Stalina

by Emily Rubin

  “He’s a Great Dane, and he loves to run on the beach.”

  “Mine liked to run along the river.”

  “The Hudson?” he asked.

  “No, the Neva, at home.”

  “The Neva?” he asked.

  “It’s in Russia, St. Petersburg.”

  “So many people from Russia live here. Did your Pepe like to chase his shadow on the beach like this one?” he said, laughing.

  “Dogs are so easily fooled,” I said.

  “They may be small-brained, but they are forever loyal,” he added.

  “Loyalty, yes, it’s their nature,” I said.

  The whole time we spoke, the man jogged in place.

  “Good day, ma’am, we must be on our way. Come along, Pepe,” he said as he tipped his cap with an N and a Y embroidered on it and ran down the boardwalk in the direction of a giant Ferris wheel and an Eiffel Tower–looking structure. Pepe loped behind with the bone dangling from his jaws. The sun was bright and harsh shining off the panting dog’s white coat.

  On the beach, broken glass and plastic bags had settled down into the hardened winter sand mixed with snow and the occasional clamshell. A man with hair down to his shoulders was flying a kite with very little success. The seagulls were still crying and fighting over whatever bread was left. The bird sounds and squeals from children were picked up by the wind, stretched and muffled by the dull sound of the waves. Beach sounds were the same in Russia. The Baltic and the Atlantic must merge at some point, even here at Brighton Beach.

  Russians were easy to spot, even from a distance. The head shawls, the way they leaned back and forth when they spoke to each other. Babushkas listening to babushkas.

  The man’s kite was finally flying, and the wind was making his hair flutter around his head. He was running backwards to keep the kite in the air. He was headed straight for the boulders of a breakwater. I didn’t think he could see where he was going.

  “Excuse me, sir!” I yelled. “Watch out! You are going to hit the…”

  Too late. He was down and the kite was in the surf. He was getting up. He brushed himself off. He looked embarrassed even though he did not know that anyone saw him take the fall. He probably never heard my warning. No witnesses, no embarrassment, only a kite floating on the ocean’s waves, and no need for me to impose myself on everyone I encountered. Move on, Stalina, you have more important business to attend to.

  The boardwalk stretched up and down the beach, curved with the shape of the coastline. As I walked closer to the Ferris wheel, I could also see an amusement park rising up behind the boardwalk. One hot dog seller was open. All the other stands had metal gates pulled down. They advertised clams on the half shell, cotton candy, and popcorn. There was a roller coaster! I would have taken a ride in honor of my room design, but it appeared to be closed for the season. The clouds at the horizon were moving along with me. The Ferris wheel was in sight. There was a howling sound coming from somewhere in the amusement park. As I got closer to the source, I could hear that it was coming from a tower. A tower that was a ride that took people up and up to see everything around Brighton and out to sea. The wind was whipping inside of it, making a very mournful sound. There was an observation deck around the tower that slid up and down like a ring on a finger.

  That deck moving up and down made me think how my mother would obsessively slide her wedding ring up and down her finger after my father was taken away. She had become very thin and would remove it to wash the dishes so as not lose it down the drain. Her fingers once were chubby and the ring was held tight by the soft bulge of flesh that used to form below her knuckle. The very day that Stalin died, Olga gave me a black ribbon for my hair.

  “It’s for mourning because you are his namesake, Stalina,” Olga said as we stood in front of the mirror and she styled my hair with the ribbon.

  After Olga left I took off the ribbon, and as my mother washed dishes, I strung her ring on the ribbon and tied it around her neck. That’s where she wore it from then on. There were people crying in the streets for days after Stalin died. My mother was very quiet, there were no tears, but when she washed the dishes, she let the water run over the rationed legal limit.

  * * *

  The tower continued its song of lament as I walked back to Brighton Beach Avenue. I passed a market that sold handmade brooms just like ones the street cleaners in Russia used to keep the avenues spotless. I had not seen one since I left.

  “I’ll take one of these,” I said in Russian to the man standing in front of the store.

