by Talia Carner
She took the subway to Baumansky market, thirty minutes away, where she bought fresh oranges for Galina to keep away the flu—Olga’s daughter-in-law was busy with both a job and university classes. Olga wanted to help the young mother become a modern woman, the kind Russia needed.
At the flower stand, she bought fresh red carnations for her table. When she returned home, she would send Viktor to the dairy factory for milk and butter, and then have him stop at the baker. Let him stand on line for an hour in each place. Her husband might be an intelligent, but when it came to housework, he was as lazy as any other man. Right now, while her stiffening joints cried out for a day of rest, he was home, reading a book and listening to classical music. When would she get to stay in bed for the day and read a good novel?
The sun grew hotter as Olga, still wearing her wool coat, trekked the four blocks from the subway. She felt dizzy. She missed her little Zhiguli, as old and unreliable as it had been. Damn the toad. She removed her scarf and stuffed it into her coat pocket. Her bags became heavier with each step.
She heard the pounding of feet before someone elbowed her hard. Strong hands knocked her to the ground. The bags were ripped from her hands, almost tearing off her arms.
It was so fast. Lying face down, she felt the grating taste of dirt in her mouth. She spat, but her saliva was mixed with mud and drooled down her lip. She lifted her head and a sharp pain pierced her temples as she saw three strapping youths fleeing with her bags. She recognized one of the boys; he had been a good son who used to sit with his mother in the park. How had he turned into a no-goodnik, a thief? And right in his own neighborhood! Didn’t he care about the shame he brought upon his mother?
Olga propped herself up on one elbow in the caked mud. Inch by inch, she pushed herself up to a sitting position. She checked her limbs and rubbed her scraped, throbbing knees. To her left, a lonely turnip was all that remained of her stolen bags. Gone was her food for the week. Three hours of shopping and hard-earned money wasted.
The bouquet of carnations lay strewn about, stems broken.
She was tired. A sense of loss, of injustice, of powerlessness, washed over her. As if through an outer pair of eyes, she saw herself, a lonely babushka in a heavy coat, scruffy-looking and sitting in the dust, unable even to pull herself up.
Her hands covered her face as silent sobs heaved her chest, broke, and choked in her throat. How she wished she could cry. Cry for all the boys whose mothers had taught them good values but who learned bad things because they had to. Cry for Mother Russia, where her granddaughter would grow up.
Still, she held back many unshed tears. They hardened into anger.
Chapter Twenty-four
THE DOORBELL AWOKE Olga from a rare nap, but when she tried to get up, a groan escaped her throat, so foreign to her ears that for a split second she wondered if someone else was in her bedroom. Pain pierced her right knee. She removed the ice pack and found the knee swollen. The rest of her body throbbed, as if the adrenaline that had rushed through her during her fall had pooled in her bones. “The last thing I need right now,” she muttered. Then she remembered that she had telephoned Svetlana to come over.
She called out to Viktor to open the door, but he hadn’t returned from his shopping. The attack had forced him to go out to replace some of the stolen groceries. They couldn’t afford all of it, and anyway, by noon there wasn’t much left in the market. Canceling the dinner invitation to Brooke, though, was out of the question. When Viktor returned, two neighbor friends would come over and help her cook whatever he’d managed to buy.
Olga squeezed her feet into her slippers and drew herself up to go to the door. A few minutes later, as Olga climbed back into bed, Svetlana pulled a chair over and sat down on its edge.
Olga fumbled for her pack of Dukat, then thought better of it. She sipped water with a tabletka from Brooke’s precious gift of Tylenol. “Thank you for coming,” she told the young woman.
Svetlana lowered her head. “I’m honored that Dr. Leonidovna Rozanova has invited me.” She spoke in the deferential third person address, the form used for a figure of authority. “I used to read her samizdat. Once I retyped it and distributed eight carbon copies.”
“You did good. That was the only way to get the word out then.”
Svetlana tipped her head respectfully.
“You were brave then,” Olga said, “and I’ve heard that you were brave at the Gorbachevskaya Street Factory the other day.”
