The Education of a Traitor: A Memoir of Growing Up in Cold War Russia (24 page)

The smile on my face must be as wide as the great Russian river Volga, and my body feels so light that it would not surprise me if my feet separated from the ground and I found myself floating in air. It’s over! Well, actually, it is just the beginning of what must be my bright and wonderful future. Just one thing, a little footnote at the bottom of the roster states that all students should deliver their previous schools’ records within a week.

“Mom, could you ask our school principal for my records?” I say to Mother as she leaves for work next morning.

“I can’t get off work until late. You have to do it yourself,” she says.

“What about Father?”

“He's leaving for a business trip. He has no time,” Mother says, and the front door slams behind her.

“I can go with you,” my sister Tanya chimes in. “You’ll talk to your principal and I’ll wait for you in the hall. And then we’ll go and get fizzy water with …”

“No, you can’t,” I say. Taking Tanya with me is the last thing I want to do. She will ask how hard the new school will be and what I will do if I do not like it. But I cannot answer these questions even for myself. Besides, doubts about my abilities still churn in my stomach.

“You wait for me here. I’ll come back and take you out for fizzy water,” I say and rush outside, rehearsing what I am going to tell the school principal.

“What? What did you just say? You want to leave our school?” The principal Elizaveta Vasilievna, a small woman with unnaturally black permanent waves, dark piercing eyes, and a shadow of mustache above her upper lip, bends her head to one side, as if looking at me from that angle allows her to see something inside me that she would not spot otherwise. “Why do you want to leave?”

“I want to go to college, and I need to be better prepared,” I mutter, carefully avoiding the principal’s stare.

Elizaveta Vasilievna rises from her desk—her face red and her bosom heaving. “Are you saying that our school is not good?!” I step backwards and stumble on a chair behind me, while she continues, “That we don’t prepare our students for college?”

My hands go cold. Not that I expected the conversation to be pleasant exactly, but I am not prepared for such animosity either.

“I just need my records,” I say in a small trembling voice. “That's all.”

The principle puts her hands on her hips, the way a Soviet saleswoman does when she prepares to reprimand a demanding customer, and steps even closer. “Look at her! Our school is not good enough for her!” she sneers. “Who do you think you are?” Then she brings her face next to mine, and her pale twisted lips and gold-crowned front teeth appear at my eye level. “You can forget about college! I won't give you your records!”

The floor begins waltzing under me. This
cannot
be happening. After all, I did not do anything wrong. I just asked for my papers. This must be one of my nightmares. I need to wake up. I shut my eyes tight, hoping that when I open them again, I will find myself in my bed—sweaty, scared, but safe. Then I open my eyes. Nothing is changed. Right before me stands an adult, a teacher, with undisguised hatred on her face, eager to destroy me.

I clench my fists. What should I do? Retreat? Forget about Ulya’s plan and the roster with my name, and go home? Or should I fight? But how? We children are taught never to argue with adults, even with strangers, not to mention the head teacher. I cannot do it, can I?

“You have no right!” My voice is breaking and my fingernails are piercing my skin, and I gather all my will power to keep from shaking and crying.

“Rights? I'll show you rights!” Elizaveta Vasilievna sput-ters—her breath heavy and vile, like the breath of a hydra-headed monster from a fairytale. “You're a traitor, and traitors have no rights in our country! I'll report you to the authorities!” And she raises her hand as if for a blow. I recoil.

“You're crazy!” Is it me screaming or is it the sound of blood rushing inside my head? “I'm not a traitor! There's no crime in wanting to transfer to another school and … and …” The words stick in my throat like fish bones and I struggle for air. If I do not leave now, I will break down crying.

I push the door wide open and flee the office, almost knock-ing down our janitor who is eavesdropping by the door, attracted by the commotion. Behind me, the raving dragon is spouting menacingly: “I'll show you records! I'll spoil your career! I'll ...”

