When I got upstairs, I shut off the light. I had completed my end of the assignment for now. There was nothing more to do than wait until the following year, when I would give my new students the same assignment. And by that time, the high school class of 2006 would be one year closer to their graduation.
26
OCTOBER 1987
KIEV, UKRAINE
THERE were two images from Soviet television that Katya still carried in her head. The first was of the helicopter dropping sand over the burning reactor in Chernobyl, and the other was of the Jews in Moscow chanting, “Let us go! Let us go!” On each occasion, she remembered that she sensed the world was changing. Not just because of what was being broadcast on the television but because of Sasha’s reaction to it.
Both times, she had noticed that his body language changed as he sat on the sofa watching. His shoulders grew higher, his torso pitched forward, and he knotted his hands in front of him. In the reflection of the glass, she saw his eyes fixate on the television screen.
She had never realized before marrying Sasha how much anti-Semitism there was in Ukraine. But in the short time they had been married, she already felt that it had become an oppressive part of their lives. Sasha’s experiments were often sabotaged in the laboratory. Their second spring together, he was passed up for yet another promotion, even though she knew he was far more qualified than his colleague who was offered the job.
Some days he would come home and could barely talk to her because he feared that if he unleashed his rage, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from breaking everything in their apartment.
So it came as no surprise to her that when Gorbachev announced that anyone with Jewish heritage would be allowed to leave the Soviet Union, Sasha started making plans to leave even before he expressed them to her.
When he finally brought up the subject to her over dinner one night, she looked up from her plate and saw his eyes determined to convince her that they should leave.
“If you were dancing this year, Katya, I might not pressure you. But this may be our only chance for a better life.”
“But at what cost, Sasha?” She raised her arms. “What will happen to our families when we leave? They’ll be labeled the relatives of traitors! They will suffer the consequences for our selfishness. I couldn’t bear that.”
“An opportunity like this might never happen again, Katya. Gorbachev can ban the emigration as quickly as he approved it.”
Her mind was racing, and she could barely concentrate on what Sasha said afterward to convince her it was the right decision. It was easier for him to leave, as both of his parents had passed away and he was an only child. But she still had her parents and sister to think about.
“We can start thinking about building our own family when we get there. In a place where our child will have every opportunity.” She felt his hand on top of hers and his eyes fixed on her own. “Not one where there are quotas on how many Jews can apply for university. Not one where the name Krasny has people labeling him a Yid.”
He came closer to her and pulled her into his arms. “Look at me, Katya.”
She lifted her head to him.
“You have to trust me, my love. This is the right thing for us.”
Her silence was her confirmation. He read her answer in her eyes.
The next afternoon he went to get an application.
27
OCTOBER 1987
KIEV, UKRAINE
KATYA’S mother said three words to her when she learned they were applying to leave.
“You’re not Jewish,” she muttered. The inflection of her voice was cold as steel.
“No, but Sasha is . . .” Katya stood in the threshold of her parents’ kitchen. Her mother, sitting at the table, refused to look at her.
“Mama . . .”
Her silence was deafening. And Katya found herself imagining what was traveling through her mother’s mind at that moment. You failed us as a ballerina. You failed us when you married that Yid. And now you’re failing us by leaving us here alone in our old age.
When her father came home an hour later, Katya was loath to tell him.
“Papa, I have some news,” she said tentatively. She was fully aware her voice sounded different whenever she spoke to her father. She instinctively regressed to a little girl when she was near him.
“Sasha wants to emigrate to America.”
He flinched. “I thought we were born in this shithole and we’ll all die here. I didn’t know you could just pick up your stuff and go.”
“It’s not a joke, Papa. Gorbachev is allowing the Jews to leave.”
Her father went to the refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of vodka from the freezer, and poured himself a glass.
After the first few swallows, he lumbered into the living room and lowered himself into his chair.
His face softened now as he finished his drink.
“That poor ankle of yours robbed you of the life you were meant to have.” He waved for his daughter to come closer to him and then pulled her into one of his strong hugs. He smelled of alcohol and cigarettes.
“I’ll get the pins out in the United States, and maybe the physical therapy there is so good that I’ll be able to dance again in an American dance company.”
“My little lapushka already has her American optimism.”
“Not completely, Papa.” Her eyes welled up with tears. “I’m afraid they might do something to you and Mama if we leave.”
“We’re old. What more can they do to us?” He shook his head. “Do you think they can crush me?” He lifted his glass and took another swallow of his drink. “If they call me the father of a traitor, I’ll survive. And so will your mother.”
But in the kitchen, Katya could hear her mother smashing pans.
28
SOMETIMES when Katya looked around her home, it struck her how little trace there was of the woman she had left behind in Kiev. It wasn’t just because of all the comforts of American suburbia that now surrounded her: the stocked refrigerator, the Pontiac in the driveway, or the living room with its nice wooden furniture. Instead, because her life now focused on caring for Yuri, it was as if she had been transformed into an entirely different person from who she had been back home, where nearly every moment had revolved around her ballet.
