The Language of Sisters

by Cathy Lamb

  “I’m fine.”

  “Whatever.” She kissed my cheek. “But do wash that hair tonight.”

  * * *

  In the lobby I hugged Hope, who said, “I feel like I’ve swallowed a bowling ball,” and cried. Shockingly, against all odds, her boyfriend, Macky Talbot, and she were still together. He hugged her. She smiled through her tears.

  Chelsea came up, black eye shadow ringing her eyes like a drunken raccoon, fist-bumped me, then said, “I joined a new band! I’m the singer. What do you think of that, Aunt Toni? My first song is going to be about moms who are too paranoid strict.”

  Kai hugged me off my feet. “Hello from a Hawaiian. Heard you had a wrestling match with JJ. Sorry I missed it.”

  Uncle Sasho wrapped me in a bear hug. “My Antonia. One of my favorite nieces in my life. Pavel, he ballerina. He wear tights. He like the boys. But what of that?” Uncle Sasho’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “I don’t know. He has the high grades, he do his chores, he help me with the trucking business on the weekends and the summer. Fine son. How you? Ah. Hair is nice. JJ do it to you. Look my daughters, Tati and Zoya. How they marry when they dress like that? How?” Eyebrows up again, weathered face creased in a sad frown. “How?”

  Uncle Vladan and Aunt Holly gave me a hug and kiss.

  “I had a kindergartener ask me today if I was a hundred years old.” Aunt Holly groaned. “I have to retire, soon.”

  “Woe on my life,” Uncle Vladan moaned. “Anya have crazy story about lying on bathroom floor with you. Now she think she may have the pneumonia or measles. At least her neck not disappearing. That what she thought last time. Bees in her knees, too.”

  Uncle Yuri and Aunt Polina wrapped me up in a three-way hug. “How are you, Toni? We hear you and JJ have fight on bathroom floor. That not true, right? Ah, your hair pretty. JJ did it.”

  Boris strode in with a new woman on his arm. “This is Rosa.”

  We shook hands. She looked like a Mexican model. She was getting a doctorate in physics, so she and my father chatted.

  Boris slid me two tickets for The Pirates of Penzance. “Be ready for it, though, Toni. We’ll both be crying by the end of it, you know what opera does to us. I have reservations at Henry’s for our discussion afterward. JJ should do your hair like that again when we go.”

  We Kozlovskys sat in the center of the auditorium. It was packed.

  Koa climbed across everyone and sat in my lap. He was wearing a blue monster outfit with huge rolling eyes on his head. “Hiya, Aunt Toni. I going to eat you up.” He growled. I growled back.

  Ailani scooted over and said to me, “I’ve decided to study the psychology of serial killers for my spring fifth-grade project. I like your feathered earrings and the braids JJ did.”

  The lights went down. The orchestra played. The curtains opened.

  And there was our Pavel.

  We clapped and cheered.

  * * *

  The show was incredible. The kids tap danced and sang. They had a modern dance number. A jazz piece. Two modern rock numbers. There was ballet. Pavel opened the show, he had a solo midway through, and he closed it.

  Pavel was brilliant. He had obviously been working on ballet for years, diligently, with determination and passion. He spun, he twirled, he was on his toes, he lifted ballerinas up, he jumped, he twisted.

  At one point I peered down the row, Koa on my lap, and saw Uncle Sasho blotting the tears on his cheeks. Uncle Vladan and Uncle Yuri did the same, as did my father. Rough men, raised in the Soviet Union, former boxers, noses all off to the side from punches, bawling their eyes out about “our boy ballerina.”

  When the curtains closed, Uncle Sasho was the first on his feet, clapping, shouting when Pavel came out. “That my boy! Right there! That my ballerina! Good job, Pavel! Good job!” We joined him in the ovation.

  We yelled and cheered. We cried. We cry too much, we Kozlovskys.

  Uncle Sasho treated everyone to banana splits, including Danny, Pavel’s boyfriend. When we were served he said, “Cheers. To my boy, ballerina. I love you, my son.”

  We clinked our banana split dishes together. “Cheers to Pavel!”

  “And cheers to family,” my father said. “To the Kozlovskys.”