“What happened?” Mother’s hand lands on my quivering shoulders.

“She won't let me go to college!” I sob. “She said that I'm a traitor, and she'll spoil my career.”

“Who?”

“The principal!”

Mother takes her hands off me and lowers herself on a chair by the dinner table. Her eyes take on a darker, tired expression. “I thought there might be trouble.”

“But why? What did I do?”

“It’s not only about you. She reports to the school district, so she doesn’t want to lose a good student. Besides, who are you to tell her that her school is no good?” Mother says and adds under her breath, “
S nami plocho e bez nus nechorosho
.” (They don’t like it with us, but they don’t like it without us, either.)

“What do you mean, Mom?”

“Nothing. I’ll see what we can do.”

As I lie in bed at night, my eyelids feel heavy and my mind is exhausted, but as soon as I close my eyes, Elizaveta Vasilievna’s wide-open mouth with gold-plated teeth appears in my imagination, threatening to swallow me up. When I finally doze off, I have another of my war nightmares.

It is a cold November morning in 1941 in the small Russian village of Petrischevo, which is occupied by Germans. The village is preparing for the execution of a young Soviet partisan, Zoya Kosmodemyanskaya, who was caught by the Germans a day before. Beaten up, burned by cigarette lighters, and barefoot, Zoya walks in the snow to her gallows. A dozen soldiers surround her, and a silent crowd of locals, driven by order of the Nazi commander, gloomily shift from one foot to another in front of the scaffold. I am among them.

The fatal moment draws near. One soldier pushes Zoya forward and another places a noose around her neck. Yet just before the trap door opens under her feet, Zoya straightens up, looks directly at me with her blood-shot eyes, and spits
into my face, “Traitor! People will find out that you left your school, and they will never forgive you! They will spoil your career!”

When I open my eyes, Mother is already at work, and only my little sister stands by my bed tugging on my shoulder, “Why are you moaning?”

Most of the next day I spend moping around the apartment. What will I do if the principal does not give me my records? Will I have to go back to my old school then? And what if the principal does not give me my records and does not take me back either? Is that how she will spoil my career?

When I hear the sound of a key turning in the keyhole, I rush to the front door to meet Mother. “Did you see the principal?”

Mother walks past me and straight into our room. There she puts down her purse and turns to me, “Did you feed Tanya dinner?”

“Yes, I did,” I say, “What about the principal?”

“I did talk to her,” Mother says, her voice emotionless. “She told me to come back in two weeks.”

“Two weeks?! But I need my records now!” I cry. “The new school won’t admit me if I don’t bring them this week!”

Mother gives me a long look, “Why did you decide to transfer?
Kakaya tebya mukha ukusila
? (What fly bit you?) This is nothing but grief.”

“Ulya got her records. Why can’t I?”

“What does that have to do with anything? You’re not Ulya, understand?” Mother says, exasperated. Then she adds, “Okay, I’ll talk to your father.”

Father comes home late, a cardboard suitcase in his hand.

“We have a problem,” Mother says as soon as he puts the suitcase down. “The principal won’t give out Sveta’s records.”

“Can this wait until after I eat my dinner?” Father says. “I haven’t had a
kroshki
(crumb) since this morning. Besides, what can
I
do? I’m leaving the day after tomorrow.”

“You’re always leaving and I have to deal with everything on my own!” Mother says—frustration oozing from her every word. “Maybe before you leave, you can talk to her principal for a change!”

“What’s that ‘for a change’ about?” Father’s raises his voice. “I don’t travel for pleasure. I travel so we can make ends meet!” Here he pauses and looks at me. “And who said that she has to transfer? She can stay where she is.”

“I’m not going back there!” I scream. “Mom, tell him!”

“You know she can’t go back to that school,” Mother says, biting her lip. “
Oni eye so sveta szhivut
.” (They’ll hound her to death.)

