“I left the night before, and … she seemed to be almost … okay. Told me to bring her some tvorog (Russian cottage cheese) next time I came ... She liked tvorog, you know ...”
Father appears from behind me. A black yarmulke covers his head and a striped shawl, which I’ve never seen before, decorates his shoulders.
“I thought, I'd go back … in a couple of days,” Mother continues, not noticing our arrival. “But I kept waking up at night … must have been a premonition or something … After work I bought tvorog and went to the hospital … Her room was at the end of this hallway ... so I'm walking along and … just next to Mother’s room I see a stretcher with a body on it ... The body is covered with a blanket but the feet peek out … I look at those feet and … it just hits me … they are my mother’s feet!” And she bursts into loud sobs.
Father makes his way through the crowd of relatives and puts his arms around her, “Fira, calm down.” But Mother notices me, breaks free from his embrace, and begins telling me the story I have already heard several times. Grandmother died in the morning, but nobody in the hospital called her children or took her to the morgue in the basement, so my grandmother’s body sat on a stretcher in the hallway until Mother arrived for her nightly visit.
A new visitor comes in, “Firochka, I’m so sorry …” Mother stops mid-sentence and rushes toward her. “You know, I saw her the night before …”
“Go, take the last look,” my aunt tells me, and I obediently turn around and head to the next room.
In the doorway, I pause. This room is smaller and darker. There are several women here, whispering in the corner. In the middle of the room sits an open casket. For a moment I have an overwhelming desire to run away: I do not know the whispering women, I do not want to approach the casket, and I certainly do not want to see what lies inside it. And why should I? It cannot be my grandmother, for that would mean that I no longer have a grandmother. True, my friend Ulya never knew even her father, but that’s different. My Grandma was with me all my life …
“Go, go!” Somebody pushes me from behind, making me step forward. One more step and I can see a small white-faced woman in the casket. The woman is dressed in a vaguely familiar navy-blue dress and brown shoes. I breathe a sigh of relief. Of course, this is not my Grandma. Mother said that she saw Grandma’s bare feet, not these brown shoes … Unless they put the shoes on later?
I look again, now registering Grandma’s features, which peer through the white mask of death, and tears begin pouring down my cheeks. Yet the woman in the casket does not react. Her eyes are closed, and the expression on her face is cold, distant, and apathetic. Is it really you, Grandma? Please, give me a sign!
No sign comes from inside the coffin. Instead, I feel something tearing inside me, like the fabric belt my aunt tore apart to imitate a mourner’s torn clothes. Only this sensation is not an imitation. It is real and painful. I feel it in the pit of my stomach, in my chest, and even in my head.
I search my pockets for a handkerchief. Maybe this pain is a sign? Or, more likely, a punishment? Punishment for not visiting Grandma more often and for not consoling her when she said, “What’s going to happen to me?” For leaving her there—for wanting to leave, since it felt so uncomfortable to stay.
And now … how will we live without her? What’s going to happen to us? What’s going to happen to me? I’m already in trouble. I may never go to college or do anything worthwhile.
I press my hands to my eyes, trying to stop my tears. My legs are trembling, and I cannot catch my breath. I gasp desperately, but my breath does not come. I need help ... Somebody, help me!
Suddenly, I hear an almost indiscernible voice, “Inhale deeply. Now exhale. Inhale again. Good girl. Everything is going to be all right. Just breathe.”
My tears stop and I quickly look around. The women in the corner are still whispering, not paying attention to me. The body in the casket is lead-still. Where did these words come from? Not from a window, for there isn’t one. Then from … my childhood? From the time when Grandma held me, three years old, by the open window of her apartment, comforting me, “Everything is going to be all right, just breathe.”
No matter where the words came from, I obey them. I breathe in and out, in and out—as the voice commanded—and the pain eases, my body straightens, and my breathing relaxes. And with rare certainty, I realize that I’ll be all right. Grandma would want that. And although this is the end of her life, it is not the end of mine—just the end of my childhood.
Me at fifteen
The first thing I see when I wake up next Monday is Mother ironing my new school uniform. I grew over the summer and my old uniform became too tight in the shoulders and—finally! —in my budding chest.
“Get up, get up,” Mother says. “Get Tanya up, too.”
“There’s plenty of time,” I say, stretching in my bed, still separating dreams from reality in my mind. Then it comes to me—today is the first day of school! My new school is not as close as the old one was, and I have to take a street car to get there. Also, Ulya will be waiting for me at the school entrance, so we can walk into our new lives together.
I jump from my bed, pull the blanket off my loudly protesting sister, and rush to the toilet, silently praying that it will not be occupied. A man’s groaning coming from there informs me otherwise, and I head back.
“Hell!” I say. “Naúm Semenovich is in the toilet. Now I’ll be late for school!”
“Watch your language,” Mother says. “If not for me then out of respect for your grandmother.”
