“It’s an airplane,” he said. “It’s landing at JFK, which is only a few miles away.” A second plane appeared, which seemed to Alex to be pursuing the one in front. “You’ll see one every couple of minutes,” said Dimitri.
Elena was more interested in checking out each cafe and restaurant they passed. She couldn’t believe how many people were having breakfast. How could they possibly afford it? She wondered what a hamburger was, and who Colonel Sanders could be. The only colonel she’d ever known was the dock commandant, and he certainly didn’t own a restaurant. And Coke? Wasn’t that something you put on the fire at night to keep warm?
After a few blocks they came to a street market, where Dimitri stopped to chat with a couple of traders he clearly knew. He selected some potatoes, carrots, and a cabbage, which he paid for with cash. Elena picked up some of the fruits and vegetables displayed on the next stall that she’d never seen before. She smelled them, and tried to memorize their names.
“How many would you like?” asked the stallholder.
Elena dropped the avocado and quickly moved on.
Dimitri moved across to another stall, and was happy to take Elena’s advice before he chose a chicken, which the stallholder dropped into a brown paper bag.
As they left the market, Dimitri handed a coin to a boy who was yelling something at the top of his voice that Alex couldn’t make out.
“More Yanks killed in Vietnam!”
Alex was surprised that the boy selling the newspapers was younger than he, and was not only allowed to handle money, but to work alone.
They turned a corner into a side street, not quite as busy, not quite so noisy, with rows of large houses on either side. Could it be possible that Dimitri lived in one of them?
“I live at number 47,” he said. Alex was impressed, until Dimitri added, “I rent the basement.” After a few more yards he led them down a short flight of steps. He put a key in the door, unlocked it, and stepped inside.
Elena followed him into a sparsely furnished front room, and wasn’t in any doubt that Dimitri was a bachelor.
“Where are we going to live?” Elena asked, after Dimitri had shown her around.
“Perhaps you could stay with me until you find your own place,” said Dimitri. Elena didn’t look convinced. “I have an extra mattress, so you can take the spare room, while Alex sleeps on the sofa. As long as he takes his boots off.”
“Thank you,” said Alex, who felt almost anything would be an improvement on a wooden deck that never stopped pitching and tossing.
Finally Dimitri took Elena into the kitchen. Elena emptied the chicken and vegetables they’d bought at the market onto the kitchen table, then set about preparing the meal. The sink had two taps, and she scalded herself when she turned on the first one. She was even more surprised when Alex opened a small white box and peered inside.
“It’s a refrigerator,” Dimitri explained. “It makes it possible to keep food for several days.”
“I’ve seen a fridge before,” said Elena, “but never in someone’s home.”
Elena rolled up her sleeves, and an hour later placed three laden plates on the kitchen table, as if she was still serving officers. Once she’d sat down, she couldn’t stop talking about their life in Russia. It quickly became clear how much she was missing her homeland.
“That was the best meal I’ve had in years,” said Dimitri, as he licked his lips. “You won’t find it hard to get a job in this town.”
“But where do I start?” Elena asked as Alex filled the sink with warm water and began to wash the dishes.
“With the Post,” said Dimitri, reverting to English.
“The post?” said Elena. “But I’m not expecting any letters.”
“The Brighton Beach Post,” said Dimitri, picking up the newspaper he’d bought from the boy on the street. “Every day it has a jobs section,” he said, turning the pages until he reached the classified advertisements. He ignored accountancy, business opportunities, car sales, only stopping when he reached catering. His finger moved down the column until he came to “Cooks.”
“Cook wanted in Chinese restaurant,” he read out. “Must speak Mandarin.” They all burst out laughing. “Pastry chef required in an Italian restaurant” sounded more promising, until he added, “must be fully trained sous-chef. Italian preferred.” He moved on. “Pizza cook—”
“What’s a pizza?” asked Elena, as Alex drained the sink and rejoined them at the table.
“It’s the latest thing,” said Dimitri. “A dough base, with different toppings, for variety.” He checked the location. “And it’s only a couple of blocks away, so we could call by tomorrow morning. They’re offering a dollar an hour, so you could make as much as forty dollars a week while you look for something better. They’ll be lucky to get you,” he added.
Elena didn’t reply, because her head was resting on a table that didn’t move. She was fast asleep.
* * *
“The first thing we’re going to have to do,” said Dimitri after they’d finished breakfast, “is get you some new clothes. No one’s going to give you a job dressed like that.”
“But we haven’t got any money,” protested Elena.
“That won’t be a problem. Most of the stallholders are happy to give credit.”
“Credit?” said Elena.
“Buy now, pay later. Everyone in America does it.”
“I don’t,” said Elena firmly, placing her hands on her hips. “Earn now, and only buy when you can afford it.”
“Then we’ll have to try the Goodwill shop on Hudson. Maybe they’ll be willing to give you something for nothing.”
“Charity is for those in real need, not for those capable of doing a day’s work,” said Elena, reverting to her native tongue.