  “To the Kozlovskys!” We knocked our banana split dishes together again. Only two bananas slipped out.

  * * *

  Nick was home! I heard his footsteps on the dock, scrambled up the ladder to my wheelhouse, and snuck peeks through the windows with my sneaky binoculars. I wanted to hold him. I wanted to kiss that man. I did not want him to see me spying on him, because that would be pitiable.

  Ah. There he was, coming on down. Blond. Strong. He seemed tired. He did not slow in front of my tugboat. Not a bit.

  I waited until he was in his houseboat, then scrambled back down the ladder and slithered like a snake on the floor to my bedroom. I turned off the lights by my bed, then peered out into the blackness behind my curtains, again with the sneaky binoculars. Maybe he would go out on his deck. He loved being on his deck at night, as I did.

  I scrunched down and ... shoot! He turned toward me.

  I dropped to the floor and curled up into a ball, as if that would make me disappear.

  He couldn’t have seen me.

  No, it was dark.

  He couldn’t have seen me.

  No, the lights were off.

  He couldn’t have seen me.

  The sneaky binoculars were black.

  I felt myself go hot.

  He had seen me. I knew it. He had looked right at me. Maybe there was a glint on the binoculars. Maybe the curtains moved. He was a trained DEA agent. He would notice stuff like that.

  I was pitiable.

  I didn’t even bother turning on the lights. I slithered like a snake into bed and pulled the covers straight over my head. I was an awkward goose. A poor excuse for a woman. A spying disgrace.

  * * *

  Three nights later Boris and I went to The Pirates of Penzance. During the opera we cried our eyes out. Opera does that to us. Then we went to Henry’s. It’s a fancy restaurant. Fancy tableware, fancy wine list, fancy food. Boris loves all that stuff.

  “To have someone who understands opera, to her soul.” Boris patted his chest. “It means everything to me.”

  “Me too, Boris.”

  We then discussed the next opera coming to town.

  He steals cars (though I yell at him) and he loves opera.

  * * *

  “Antonia,” my father said. “I cannot believe. Three waiters out sick. Flu. Please, can you come in and work? Eh? I’ll make sure you have your favorite dinner when you are done. You tell me.”

  I was in the wheelhouse. I was not exactly trying to spy on Nick with the sneaky binoculars. I was trying to find Anonymous or Maxie the golden eagle, or the Sergeant Otts. If Nick came out and I saw him, it was purely by coincidence.

  “I’ll come in, Papa. No problem.”

  “Ah, my daughter. You are loving to your mother and I.”

  * * *

  Ellie was there, too. Valerie was swamped with the trial. We waitressed, and afterward my parents brought us the special—Russian stew, one of my favorites. The name of the special was “Dmitry Come Home To Mama.” We had hot bread and wine.

  My mother said, “I know three things today.” She held up three fingers so we would not be confused by the number three. “One, always have extra food. Maybe one day the government go bad, like it was in the Soviet Union, and you want some hidden. Two, put money underneath the mattress sometimes, to keep it safe. Three, a woman, she should kick a man out of house with boot if he not right to her. And three again, I love you, Alexei.”

  My father smiled, they kissed. Too much kissing.

  Ellie poured me another glass of wine. We clinked our glasses while our parents acted like teenagers in the back of a Chevy.

  “It’s not even embarrassing anymore,” Ellie said.

  “They’re almost R rated though
... .”

  Moscow, the Soviet Union

  On that black night in Moscow, the moon covered by rolling gray clouds, my father limped through our door, his face bruised and bloody, blood on his shirt, blood on his hands. He was carrying something in a blanket. When he saw me, he said, “Go to your room, Antonia, now.”

  “But, Papa, you have blood on you and who is—”

  My mother stood in front of my father. “Now, Antonia. Obey your papa.”

  “But who is that kid? He has blood on him! What happened?”

  “We will tell you in the morning.” My mother grabbed my arm and put her face close to mine. “Do not tell anyone, ever, what you saw tonight, do you understand?”

  “Mama—”

  “Antonia, you must not tell.”

  “Go, Antonia,” my father said, sinking into our sofa. “I will talk to you in the morning.”

