The Education of a Traitor: A Memoir of Growing Up in Cold War Russia (25 page)

In the end, I do not have to make a decision. When Ulya’s mother comes home the next day, I hear a familiar voice at the front door. I peek from the room and see my mother.

“Sveta, let’s go home,” she says warily. “We’ve been worried sick about you.”

“No, I won’t!” I want to say, but a sense of relief empties me of my anger, like air escaping from a balloon, and instead of resisting, I answer with tears.

“It’s okay,” Mother says, starting to tear up herself and pulling me closer. “It’s okay.”

“What about Father?” I say when we find ourselves on the street. “He hit me!”

“He won’t do it again,” Mother says. “He’s not a bad man. He’s just nervous and … weak. Life is hard for him, so he tries to get along with everybody.”

“Not with everybody!” I interrupt. “And definitely not at home. He always shouts at me, and if I respond, he grabs at his heart and you rush to help him!”

“Everybody has to get things off his chest sometimes. Where else can he do it if not at home?” Mother says. “He is the same way with me. Gets agitated, says something terrible, but then comes back and begs me to forgive him.”

“That’s
exactly
what I’m talking about! He offends you, and you let it go. Where is your integrity?” I say, feeling that my words come across as stilted and bombastic.

“Integrity is the stuff of literature,” Mother sighs. “In real life, I have two children, a difficult job, and a sick husband.”

“He’s not sick, he just pretends. You should leave him!” I cry.

“No, no, you’re wrong. He doesn’t pretend. He’ll die without me. Or kill himself. He’s said that many times.” 

“And you believe him?” I do not want to give up. “You just said that he’s weak. He’ll never kill himself. I’m sure of it!”

“Well, I don’t want to find out,” Mother says quietly, fixing her eyes on the asphalt path under her feet. “Besides, he’s your father, and he wants what’s best for you. Even if he did something wrong, you should forgive him. After all, he went to see your principal, and he got your records.”

I stop in my tracks, “He did?!”

Mother keeps walking. I catch up with her and open my mouth, wanting to ask, “How did he do that?” But after everything I have just said, I suddenly feel embarrassed. Instead, I, too, lower my gaze, and we silently walk home through the mild, breezy summer evening.

Everything is quiet in our apartment. Father has left for a business trip and my sister is asleep.

“I hope you won't regret it,” Mother says, reaching for a slim folder sitting on our dinner table. She opens the folder and shows me its contents: my grades for the past two years, medical records, and an unasked-for “Conduct Report.” She pulls out the report, as if it is a splinter stuck under her fingernail, and shoves it aside, “I don’t think you want to read this.”

I shake my head, “No.” Then I look at Mother, “Can the principal really hurt me?”

“Probably not. In any case, it’s too late to worry about that now.
Snyavshi golovy po volosam ne plachut.”
(When you’ve lost your head, there’s no use crying about your hair.) And she sighs deeply.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

THE END OF CHILDHOOD

Grandma is sick, and because of that we are spending the rest of the summer in Moscow. That is just as well, since the summer is cool and drizzly, and when I look at the sky in the morning, all I can see is a murky amorphous mass that stretches over the city, sucking out its sounds and energy. Time seems to stretch, too, the way it does during boring school lessons or in the paintings of Salvador Dali. Even the neighborhood boys appear sluggish and subdued, and I rarely hear their war-game shouting in the courtyard.

I get used to this muffled world, as I get used to the monochromatic sky, to Ulya’s absence (she is staying with her out-of-town relatives), and to Mother’s frequent visits to the hospital. I even get used to taking care of Tanya, which is easier than it used to be. The bad weather confines my sister to our apartment, whose small size limits her ability to get into trouble. Besides, she has finally learned to read, and she spends time with my old fairytale books.

Once in a while, Mother takes me to visit Grandma. The hospital is on the other side of the city, and we have to ride a street car, the metro, and a bus to get there. During that time, Mother, who is tired after work, mostly keeps quiet, so I occupy myself with watching the people around us and imagining what their lives are like.

That is a new game Ulya and I play. We spot a middle-aged man walking along the street with a bouquet of roses, and Ulya says, “What do you think his life is like?” I pause for a minute and then respond with something like, “Well, his wife died of cancer last year and left him with two little children. Recently, he fell in love with a young neighbor, and now he’s trying to persuade her to leave her boyfriend and marry him.”