“I don’t think you’ll have much chance of being offered a job even in a pizza parlor if you look like a Russian refugee who’s just got off the boat,” said Dimitri.
Alex nodded his agreement.
Elena was finally silenced.
Dimitri took a five-dollar note out of his pocket and handed it to Elena.
“Thank you,” said Elena, reluctantly accepting it. “I’ll pay you back as soon as I get a job.”
“The Goodwill store opens at nine,” said Dimitri. “We must be waiting outside at one minute to.”
“Why so early?” asked Alex, determined only to speak English.
“A lot of people clear out their wardrobes at the weekend, so the best deals are always on a Monday morning.”
“Then let’s get going,” said Alex, who couldn’t wait to be back on the street. He wanted to see if the boy was still standing on the corner selling newspapers, because he hoped his mother would also allow him to look for a job, perhaps even as a trader on one of the stalls.
“And then we must look for a good school that will take Alex,” said Elena, dashing her son’s hopes.
“But I want to start working,” pleaded Alex, “so we can both earn some money.”
“If you hope to end up with a worthwhile position, and eventually earn a proper salary,” said Elena, “you’ll have to go back to school and make sure you’re offered a place at university.”
Alex couldn’t hide his disappointment, but he knew this was the one thing his mother wouldn’t compromise on.
“Then you’ll have to make an appointment with the education officer at City Hall,” said Dimitri. “But not before you both get some new clothes and Elena’s landed that job in the pizza parlor, so we’d better get going.”
Once they were back on the street, Alex tried to take in everything that was going on around him. He wondered how long it would be before, like Dimitri, he too melted into the background.
One of the first things Alex noticed was that not all of the men were wearing a suit and hat, while many of the women were dressed in brightly colored clothes, some of them in dresses that didn’t even cover their knees. The paper boy was standing on the same street corner, shou
ting a different headline.
“Bobby Kennedy assassinated!”
Alex wondered if Bobby Kennedy was related to the former president, whom he knew had also been assassinated. If he’d had a dime, he would have bought a paper. Once they were back at the market, Elena would have liked to stop and inspect the freshly baked bread, the oranges, apples, and so many other vegetables, and ask about those she was unfamiliar with. What did an avocado taste like, she wondered, and could you eat the skin?
Alex couldn’t resist stopping every few moments to stare into the windows of shops that offered watches, radios, televisions, and gramophone records. He kept being distracted, and then having to run to catch up with Dimitri and Elena.
They finally arrived outside the Goodwill store on Hudson, just as a young woman was turning the CLOSED sign around to read OPEN. Dimitri led them inside, still very much in charge.
Elena spent her time rifling through the shelves and clothes racks before she selected a white shirt and a dark blue tie for Alex. She then turned her attention to a row of suits hanging on a long rail, while Dimitri chatted to the shop assistant. Alex was disappointed when his mother picked out a plain gray suit, which she held up against him to check the size. It was a little large, but she knew it wouldn’t be too long before he grew into it. She told him to try it on.
When Alex came out of the changing room, dressed in his new suit, he couldn’t help noticing that the girl behind the counter was taking a closer look at him. He turned away, embarrassed. Elena pretended not to notice as she began to pick out some clothes for herself: a simple blue dress and a pleated black skirt. She was beginning to worry that her money must be running out, when she spotted a pair of black leather shoes that would go perfectly with Alex’s new suit.
“A man dropped them in on Saturday afternoon,” said the girl. “He told me no one wears shoes with laces any longer.”
“Perfect,” said Elena once Alex had tried them on and walked around the shop a couple of times.
“How much?” Elena asked, gathering up all the goods and placing them on the counter.
“Five dollars,” said the girl.
Elena handed over the money, stood back, and admired her son, no longer a child. She didn’t notice Dimitri hand the girl another ten dollars, give Alex a wink, and say, “Thank you, Miss Marshall,” as the girl handed him a bag full of their old clothes.
“I hope you’ll come back soon,” said Addie. “We get new stuff in every day.”
“Now we have to find the pizza parlor as quickly as possible,” said Dimitri, as he left the shop and dropped the bag of old clothes in the nearest trash can. “Can’t afford to be late and let someone else get that job.”
Elena was about to rescue the bag, when Alex said, “No, Mother.” She reluctantly joined her son, and they set off once again at a pace everyone else on the sidewalk seemed to consider normal, and they didn’t slow down until Dimitri spotted a red and white sign swinging in the breeze. He crossed the road, dodging in and out of traffic, while Elena and Alex followed, showing none of the same confidence as cars shot past them, horns blaring.
“Leave the talking to me,” said Dimitri as he pushed open the door and walked inside. He went straight up to a man standing behind the counter and said, “I want to speak to the manager.”
“That’s me,” said the man, looking up from his booking sheet.
“I’ve come about the job you advertised in the Post for a pizza cook,” said Dimitri. “It’s not for me, but for this lady, and you’d be lucky to get her.”
“Have you worked in a pizza parlor before?” the man asked, turning his attention to Elena.
“No, sir.”