When she first learned that she would have to stop dancing for at least a year, she felt as though she had lost all sense of self. Before, she had always trained her body like an athlete. But now, for the first time since she was nine years old, she no longer spent her entire day rehearsing in the studio or in the company of her fellow dancers. In secret, Katya felt as if she would never make a full recovery, that her body had betrayed her. Already she could see she had lost the once predominant muscles in her thighs and calves. She had certainly not grown heavy, but her body was no longer as hard and tight as it once had been. With every day that passed, she began to let go of her dreams of ever returning to dancing.
So when Sasha proposed the idea of emigration, Katya agreed because she felt that her homeland had nothing left to offer her. She told herself she had to believe in Sasha and his instinct that they would be better off in New York than staying in Kiev.
But immigrating to America was not an easy thing to do. Sasha had to prepare a statement for the United States government detailing his troubled life as a Jew under Soviet persecution. He spent hours at their dining room table working on an old typewriter, describing all the incidents of anti-Semitism he had endured, first at university and later at his workplace. He detailed all the obstacles that management had put in his way to prevent him from advancing in his career. And even after all that, the papers for immigration required multiple signatures, including from Sasha’s boss and even from the power company saying they had paid all their bills. Even the local library was required to sign the application, sta
ting that neither Katya nor Sasha had any overdue books. God forbid he left the country with a bound edition belonging to the motherland.
Sasha also had to endure meetings with his boss and colleagues, where they denounced him for being a traitor, and Katya’s mother was so hurt, she could now barely utter two words to her. Most painful was her sister, who also begged her to reconsider. At night, Katya would stare at the ceiling and count the days until they could leave for a place that would grant them a clean slate to start their new life.
* * *
• • •
WHEN they finally left for the transport city of Chyop, they were not allowed to bring more than one hundred dollars out of the country. But they carried with them a tin of caviar and a bottle of Armenian cognac, because they had heard that in order to cross the border, they would need luxury items to offer as bribes.
In their two suitcases, they packed only a few items of clothing, some photographs of their family, and their wedding portrait. At the last minute, Sasha insisted that Katya also pack the pair of toe shoes she had worn to rehearsal on the day of her accident.
“Take them,” he urged, noticing that she had placed them in the box of belongings they intended to give to their friends and family.
“I won’t be dancing again.” Her voice now had a practiced tone of stoicism and steely reserve.
“You don’t know that, Katya. And, look, they still have a lot of life in them.”
He took them out of the box and handed them to her to pack. He was right: the toe box was only slightly scuffed, and the ribbons were still pristine. How she had marveled at them the first time she placed her feet in them and laced the ribbons up her ankles. Now, they seemed like relics from another life.
She muttered another protest but finally acquiesced. When they arrived in the States, Katya hid the shoes in her underwear drawer, wrapped in a silk scarf. She placed stockings and socks over them, a small pushpin and sewing kit by their side. There, they remained untouched, a secret she shared with no one.
* * *
• • •
EVEN if Katya were healthy enough to resume her dancing career, she knew there would still be a number of other obstacles. The major ballet companies were all in Manhattan, but Sasha’s work required them to live close to Stony Brook University, in the eastern part of Long Island, nearly two hours’ drive from the city. So instead, she spent her days refining her English at the local community college and adjusting to her new life.
Sasha went off to work every day to a world she knew little about. He dressed carefully in the morning, buttoning his collared shirt and always wearing a tie, despite the fact that very few of his coworkers wore one. She remembered with a sweet fondness that afternoon he came home and withdrew a piece of paper from his briefcase that had the words “Yankees” and “Mets” on it with a question mark next to each one.
“The men at the office love baseball,” he informed her. “They told me that if I’m to become a true American, I should pick a team.”
“Really?” Katya was incredulous. “They said that?”
“Well, I think they were joking, lapushka, but it would be a nice way for me to bond with them. I tried to talk to them about soccer, but they had no interest.
“I’ve been doing a bit of research. The obvious choice is the Mets,” he told her. “They’re on a winning streak this year, despite the bad press of Darryl Strawberry’s drug problem.
“But, as you know,” he told Katya, “I’ve never been one to pursue the obvious.”
She laughed and sat down beside him at the kitchen table, the piece of paper with the two baseball teams in front of them.
“Most of the men at work are Mets fans. All of them are, actually . . . except for one guy named Carl.” Sasha took a pencil and tapped it against the table. “Carl told me you can’t get more American than the Yankees . . . Joe DiMaggio, Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, and Mickey Mantle. They’re all national heroes.”
Sasha bent over to his briefcase again and withdrew two heavy books wrapped in protective cellophane he had gotten from the library. Both were on the history of baseball.
“I started reading about it during my lunch break. I think I’m going with the Yanks,” he said.