  He wore a fedora covered in a shower cap, and he did not respond to me, so I picked up the broom. “What do you want a broom like that for?” he finally said.

  “They do the job of two brooms at once,” I replied.

  “That’s ridiculous. I just have them for the old ladies. They never stop sweeping; it’s not the broom that does the job of two.”

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “Not that I don’t want to make a sale. I’ll sell you two for one, just because it’s starting to rain,” he said.

  “I’d rather not carry them back on the bus to Connecticut.”

  “Connecticut? Fancy, aren’t we?”

  “It’s where I live. I am a tourist here.” I started to make my way down the block.

  “Hey, Connecticut,” he called after me, “if you lived here, you’d be home by now. No broom for you? How will you keep your foyer clean?”

  He laughed. I could still hear him laughing when I turned into another store.

  M&I Grocers was one of the bigger markets located under the trestle of the subway. Walking through the doors I saw many of the things we missed back home in Russia. Guilty pleasures of smoked fish, farmer cheese, ice creams. Sausages. Things that were very expensive and difficult, even with money, to come by. Braided challah breads, squid salad, pickled tomatoes, and more.

  I walked up the curved white metal stairs to a balcony and a beautiful café. At the counter the cakes for the day were all lined up. There was the meringue cake that the women on the street had spoken about, and a plum cake with walnuts and buttercream icing. Behind the counter, a tall blond-haired fellow in a white uniform asked me in Russian what I wanted.

  “Pavashta, cake and coffee with cream,” I said and pointed to the plum cake.

  “Caf or decaf?” he asked me in English.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Regular or decaffeinated coffee,” he clarified.

  “Without caffeine?” I asked.

  “Oh, Americans like it that way.”

  “Maybe I should have a tea instead,” I added.

  “Your coffee is already poured,” he said.

  He scowled as I took my cake and coffee and sat at a table. There were mirrors on all the walls and pictures of the owners smiling with Russian dancers and singers. I saw myself in one of the mirrored walls next to a photograph of Vladimir Rashnisky, a crooner who died of alcoholism in 1982. My hair was in great disarray from the wind on the boardwalk. There was Misha Baryshnikov, still so handsome. I saw him perform at the Kirov. His passionate death scene made us all weep. It was a sad day for the ballet when he defected. He must have a very good life here, but there must be things he misses from home, otherwise why would he visit this place.

  Chapter Twenty-two: Flying Ashes

  The building where Nadia’s parents live on Neptune Avenue has a cement path lined with short, spiky, almost dead bushes leading up to two glass doors. It is known as a high-rise. We have something similar in Russia, except they are made entirely of cement, and there is rarely a living plant anywhere to be seen.

  * * *

  “Apartment 15D, D as in do svidaniya,” Nadia told me before I left.

  “Shall I call them when I get there?” I asked

  “I’ll call them before. Don’t worry, they will be expecting you,” she said.

  I wanted Carmela, my new assistant, to run the motel while I was gone. But Nadia insisted on being there with one of her
boys to show him how it all worked. The Liberty Motel was still the busiest of all the short-stays on the strip. In my opinion, I had helped to create a good atmosphere at the motel, and our customers liked it enough to return over and over.

  “If you have any questions, Carmela will help you. She is learning the business quickly,” I assured Nadia.

  Carmela was from Nicaragua. She walked up to the motel one day looking for work. I hired her on the spot. Impressed by her assertive nature, I trusted her right away. On her first day, Carmela reorganized the linen room so she could have a desk and a chair to sit at while waiting to clean the rooms. She studied English and wrote letters to her family back home. Svetlana quickly became very attached to her, sitting on a shelf above the desk, watching her every move. The cat followed her from room to room when she cleaned. They had become a very charming team. Carmela also endeared herself to the crow, Zarzamora, by offering her treats of apples and hot dogs. She would let Svetlana out whenever ZZ called for her from under the pine trees.

  Carmela said, “That crow is like a jealous lover; she keeps the other crows away when she is with Svetlana.”

  Carmela read many romance novellas.