“Then I can only offer you a job as washer-up.”
“But she’s a fully qualified cook,” said Dimitri.
“What was your last job?” asked the manager.
“I was the head cook in an officers’ club in Leningrad.”
“In Queens?”
“No, in Russia.”
“We don’t employ commies,” said the manager, spitting out the words.
“I’m not a communist,” protested Elena. “In fact I hate them. I would still be there if … but I didn’t have any choice.”
“But I do,” said the manager. “The only job fit for a commie is as a washer-up. The pay’s fifty cents an hour.”
“Seventy-five,” said Dimitri.
“You’re hardly in a position to bargain,” said the manager. “She can take it or leave it.”
“We’ll leave it,” said Dimitri. He began to walk toward the door, but this time Elena didn’t follow.
“Where’s the kitchen?” was all she said, rolling up her sleeves.
* * *
As Elena didn’t have to clock on at the pizza parlor before ten, she went straight to City Hall the following morning. After checking the board in the lobby she took the elevator to the third floor. By the time she left a couple of hours later, Elena knew the only school she wanted Alex to attend.
She didn’t make an appointment to see the principal, but in her afternoon break sat in the corridor outside his office until he finally gave in and agreed to see her.
Alex reluctantly joined the twelfth grade of Franklin High the following Monday, and it wasn’t long before the principal had to admit that Mrs. Karpenko hadn’t exaggerated when she suggested he would be top in math and Russian. They weren’t the only subjects he excelled in, although Alex was far more interested in several lucrative activities that were not listed on the school’s official curriculum.
10
SASHA
London
It was at least a week before the other boys stopped staring at Sasha. Although the lower sixth had experienced their fair share of overseas students, he was the first Russian the boys had set eyes on. What did they imagine would be different about him, Sasha wondered.
As English was his second language, it was assumed that he would have difficulty keeping up with the rest of the class. But within a month, several of his classmates had abandoned trying to keep up with “the Russki,” and when it came to math, his third language, Mr. Sutton admitted to the headmaster, “It won’t be too long before he realizes there’s not much more I can teach him.”
While his academic prowess was admired by many, what made Sasha particularly popular with the other boys was his ability to keep “a clean sheet.”
“A clean sheet?” said Elena. “But you sleep at home, so how can the other boys know if your sheets are clean?”
“No, Mother, I’ve just become the school’s First Eleven goalkeeper, and we’ve gone three matches without the opposition scoring.” What he didn’t tell her was that Maurice Tremlett, the boy he’d replaced as goalkeeper, couldn’t hide his anger when he was demoted to the Second Eleven—and it didn’t help that Tremlett was school captain.
Toward the end of his first term Sasha felt he was becoming accepted by most of his fellow pupils. But that was before the incident, when overnight he became the most popular boy in the school and also made a friend for life.
It was during a playground kick-about in the mid-morning break that the incident occurred. Ben Cohen, another boy from the lower sixth, who played center-forward for the Second Eleven, was running toward the goal looking as if he was certain to score, when Tremlett came charging out of his goalmouth, so Cohen passed the ball to another boy, who struck it into the open net.
Cohen raised his arms in triumph, but Tremlett didn’t slow down, and ran straight into him, knocking him to the ground. “Try that again,” he shouted, “and I’ll break your neck.”
When they kicked off again, Cohen was about to shoot when he saw Tremlett once again heading toward him. He stood aside, and the ball rolled to Tremlett’s feet. He ran purposefully toward Sasha in the opposition’s goal, with everyone stepping out of his way. Sasha came out of his goal so he could cut down the angle, and when Tremlett entered the penalty box, Sasha threw himself to the ground and pulled the bal
l safely to his chest. Tremlett didn’t break his stride, and kicked Sasha squarely in the back as if he were the ball.
Sasha lay motionless on the ground as the ball trickled out of his hands. Tremlett jumped over him and hammered it into the open goal. He raised his arms in triumph, but no one was cheering.
Cohen ran across to help Sasha to his feet, to find Tremlett was standing over him.
“Not quite as good as you thought you were, are you, Russki?”
“Maybe not,” said Sasha, “but if you check next week’s team sheet, you’ll find it’s you who’s still in the Second Eleven.” Tremlett took a swing at him, but Sasha dodged out of the way, and the blow only brushed his shoulder. “And I don’t think you’ll make the boxing team either,” said Sasha.
Tremlett turned red, and raised his fist a second time, but Sasha was too quick for him, and landed a blow on his nose that caused him to stagger back and fall to the ground. Sasha was about to deliver another punch when Tremlett was saved by the bell, calling them all back to their classrooms.
“Thanks,” said Cohen as they left the playground. “But keep your eyes open, because Tremlett likes causing trouble.”
“He won’t be any trouble,” said Sasha. “Trouble is when a KGB officer is pointing a gun at your head.”
* * *
When Sasha got home that evening, he didn’t tell his mother about the incident, as he hadn’t considered it that important. He was tucking into a plate of spaghetti when there was a knock on the door.
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