The after-work crowd is tough to read, though. Most of the people appeared weary, almost comatose. Their faces, lit by the mercilessly bright florescent light, are gray, their eyes expressionless, and no matter how much I try to ignite my imagination, all my guesses are hopelessly dull.

The hospital is a three-story cement block building, saturated with the strong smells of medicine, disease, and a whiff of urine. Doctors and nurses hurry along its long halls wearing white smocks and starched caps. Tiredly-important expressions on their faces protect them from unwanted questions. Visitors tiptoe hesitantly, keeping close to the walls.

By the time we get to the hospital, visitors’ hours are often over, so Mother puts on her white smock and cap, assumes an authoritative expression, and pulls me towards the room at the end of the first floor. Grandma lies there with nine other patients—different ones every time I come. She seems small and thin, and her face is sickly yellow.

“
Mechaieh
!” (a Yiddish expression of great pleasure), she exclaims when she sees us in the doorway, and the patients who are not yet asleep regard us with unfriendly glances. Mother sits on the edge of Grandma’s bed and unloads her favorite food. I stand by and watch Grandma eat. She never eats much, but complains about the hospital food, which is all
chazzerei
(awful), “Worse than in that summer camp you took me to with the children.” Mother, in her turn, talks about Grandma’s treatment and what the doctors have said.

Grandma never seems to pay attention to “doctor’s talk.” Instead, she turns to me and asks how I am, how Tanya is, and how we are getting along. Before we leave, she looks at me, teary-eyed, and says, “Svetochka, I hope you won't end up like this—all alone among strangers.”

I look at Mother, not knowing what to say, feeling sorry for my grandmother but also uncomfortable. Mother says, “Mama, please. Here there’re doctors to monitor your treatment and nurses to take care of you. We can’t take you home now, not till you’re better. Just be patient.”

“You
are
a doctor,” Grandma responds. “You don't want me. Nobody wants me,” and she turns her face to the wall.

The last time I see Grandma, she mostly keeps quiet, just looks at us the way a wounded soldier must look at his retreating battalion. As we leave, she says—to nobody in particular—“
Oy vey is mir
. What's going to happen to me?” 

“Will she get better?” I ask Mother on our way home.

“I don't know,” she says, looking out the bus window at the bleak streets and dark silhouettes of people walking in the rain—their troubles and worries hidden under their black umbrellas. Three days later, Grandma is gone.

“Hold one side,” my aunt Raya meets me at the door of a funeral home and hands me a black fabric belt.

“Why?”

“I’ll cut it and you’ll tie it over your dress.”

For a moment, I stare at my aunt blankly—Has she gone mad? Then it dawns on me. It's an old tradition. In mourning, Jews are supposed to tear their clothes. We, of course, have no extra clothes to tear—for mourning or for anything else. We cannot afford to follow the tradition, except symbolically. I tie the torn belt around my waist, cover my head with a dark headscarf, and walk into a small white stucco building.

The first person I hear is Mother. She is talking to a small crowd of relatives who have gathered around her. Mother’s voice is high-pitched and trembling. After every few words she stops, sniffles, and wipes her eyes, which makes her sound as if she is speaking in a strange staccato.

“I left the night before, and … she seemed to be almost … okay. Told me to bring her some
tvorog
(Russian cottage cheese) next time I came ... She liked
tvorog
, you know ...”

Father appears from behind me. A black yarmulke covers his head and a striped shawl, which I’ve never seen before, decorates his shoulders.

“I thought, I'd go back … in a couple of days,” Mother continues, not noticing our arrival. “But I kept waking up at night … must have been a premonition or something … After work I bought
tvorog
and went to the hospital … Her room was at the end of this hallway  ... so I'm walking along and … just next to Mother’s room I see a stretcher with a body on it ... The body is covered with a blanket but the feet peek out … I look at those feet and … it just hits me … they are my mother’s feet!” And she bursts into loud sobs.

Father makes his way through the crowd of relatives and puts his arms around her, “Fira, calm down.” But Mother notices me, breaks free from his embrace, and begins telling me the story I have already heard several times. Grandmother died in the morning, but nobody in the hospital called her children or took her to the morgue in the basement, so my grandmother’s body sat on a stretcher in the hallway until Mother arrived for her nightly visit.

A new visitor comes in, “Firochka, I’m so sorry …” Mother stops mid-sentence and rushes toward her. “You know, I saw her the night before …”

“Go, take the last look,” my aunt tells me, and I obediently turn around and head to the next room.