“She needed to consider that earlier. She’s not a child.
Ona zavorila ety kashy, pust ona ee sama e raschlebivaet
!” (She cooked this kasha, now she should eat it!) Then he turns to me, “I don’t know what they teach you in school, but you surely could use a lesson in how to get along with people. Why are you always in trouble?”

“I’m not
always
in trouble …” I start but quickly stop. That is not what Father means. He means that I should be quiet and obedient, should please everybody and conform to everything, whether I like it or not. That is what he does. The couple of times Father took me to his office, I could hardly recognize him. He wasn’t the nervous and sickly man I knew at home, but an easygoing person with a broad smile, who looked at his coworkers like a puppy that admires everybody who pets him.

But it was all a sham! At home, I heard him tell Mother that his boss was a dull functionary whose work status was based on his position in the Communist Party, and many of his colleagues were anti-Semites. Yet while he was among them, he pretended to be a nice guy who was happy to be there. Who’d believe that the same man made jealous scenes at home and claimed to have a heart attack every time things did not go his way? I wouldn’t believe it myself—that is if I were not the one who brought him water when he grabbed at his heart or called the ambulance when he fell to the floor as white as the ceiling. And he wants me to be like him?

“Not everybody can be as two-faced as you are!” I say, tossing my braid over my shoulder and feeling righteous and free-spirited.

I do not immediately register what has happened, just that my right cheek is suddenly on fire. Did he slap me? Not that I am new to corporal punishment—it is wide-spread and acceptable in our society. In fact, for a long time Father had a belt that he used on us when we didn’t “behave.” If not for little Tanya, who hid that belt one day in her doll’s blanket, took it outside, and threw it into the garbage, it would still have reddened our rears. But I am fifteen now! How dare he slap me in the face!

“I hate you!” I cry and rush out of our apartment, choking with tears and helplessness.

“Did anything happen?” Ulya asks when I appear at her door.

“I’ve left home, and I’ll never go back!” I say, short of breath from the long walk and from my emotions. “Can I stay with you for now?”

“Let me ask Mom,” Ulya says, her eyes as round as ever. “What did you do?”

“Nothing. It’s all my father’s fault!”

Ulya, who has no father and therefore no knowledge of men’s behavior, cranes her neck, “What did he do?!”

“He slapped me in the face! I’ll never forgive him!” I say.

“He did?” Ulya says, clasping her hands and disappearing inside the apartment.

“You can stay with us tonight,” Ulya’s mother tells me after a short negotiation with her daughter. “But I think you should make up with your father. I’m sure he wants what’s best for you.”

She puts her hand on her forehead—her eyes half-closed—and sighs, “You, children, don’t understand. Life is not simple.” Then she turns to Ulya, “You can put a cot in the kitchen for your friend, but please be quiet. I have a migraine.” 

The next day goes quickly. At first, Ulya and I discuss how I can get my school records. Can they be stolen from the principal’s office? Is there somebody else who can give them to me? Then we talk about our families: how the adults never understand us, and how we—in the unlikely case of our having children—will be much better parents than our parents are.

When Ulya’s mother comes back from work, she asks me if I have decided to return home, and I say no.

She gives me a funny look and goes to the kitchen. During supper, which we eat together, she asks me about my parents, what they do, and where they work. Then Ulya and I wash dishes, and Ulya’s mother announces that she still has a migraine and goes to bed.

The next day is slow. We have already exhausted our main topics, and our conversation switches to where I am going to live now.

“Maybe Mother will let you stay with us,” Ulya says irresolutely, and I look at her not knowing how to respond. I would love to live with Ulya, but her mother … I don’t really know her. She seems okay, but she is sickly. My own mother is rarely ill, and when she is in a good mood, she is fun to be around. Also, Ulya’s mother does not make much money, so they cannot afford having me here. But where will I go? The fear that has been nesting in my chest since yesterday begins swelling like a sponge
soaked with water, while my mind circles endlessly around the same question—what’s next?