  * * *

  Before pushing the buzzer for 15D, I reached in my bag and touched the pouch with my mother’s ashes to remind me of my mission.

  “Is that you, Stalina?” a woman’s voice yelled in Russian instantly after I pressed the buzzer.

  “Yes, that’s me. I am here,” I answered in Russian.

  “Arkady, it’s Nadia’s friend Stalina,” I heard Nadia’s mother say as she turned away from the intercom.

  Back into the buzzer and even louder than before she said, “Come up, Stalina, fifteenth floor. I’ll buzz you in.”

  “Do you think she knows about us, Radya?” Nadia’s father said, not aware that his wife still had a finger on the intercom.

  “Yes, I know, Mr. C. That’s why I am here,” I said as I pushed through the buzzing glass door and saw in my reflection that I had misaligned the buttons of my coat. As I went up in the elevator, I fixed my coat and pulled my hair back.

  Arkady and Radya were tiny and crooked with age. Both of them standing side by side barely filled the doorway. The apartment was decorated with glass tables and a couch and chair set made of leather and brass. Not a very cozy place, but then again I was not there seeking comfort.

  “Stalina, make yourself comfortable,” Radya said, gesturing to a folding chair that had been awkwardly placed between the white leather couch and its bulky matching side chair. I sat and thought for a moment about the last conversation I had with my mother.

  “They did not care about anyone but themselves, Stalina,” she said. “Under the pretense of being good servants to the state, they were bad Communists. They were not about the people, they were about themselves.”

  * * *

  The view from their living room looked out over the ocean. It was a spectacular sight. I could fall in love with such a view. The sun was breaking through the clouds, and my eyes felt caressed by the light from the ocean. The haze from the rain was disappearing as if the sun were sucking it up like a milkshake through a straw.

  “You certainly have a beautiful view,” I said.

  They both remained standing while I sat. It all felt very awkward.

  “Yes, Nadia made sure we had a view, and she had a friend furnish the apartment. It’s not quite to our liking, but they say it’s very up-to-date. I’ll make tea,” Radya said.

  “I’ll help you,” I said.

  “No need—Arkady likes to do it his way,” she said.

  Arkady said nothing. They left me alone in the living room on the folding chair. It felt as if they had gone off to discuss how to interrogate a prisoner. I surveyed the apartment to find a place for my mother’s ashes. There were several fake potted plants under the windows. My mother detested fake plants almost as much as she hated weak tea. On the mantel there was a collection of glass figurines and an urn. The urn would be perfect for the ashes; that’s what urns are for, containing remains. Perched on the mantel, Mother would be able to spy on Radya and Arkady’s every move. As they worked in the kitchen, I took the urn down from the mantel to see if anything had already been stored in it. I would have to reconsider if it was already occupied. For instance, Nadia’s dog Trala would not be a good bedfellow for my mother. I’m sure that yappy little weasel of a canine was coddled right up till its yappy demise and then given a ceremonious burial. The urn was painted with Chinese figures. Ladies in waiting serving tea to their master. They were dressed in robes of pink, green, and blue. Butterflies and bluebirds flew around their heads. On the bottom there was lettering that I could not decipher. The urn was empty. I pulled out the plastic bag with the ashes and dumped half of them into the urn. A small cloud hung in the air, but it quickly disappeared into the stillness of the room.

  “We’ll be right out, Stalina,” Radya said from the kitchen.

  “That’s fine. I’m admiring your wonderful view,” I said and quickly placed the urn back on the mantel. As I was positioning it, I grazed one of the glass figurines, a ballet dancer in pirouette. The dancer tumbled through the air headfirst and landed unharmed in the plush pile of the white shag carpet. I placed her back on the mantel just as Arkady and Radya were returning from the kitchen. On the side table next to the couch there was a small frame with a photograph of Stalin standing on a bridge with two men at his side. The picture was very familiar. I had a similar one in my collection.

  “I was just admiring your glass figures,” I said.

  My heart was pounding so hard I could see it pumping through my blouse.

