Page 4