  I went to bed and shook and cried, a vision of my beaten father, and the blood, charging through my mind. Valeria woke up and I pretended to be asleep, and then I fell asleep, a little girl who had had enough trauma in the last year to last a lifetime.

  I was sure, when I woke up the next morning, that I’d had a bad dream. That my father had not had blood on him, that he had not carried a kid into our apartment with blood on him. But, in our cramped family room, that same kid with blond curls was sitting up on our couch, no blood on him now. He was staring straight ahead. Quiet. There, but not there.

  My father took me aside when Elvira and Valeria tried to play with the little boy.

  “Antonia,” he said. “Your mother told you not to tell anyone what you saw last night, do you remember?”

  “Yes.”

  “If anyone asks, ever, you are to say his name is Dmitry, and we adopted him from an orphanage.”

  “From an orphanage? At night? But why did he have blood on him?”

  My father squeezed my arm, not hard. “Dmitry was adopted from an orphanage. Say it.”

  “But, what happened—”

  “Do not argue with me, young lady.” His face was so haggard, bandaged now in two places. “Dmitry was adopted from an orphanage. You and your sisters wanted a brother, so we adopted him.”

  “But why were you bleeding last night?” Tears burned behind my eyes.

  “Antonia, forget what happened last night. We will not be talking about it again. Do not talk about it with anyone, including your sisters. What is important is that we are leaving for America later tonight for a better life.”

  “Papa—”

  He put a finger to my lips. “This is a secret. Can you keep a secret?”

  I nodded. Yes. I already had a ton of secrets.

  “Say it: Dmitry was adopted from an orphanage.”

  “Dmitry was adopted from an orphanage.” I thought of one more thing. “How old is he?”

  “He’s three or four, I’m not sure. He told me his name, and he held up three fingers when I asked how old he was, then four fingers. You will be his big sister now. Can you do that? Can you be a big sister to Dmitry?”

  Yes, I could. This was something to be happy about. I smiled. “I’ve always wanted a brother.”

  He smiled back, hugged me. “And you have one now. I love you, Antonia.”

  “I love you, too.”

  My sisters and I went to school. When we came back, we tried to play with Dmitry, but he wouldn’t say anything at all. He stared straight ahead. He didn’t cry, smile, or laugh.

  “Is he alive?” Elvira asked.

  “Why doesn’t he talk?” Valeria asked.

  “What’s wrong with him?” I asked.

  “Give your new brother time,” my father said.

  “And hug him,” my mother said. “He needs our hugs and love.”

  So we gave Dmitry time and we gave him hugs and love.

  * * *

  My parents woke us up in the middle of the night and we quietly left our apartment, snuck down the stairs, and headed to our small car. It used to be my grandfather’s. It usually didn’t work and we couldn’t afford gas, but obviously my parents had had it fixed. As enemies of the people, my parents had to sneak out of the Soviet Union. We did not have permission to leave.

  I held Dmitry on my lap, the black shadows whipping by, the petrified silence stifling.

  At one point tears ran down Dmitry’s face and he whimpered but didn’t say a word.

  The first night we fled Moscow, we stayed in the country, in a barn. Same with the second night. We met people, our parents talking quietly, furtively. Dmitry didn’t speak.

  The third night we stayed in a home outside of a village. The fourth night a garage in an industrial area. The fifth night behind a building. Dmitry still didn’t speak.

  My parents’ fear zinged the air around us. For once in our lives, our parents kept telling us to be quiet. We were only allowed to whisper short prayers.

  On the sixth night, out in the country, in a cottage with no electricity, our parents let us talk. My sisters and I played cards, whispering, our parents lying on the ground, on blankets, beside us. They were so tired, they looked dead.

  “Where is Mama?” Dmitry said, his voice soft, like cotton. “Where is Mama?”

  My parents sat straight up

  “I want Mama. I want Mama.” Dmitry’s voice rose. “Mama by the trees.” He pointed into the darkness. “He took her to the trees.” He started crying, his sobs wretched and piercing, right from his young soul. My parents started to panic. Sounds carry in the night.

  “Be quiet, son,” my father hissed.

  “Darling, please,” my mother said.

  “Stop crying, Dmitry,” my sisters said.