In the doorway, I pause. This room is smaller and darker. There are several women here, whispering in the corner. In the middle of the room sits an open casket. For a moment I have an overwhelming desire to run away: I do not know the whispering women, I do not want to approach the casket, and I certainly do not want to see what lies
inside
it. And why should I? It
cannot
be my grandmother, for that would mean that I no longer have a grandmother. True, my friend Ulya never knew even her father, but that’s different. My Grandma was with me all my life …

“Go, go!” Somebody pushes me from behind, making me step forward. One more step and I can see a small white-faced woman in the casket. The woman is dressed in a vaguely familiar navy-blue dress and brown shoes. I breathe a sigh of relief. Of course, this is not my Grandma. Mother said that she saw Grandma’s bare feet, not these brown shoes … Unless they put the shoes on later? 

I look again, now registering Grandma’s features, which peer through the white mask of death, and tears begin pouring down my cheeks. Yet the woman in the casket does not react. Her eyes are closed, and the expression on her face is cold, distant, and apathetic. Is it really you, Grandma? Please, give me a sign!

No sign comes from inside the coffin. Instead, I feel something tearing inside
me
, like the fabric belt my aunt tore apart to imitate a mourner’s torn clothes. Only this sensation is not an imitation. It is real and painful. I feel it in the pit of my stomach, in my chest, and even in my head.

I search my pockets for a handkerchief. Maybe this pain is a sign? Or, more likely, a punishment? Punishment for not visiting Grandma more often and for not consoling her when she said, “What’s going to happen to me?” For leaving her there—for
wanting
to leave, since it felt so uncomfortable to stay.

And now … how will we live without her? What’s going to happen to
us
? What’s going to happen to
me
? I’m already in trouble. I may never go to college or do anything worthwhile.

I press my hands to my eyes, trying to stop my tears. My legs are trembling, and I cannot catch my breath. I gasp desperately, but my breath does not come. I need help ... Somebody, help me!

Suddenly, I hear an almost indiscernible voice, “Inhale deeply. Now exhale. Inhale again. Good girl. Everything is going to be all right. Just breathe.”

My tears stop and I quickly look around. The women in the corner are still whispering, not paying attention to me. The body in the casket is lead-still. Where did these words come from? Not from a window, for there isn’t one. Then from … my childhood? From the time when Grandma held me, three years old, by the open window of her apartment, comforting me, “Everything is going to be all right, just breathe.”

No matter where the words came from, I obey them. I breathe in and out, in and out—as the voice commanded—and the pain eases, my body straightens, and my breathing relaxes. And with rare certainty, I realize that I’ll be all right. Grandma would want that. And although this is the end of her life, it is not the end of mine—just the end of my childhood.

Me at fifteen

The first thing I see when I wake up next Monday is Mother ironing my new school uniform. I grew over the summer and my old uniform became too tight in the shoulders and—finally! —in my budding chest.

“Get up, get up,” Mother says. “Get Tanya up, too.”

“There’s plenty of time,” I say, stretching in my bed, still separating dreams from reality in my mind. Then it comes to me—today is the first day of school! My new school is not as close as the old one was, and I have to take a street car to get there. Also, Ulya will be waiting for me at the school entrance, so we can walk into our new lives together.

I jump from my bed, pull the blanket off my loudly protesting sister, and rush to the toilet, silently praying that it will not be occupied. A man’s groaning coming from there informs me otherwise, and I head back.

“Hell!” I say. “Naúm Semenovich is in the toilet. Now I’ll be late for school!”

“Watch your language,” Mother says. “If not for me then out of respect for your grandmother.”

I stop short. How could I forget? We are still observing
shiva
, the traditional Jewish period of mourning. Of course, our mourning is not exactly traditional. Instead of staying at home for seven days and grieving over her loss, Mother had to go to work the day after the funeral. She never stopped doing domestic chores either, since who else would do them? Father is already out of town (not that he helps much around the house anyway), and Mother trusts me with simple tasks only.

The mirror in our room is properly covered, though, so my grandmother’s soul will not get trapped in it—this is how Mother explained this custom to us. There is another mirror in the bathroom, but since we share the bathroom with our Russian neighbors, that mirror is exempt from the Jewish laws.

“Sorry,” I say and quietly proceed with my morning routine. Some forty-five minutes later I leave our apartment and join the crowd of students.

The morning is fresh and clear, and the atmosphere is festive: school-age children wear their dress uniforms, and young kids and their parents brighten the scene with bouquets of flowers and with hope emanating from their eyes.

On my way to the street car, I run into several of my former classmates.