Over the next few weeks, Katya witnessed Sasha transform into an expert on a sport that was wholly new to him. He studied each game. He marveled at the mental strategy that success in the sport required. He memorized the names of the players and their numbers, and showed a gift for keeping the records of each team in his head. She knew that this was part of her husband’s personality. He thrived on the ability to make a decision and then immerse himself in the research so deeply that he became more knowledgeable than his peers. But secretly Katya envied his ability to claim something as his own. While he embraced America’s oldest pastime, she longed to find something in this new country that she could claim with an equal passion.
* * *
• • •
AS Sasha settled into his routine at work and started to make friends with his coworkers over his new love of baseball, Katya struggled to find fulfillment in her small excursions to the grocery store or in her English classes. She could call herself neither a workingwoman nor a stay-at-home mother. Rather, she was an isolated immigrant who had no real friends except the few other women who went to the library every Tuesday night to learn English. So she was thrilled when she discovered, six months after they arrived in New York, that she was pregnant. For now, she had a new sense of purpose. She began to drive by playgrounds and imagine herself sitting on a bench with the other mothers watching their children playing in the sandbox. She envisioned colorful birthday parties with ice cream cake, a delicacy she had never heard of before she arrived in the States, and the idea of a cake made purely of ice cream thrilled her. Infinite scenarios of maternal happiness flooded her mind.
Sasha and she became even closer knowing they were bringing a life into the world together. She no longer felt fragile from the shadow of her old injury but rather felt heartier than ever. Sasha helped by preparing old-world dishes for her that were nourishing and that he believed would make their child strong. He made goulashes and lots of kasha. He kept a bowl of boiled eggs in the refrigerator and started a garden in their backyard so he could grow his own tomatoes, carrots, and onions. He joked that if he had a son, they would watch baseball together, perhaps spend their weekends playing catch.
At night, the more romantic side of him would return, and he would place his hand on her growing belly, telling her there was nothing in the world as beautiful to him as the sight of her with their growing child. “A love within my love,” he whispered as he held her close. He would read to her, aiming his voice in the direction of her womb. He read them novels in English, telling Katya that the three of them would master the new language from the words of a good book.
Although Katya’s pregnancy was uneventful, the birth itself had been painfully difficult, and Yuri had presented blue. The pediatrician initially thought he might have a blockage in his lungs. But when Yuri’s color returned, another doctor in residence thought he heard a heart murmur. After three exhausting days of meeting with specialists and undergoing countless tests, including an angiogram, they were told it was a far more severe condition. Yuri had been born with a rare heart defect called Ebstein’s anomaly.
“Basically, Yuri’s heart is different than most children’s, because his tricuspid valve sits lower than normal in the right ventricle.” Dr. Rosenblum took out a pencil and drew a diagram on a piece of paper for them. “This means that as the child’s heart develops, part of the right ventricle merges with the right atrium, and that portion of the heart becomes enlarged and impacts its ability to work properly.”
Katya sat there in the doctor’s office while Yuri, only a few days old, slept in her arms. At that time, her English was only good enough for her to make out a few of the words that the
doctor said. But Sasha, whose English was much better, appeared to be taking in each sentence. Every few minutes, Sasha would ask the doctor if he could translate for Katya, because he knew the darkness of not knowing what was happening caused her great distress.
The pediatric cardiologist told them that it was hard to predict what sort of life Yuri would have. Ebstein’s anomaly had a myriad of potential outcomes. Some children could live years without having any problems, while others struggled quite profoundly with breathing, irregular heartbeats, and other complications. Some children may never require surgery, while still others might need intervention as early as three or four years old.
“The best thing I can tell you,” the doctor said as he stood up and shook Sasha’s hand, “is to keep a careful eye on him. Any changes in color or breathing, you call me immediately.”
As they drove back home that afternoon, Sasha looked into the rearview mirror to check on his wife and child every time the car slowed down for a red light. He could see Yuri strapped into his car seat, sucking on his fist as he slept, and Katya with her hand resting gently on the blanket that covered Yuri’s knees. Sasha had never driven so slowly and carefully in his life. Through every bend in the road, he maneuvered the car as though he were carrying the most precious and fragile cargo.
From the moment they brought him home from the hospital, all of the focus Katya had once channeled into dancing, she now poured into Yuri. They brought the crib from the nursery into their bedroom, and Katya slept only in fifteen-minute intervals. She maintained a constant vigil, her body incapable of surrendering completely to rest. Most of the time she lay on her side, her eyes carefully monitoring his breathing. She watched his little chest rising and falling though the fabric of his cotton onesie. She listened for every gurgle, every groan.
When morning came and Sasha went off to work, Katya held Yuri to her breast and stroked his cheek with her finger, believing that her mother’s milk would somehow make him stronger. But even she knew it could not cure what really ailed him.
The Secret of Clouds Page 11