  He kept crying. My parents exchanged a look, resolute, hardened, saddened. I knew that one of them was going to do something drastic.

  I pulled Dmitry onto my lap and rocked him, then I sang a song. He quieted, then went back into his semi-comatose state and finally fell asleep. My parents sighed with relief, then we all went back to being petrified.

  * * *

  After we left the Soviet Union, we went to Germany via Poland. We were crammed into one small room in Munich, the six of us, for a year. My mother went to work as a maid, paid under the table, cash. My father worked as a laborer, paid with cash. Two college professors with doctorates, but neither complained. Not a word.

  My sisters and I were taunted and teased at school for being from the Soviet Union, for our clothes and braided hair piled on top of our heads and for not speaking German, for about two weeks. Kids can smell weakness, they smelled ours, and they attacked. We Kozlovskaya girls decided to fight back. One punch, two punches, down they went. Our father had taught his girls to box. The teasing stopped enough for us to learn German and make a few friends.

  We didn’t pickpocket again, though. My mother had talked to us about it, realizing the extent of the stealing that we had done in Moscow. I knew she did not tell our father, not wanting to hurt him, but she told us what would happen if we were arrested in Germany. “We could be deported back to the Soviet Union, do you want that? For us? For your father?”

  The threat of returning to the Soviet Union, where our grandfather had been murdered, our father near murdered, our uncle Leonid “disappeared,” was enough to make us keep our hands in our own pockets, as was the searing memory of what happened to my mother when she came to get me in jail. Plus, though we were very poor in Germany, we weren’t starving. We had food. We had electricity, heat, hot water, a refrigerator that worked all the time. Our parents were with us and healthy. There was no need for survival stealing.

  Uncle Vladan and Aunt Holly were officially sponsoring us from America. When our interviews were over, the endless paperwork filled out, and with help from three professors in the United States whom my parents had been friends with for years, we finally left Munich.

  Dmitry still hardly spoke. He cuddled up to me most of the time. To my mother, to Elvira and Valeria, but mostly to me. He did not warm to my father. He often c
ringed when my father said hello. He pulled away from his hugs. He was scared of him. It hurt my father, I could tell, but he didn’t force Dmitry to hug him, to talk to him. He gave him his space.

  The same questions kept coming. “Mama? You know where Mama is, Antonia? By the trees?”

  “I’m sorry, Dmitry. I don’t know where she is. I’m your sister. We’re your family now.” I was almost eleven. I said this over and over, as my father and mother had told me to do. “I don’t know what happened. I don’t know where she is.”

  “I thought Dmitry was from an orphanage,” Valeria said.

  “I thought he didn’t have a mother,” Elvira said.

  “The past is in the past,” my father said. “Let it lie. Dmitry is from an orphanage. I am his papa, your mother is his mama. That is my final word.”

  And so it was.

  Dmitry cried, but silently, tears streaming down his small face. He would stare vacantly for hours, sometimes hardly moving, as if he was staring at something, or someone, we couldn’t see. Other times, he would rock back and forth, the tears flowing, and he would repeatedly say, “Mama, Mama.”

  The paperwork came through. The interviews were over. We dropped our meager belongings into beaten-up bags and climbed on the plane, my parents terrified, waiting to be stopped, to be denied, to be deported back to the Soviet Union. Instead, smiling flight attendants greeted us, this ragtag bunch.

  The flights to JFK, and then to Portland, Oregon, felt luxurious to us. My parents both slept, conked out, for the entire trip to JFK. Once the plane took off they not only knew we were safe, they also knew that the four of us weren’t going anywhere.

  Dmitry, Elvira, Valeria, and I were spoiled by the flight attendants. I will never forget that. They brought us meals and snacks. We were starving and when we ate everything they brought more food. And pop. We loved the pop. Our parents slept, we ate.

  We had to be “processed” when we landed at the airport. Customs, paperwork, stamps, much that I did not understand as a child, except that we had to wait and it made my parents nervous all over again.

  We officially became the Kozlovskys then, in that airport, not Kozlovsky and Kozlovskaya. The paperwork that we filled out had only Kozlovsky on it. There would be no more feminine and masculine separation. We would do what my uncles’ families had done before us. One last name per family, like the Americans did.