  “I’ve been collecting them for years. I like the way the light hits them at different times of the day,” Radya said.

  “Amalia also collects them,” I said.

  “Amalia, don’t you live with her?” Radya asked.

  “I used to,” I replied.

  She leaned over and whispered to me, “Nadia got me the bra I’m wearing from Amalia. It’s one of those sexy ones from home.”

  “I miss the lingerie from home,” I said, still furious.

  At that moment the sun was hitting the glass figures from the side and below. The mantel looked like a stage ready for a performance. The bright points of light on the curves and angles of the statues made it appear as if there were footlights. At any moment the orchestra would start to play and the glass dancer, hound dog, snail, grasshopper, and bear would dance around the Cathedral of the Spilled Blood. Amalia had this very same figurine. The urn was the backdrop around which the players could make their entrances and exits. My mother would be backstage calling all the cues.

  Lights fade up.

  Arkady put down the tray holding a tea set, some small cakes, and a bowl of sunflower seeds. My father used to eat sunflower seeds when he had tea. The technique for shelling the seeds with his teeth and spitting out just the shell was a highly developed skill.

  Tea was poured. I sat on the folding chair with my cup of tea and a slice of lemon cake. Radya sat on the couch by herself. Arkady went to the mantle and pulled the urn from the shelf and took it with him to his chair. Radya got up and gave him a cup of tea and the bowl of sunflower seeds. There was nothing I could do or say. Arkady held the urn under his arm as he popped the first handful of sunflower seeds into his mouth. It took a minute or two before he had shelled the seeds and stored them in his cheek. As he spit the cracked shells into the urn, a cloud of dust instantly formed around his head. I choked on the lemon cake that was halfway down my throat.

  “Ack! Ack! Radya, what is this? You said you cleaned out the urn!” Arkady screamed and his arms flailed. The cloud of my mother’s ashes hung around his head.

  “The urn was empty,” she said.

  I forcibly swallowed the lemon cake and gulped loudly.

  “Stalina, take a sip of tea,” Radya said. “Was the cake all that hard?”

  “I burned my throat earlier on some hot coffee
at a bakery. It’s still very sensitive,” I told her.

  “Radya, never mind that. Help me here, take this,” Arkady said.

  He tried flicking the ashes off his shoulders, but they only became more ground into his shirt and stuck to the tips of his fingers.

  “Here, let me help you, Mr. C,” I said and grabbed the urn.

  “Let me see that, Stalina.” Radya grabbed it away from me.

  “Just throw whatever it is in the garbage,” Arkady said, standing and brushing himself off.

  Radya put her hand in the urn. Her fingertips emerged looking as if they had been turned to dust. The ashes sparkled in the light. For a moment I thought I saw my mother’s form taking shape in the floating ash, but Arkady’s flailing arms disrupted the vision as he grabbed the urn back from Radya.

  “Here, let me help you, Mr. C,” I said again, trying to take the urn from him.

  “Don’t touch it, Stalina,” Radya screamed. “Arkady, what is it? What is this? Get it off of me.”

  “Help my wife while I get rid of this,” he said, holding the urn over his head.

  “Not the urn, Arkady, I just bought it!” Radya screamed again.

  “Oh shut up, woman!” he shouted back at her.

  Arkady headed for the balcony off the living room. Radya was chasing after him. My mother’s ashes were swirling in the chaos. Out on the balcony Arkady overturned the urn and flung the contents to the wind. I watched as my mother’s ashes sailed away from the balcony and out toward the ocean. Radya joined Arkady on the balcony and grabbed the urn from him. As they scrambled, I took a longer look at the photograph on the side table. It was of Arkady with Stalin and Ezhov.

  “Don’t throw it down there—you’ll kill someone.”

  “Didn’t you look inside this thing when you bought it, woman?”

  “It was dark in the shop. I thought it was empty.”

  “Where did you get it? Take it back and get another,” he said, handing her the urn. “This one was used—by someone’s dead grandmother, apparently.”

  “The man at the flea market told me it was one of a kind,” she said.