Red blotched Svetlana’s round cheeks. “What choice did I have? All my comrades were there. And I had the American guests to worry about.”
Was Svetlana suited for the crusade Olga had in mind? She touched the young woman’s arm. “Things have changed. Samizdat days are over. Those were words, now we’re ready for action. There are things we can do to help improve women’s lives. Your cooperative is not the only one attacked. With Brooke’s help, I may find out who is behind these acts of terror. We must stop the mafia.”
“Brooke—uh—” Svetlana swallowed hard. “She’s here now, but soon she will be gone.”
“She’s an outsider with the courage to get involved.”
Svetlana wound the straps of her handbag around her fingers. “She went back to the factory after the attack. She can be brave, but, Dr. Rozanova, I have a daughter.”
“‘Make yourself into a sheep, and you’ll meet a wolf nearby.’ Don’t you see that your daughter is all the more reason? Help make Russia a better place for her, just as I’m doing for my granddaughter.”
A tremor took hold of Svetlana’s chin. “I can’t take chances. I am all she has.”
Olga straightened up in bed, feeling the ache in every joint. “You are not as helpless as you think. We women are not as powerless as we make ourselves believe.” She squeezed Svetlana’s fingers. “I believe that the scheme originated at the Economic Authority.”
Svetlana recoiled as if slapped. “The director, Sidorov, is—”
“What?”
Svetlana’s pale face turned crimson. “He’s—uh, very influential.”
The fear powerful men instilled in others was part of their game. Olga let out a cough that cleared her throat. “You must have been to the Finance Division on your cooperative business. Can you think of ways to get some of the files?”
Svetlana looked down at the twisted straps of her handbag. Her eyes filled with tears. “I can’t.”
Olga pressed on, her voice softer. “How do you feel about democracy?”
“It makes me very happy.”
“What about democracy for men only? We’ll lose our place unless we claim it. Misogyny is rampant—in the street, at home, in offices and factories. In the Duma we no longer have the one-third minimum quota to represent our interests. The laws that guaranteed our rights have been wiped out. Your daughter’s school meal? Gone. Svetlana, we are being defeated in a battle we hadn’t been prepared to fight.”
“It’s difficult to fight. It’s so unfeminine.”
Olga waved her hand impatiently. “Feminine! What idealistic nonsense! The curse we inflict on ourselves. How self-defeating it is to always judge everything we do with an external, critical eye? Whether it’s the way we discuss a painting or the voice in which we tell our child a story, we obsess over whether we sound and act feminine. Don’t you see that our own attitude hands the power to men? That it makes them our masters more than any official policy could ever do?” She adjusted the ice pack on her swollen knee. “From women who won’t leave an abusive husband because self-sacrifice is a feminine virtue, to those who won’t learn to drive because driving is unfeminine! We’re the losers.”
Svetlana’s eyes were wide, glued to Olga’s face.
Olga laughed caustically. “I’m being unfeminine myself preaching like this. Our greatest tragedy is that women who are born leaders are beaten down—by men and women alike—if they try to run for political office just because it is considered unfeminine to be in a position of authority.”
“Dr. Rozanova should run for political office.”
Olga lit a Dukat and took her time to suck in its aroma. “I very well might.” She let the smoke out of her nostrils and watched the plumes rise. “You cannot break through a wall with only your forehead. Someone out there must listen to us. We want a true democracy and a life without fear for our bodies, for our rights, for our children, isn’t that so? That’s why we all must act.” She waved the cigarette to emphasize her words. “It’s now or never.”
Svetlana dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her handkerchief.
“Will you help?” Olga held out a list of ventures she had prepared—Vera’s, the Gorbachevskaya Street Factory, and a couple of other cooperatives whose stories she had found in the newspapers.
“My friend Katerina works for Sidorov. She says he is, uh, dangerous.”
“I’m sure he is. Can you ask her to obtain the files for these companies?”
Svetlana nodded, then shook her head. “I’m too scared. She will be even more.”
“Take it.” Olga pressed the piece of paper into her palm. “Think hard, and you’ll change your mind.”