I stop short. How could I forget? We are still observing shiva, the traditional Jewish period of mourning. Of course, our mourning is not exactly traditional. Instead of staying at home for seven days and grieving over her loss, Mother had to go to work the day after the funeral. She never stopped doing domestic chores either, since who else would do them? Father is already out of town (not that he helps much around the house anyway), and Mother trusts me with simple tasks only.
The mirror in our room is properly covered, though, so my grandmother’s soul will not get trapped in it—this is how Mother explained this custom to us. There is another mirror in the bathroom, but since we share the bathroom with our Russian neighbors, that mirror is exempt from the Jewish laws.
“Sorry,” I say and quietly proceed with my morning routine. Some forty-five minutes later I leave our apartment and join the crowd of students.
The morning is fresh and clear, and the atmosphere is festive: school-age children wear their dress uniforms, and young kids and their parents brighten the scene with bouquets of flowers and with hope emanating from their eyes.
On my way to the street car, I run into several of my former classmates.
“Hey, where’re you going?” one of them says.
“I transferred to another school,” I answer.
“You did? Why?”
I shrug and keep walking. I have neither the time nor the desire to explain myself. Besides, my stomach is queasy and my heart is pounding.
A street car approaches and several people get off: a woman with her young daughter carrying a shiny new briefcase, several middle school kids, and a smallish woman in a dark suit. The woman lifts her head and, suddenly, I find myself nose-to-nose with my former principal—her hair is carefully arranged into permanent waves, her lips are pursed into a sharp line, and her eyes are fixed on me like two revolvers.
“Run!” screams something inside my head. “Now!”
I try, but my feet seem stuck to the asphalt, my eyes hypnotized by her hateful stare. I wish I could faint, but I am still upright. “I must say something,” goes through my mind. But what? Should I greet her as if nothing has happened, or should I apologize for my behavior?
My head is spinning, and I lower my eyes to the ground to keep my balance. But then, a stubborn voice rises within me, “Why should you apologize? You didn’t do anything wrong. Besides, what can she do to you? Just keep going. Ulya is w
aiting.”
I look at the principal, and our eyes spar again. “Good day, Elizaveta Vasilievna,” I say. She says nothing. I set one foot onto the streetcar and slowly pull myself up. Then I take a second step, a third, and soon I am inside. Other passengers, annoyed with my sluggishness, push me from behind and shove me to the window. A bell rings, and the streetcar begins to gain speed.
I look out the window at the figure in the black suit—diminishing in size but still ominous, still following me with the cold glare of an assassin—and the old fears wash over me. What if this woman does have the power to ruin me? Should I at least try talking to her? Should I beg for forgiveness? I can get off at the next stop and run back. Yes, yes, I must!
I turn around and begin elbowing my way through the thick crowd, trying to get to the exit. I push and squeeze, and push again, not paying attention to the displeased remarks of other passengers. Finally, I reach the door. It opens, wide and welcoming, and I lean forward, ready to descend.
An old woman in a fallen kerchief looks up to me from the ground. Her hair is thin, her eyes are faded brown, and her pale lips are moving. She reminds me of someone … of … Grandma? What is she saying?
“Be brave, bubala. We’re all survivors. You have to be brave.”
I freeze. Did this woman really say that?!
No, of course not. The old woman is asking about the route. I breathe with relief, “Sorry, I don’t know.”
“Are you getting off or not?” I hear an annoyed female voice ask behind me. I turn and face the woman. “No,” I say firmly. “I changed my mind. I’ll ride on.”
AFTERWORD
My school principal does not, as I fear, ruin my life. I finish college and, at the age of thirty-nine, leave Moscow and my home country for America. A year after that, my sister and parents immigrate to Israel, where my parents finally separate.
My best friend Ulya will not learn any of this. At twenty-two, just before graduating from Moscow State University and marrying a fellow geology student, she is killed by a drunk driver.
My mother country, the USSR, no longer exists. It crumbled around the edges, revived its old name, Russia, rewrote the words to its anthem—omitting Lenin and other outdated ideas—and blessed itself with a new flag, or rather the long forgotten Andreyevski flag from the Tsarist era.
I left the USSR before its great metamorphoses. My recollections are frozen in time, and as long as I live, things and events from long ago will remain preserved in my memory like fossils.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am very grateful to my husband for his support and encourage-ment. Without him this book would never have been written.
TO MY READERS
Word-of-mouth is crucial for any author to succeed. If you enjoyed this book, please consider writing a review online. Even if it is only a few lines, it would be a great help.
You may also drop by my blog: Writing with an Accent: Diary of a Russian Immigrant, where I publish my stories and essays. If you’d like to send me an email,please do it from my blog, too. Thank you for reading!
The Education of a Traitor: A Memoir of Growing Up in Cold War Russia Page 25