Chapter Twenty-five
THE MAN WHO came to fetch Brooke before dusk introduced himself as Viktor Rozanov, Olga’s husband. A stocky man, his weighted-down features made him look like a harmless bulldog. With his unruly, thin gray hair and tieless shirt unbuttoned under a rumpled suit jacket, it seemed as though he couldn’t decide whether to wake up from a nap or go take one.
“I came early, in case there are roadblocks.” He opened the passenger door of a small Lada. The interior, though old and steeped in cigarette smoke, was clean. “I borrowed it from a friend. I apologize that it’s not elegant.”
“It’s fine. Thanks for picking me up.” Brooke slid inside. “Were there any roadblocks on your way?”
He shrugged. “Most traffic is being diverted away from the White House.”
“Would it be possible to drive by and see it?” Today, when the group finally set out sightseeing, they had been dropped off in a park where they were told it was much safer. As beautiful as the park had been, Brooke was disappointed. This had been her last chance to see the city.
Viktor chuckled. “Now I know why Olga likes you.”
Fifteen minutes later, he slowed the car down. “Novoarbatsky Bridge.” He pointed with one hand as he deftly turned the wheel with the other.
Under the glare of stadium-like lights posted at intervals, tanks surrounded the massive white parliament, their barrels aimed at its many windows. Behind the tanks, armored trucks lined up and hundreds of police troopers crouched, watching the building where, Brooke knew, political representatives from all over Russia and from the many Republics still under its control had barricaded themselves.
“Our White House,” Viktor said. “Parliament, not your president’s home. The revolutionaries, they give us a bad name.” He corkscrewed his finger near his temple. “They are violent and crazy. Communists, Fascists, anti-Semites. But one thing they’re right about: We all want Western-style democracy, not Yeltsin’s anarchy. He’s an idiot. Nothing but a drunk, blundering fool. We love our country, and we want our self-respect back.”
As the Lada inched its way through the meandering crowd, Brooke spotted hats with their fur earflaps tied upward over sober faces with vacant eyes. Something sluggish, resigned in the people’s aimless wandering indicated that they weren’t surprised by yet another leader’s dramatic show of force.
Viktor slalomed through the crowd at the next intersection, which was flooded with armed soldiers who seemed oblivious to both cars and people. He boldly continued toward the outer ring of troopers who had their guns at the ready.
“Could we stop for a minute?” Brooke asked.
When Viktor did, she opened her door and got out, but stayed behind the open door as a shield, ready to duck if necessary. She viewed the scene. There was something bizarre about it, and it took her a few moments to grasp that the disconnect came from the loud men’s choir of the Soviet-era Red Army Band blaring through the speakers. “Music?” She leaned in toward Viktor. “Why music?”
He rolled down the window to listen. “When the music is on, the deputies can’t shout out their slogans.” He let out a nicotine-coated laugh. “Yeltsin, musika—parliament, no propaganda,” he said as if he were quoting some news bulletin.
In a break between songs, two young men in camouflage fatigues emerged from the huge glass door of the parliament building, carrying bullhorns. Exuberantly, they shouted what sounded like slogans, then broke into their repertoire of military songs.
“Communists.” Viktor flicked away the stub of his still-lit cigarette. “Re’aktzionyer.”
The police, through thundering bullhorns, responded, shouting demands. “They want the deputies to surrender. Give up their guns,” Viktor volunteered, then added, “Get back in the car.”
Brooke didn’t move. The loud piped music resumed, interrupting the rebels with Yeltsin’s repertoire. The musical competition between the military and the parliament would have been amusing if the situation weren’t so dire. If Yeltsin lost, communism would return—and with it the possible renewal of the Cold War. This time, nuclear weapons would be controlled by hot-headed civilians who had tasted freedom from a totalitarian regime.
Brooke pointed to a cluster of people who watched the building. They shouted occasionally, but the music drowned out their voices “What about them? They think it’s safe here.”
“Foreigners. From the Republics. Many come to Moscow now. They are dangerous.”
“Dangerous how?”
“Crazy. Unpredictable. Foreigners.”
Brooke examined the crowd. With more than a hundred nationalities within the redefined borders of Russia, how could anyone tell who was foreign? Some of the people in the crowd had the light Slavic coloring and broad, flat features; others appeared more Cossack-like, with dark hair, olive skin, and intense eyes. Even from a distance Brooke could discern Asian nationalities with Mongolian and Chinese features. Some people were large, others of slight build. And where did the Jews fall among them? Their features were as diverse as the cultures and people among whom they lived.
“Look. Yeltsin militia.” Viktor pointed up at a modern glass skyscraper to the far right of the White House. “All he knows is confrontation, not compromise.”
Still holding her door as a shield, Brooke peered high into the darkened rooms of the building that towered over the parliament. Silhouettes showed through the shattered glass, the shadows of snipers with their guns pointing at targets below. Even straight at her, it seemed.
Brooke reentered the car and slammed the door, and Viktor resumed driving.
When they passed by a corrugated fence, Brooke saw two large Stars of David sprayed haphazardly. “Why are those here?” she asked.
“The anti-Semites. They blame the Zionists for stirring it all up.”
The skin on her arms contracted. “How are the Jews involved?”
Viktor shrugged. “They are not. But it’s always like this.”
Brooke slid down in her seat, apprehension filling her. World War II happened, millions of Russians perished in Stalin’s gulags, many others were killed by the Nazis, communism collapsed, yet the former Soviet hatred of her mother’s powerless minority people remained unchanged.
The car passed more graffiti, this time a Cyrillic word with one of the letters drawn as a Jewish star. Brooke pointed at it. “What does it say?”
“It’s Yeltsin’s name. The letter L in the middle means that he’s a traitor because of his Jewish connections.”
Brooke felt a chill climbing up her body. As history had shown, graffiti on walls could be merely a few steps away from genocide. Her mother was right: What had made her forget everything she had known? She was glad she was leaving this horrible place.
She pulled out her Star of David and rested its shiny face over her stretch-knit shirt, then shifted the knot of h
er small silk scarf to the side so it wouldn’t block it.
“WHAT HAPPENED TO you?” Brooke asked as she followed Olga into the living room. Olga was limping, obviously in pain. “Have you been to a doctor?”
“Not important.” Olga waved her hand in dismissal.
“You should take it easy.”
“I’ll rest in my grave.”
“Thank you for inviting me.” Brooke handed her a small package in which she had wrapped a pair of her own pearl earrings.
“I cannot accept this,” Olga said, upon opening it.
“Please. I have an almost identical pair in New York.”
“How is that? Do all American women have two of every piece of jewelry?”
“I thought I’d left mine at a hotel, bought a second pair, then found the first pair in my toiletry kit.” Brooke smiled. “It will give me great pleasure to see you wear them.”
Viktor wiped his hands on a kitchen towel before placing a record on a Grundig record player the size of a suitcase. A Mozart symphony filled the small room.
Brooke looked around her. An oil painting of a flower vase, a watercolor of a Russian winter landscape, and a Renoir print of a girl brushing her hair hung above the upright piano and the couch. A lighting fixture with a shade made of scarlet velvet with a gold fringe hung over the coffee table and illuminated plates of food in a medley of textures. The scent of carnations in a vase mixed with the smell of cigarette smoke and the aromas of cooking.
In response to Viktor’s inviting gesture, Brooke eased into a chair upholstered in brocade. “It’s so lovely here.”
“We have an old proverb: ‘Don’t judge a home by its appearance, but by the warmth of its welcome.’” Olga handed her a tiny liqueur glass. “Ours is not as elegant as in America, but it’s good for Russia.”
“It’s a true intelligentsia salon.” Intelligentsia was a word Brooke’s mother still used to describe a class of people she admired, defined by cultural rather than economic superiority. Brooke pointed at the dark wood bookshelf stretching along the entire wall. Many of the books were bound in brown or burgundy, their titles embossed in gold. “What are the subjects?”