The Education of a Traitor: A Memoir of Growing Up in Cold War Russia (26 page)

“Hey, where’re you going?” one of them says.

“I transferred to another school,” I answer.

“You did? Why?”

I shrug and keep walking. I have neither the time nor the desire to explain myself. Besides, my stomach is queasy and my heart is pounding.

A street car approaches and several people get off: a woman with her young daughter carrying a shiny new briefcase, several middle school kids, and a smallish woman in a dark suit. The woman lifts her head and, suddenly, I find myself nose-to-nose with my former principal—her hair is carefully arranged into permanent waves, her lips are pursed into a sharp line, and her eyes are fixed on me like two revolvers.

“Run!” screams something inside my head. “Now!”

I try, but my feet seem stuck to the asphalt, my eyes hypnotized by her hateful stare. I wish I could faint, but I am still upright. “I must say something,” goes through my mind. But what? Should I greet her as if nothing has happened, or should I apologize for my behavior?

My head is spinning, and I lower my eyes to the ground to keep my balance. But then, a stubborn voice rises within me, “Why should you apologize? You didn’t do anything wrong. Besides, what can she do to you? Just keep going. Ulya is waiting.”

I look at the principal, and our eyes spar again. “Good day, Elizaveta Vasilievna,” I say. She says nothing. I set one foot onto the streetcar and slowly pull myself up. Then I take a second step, a third, and soon I am inside. Other passengers, annoyed with my sluggishness, push me from behind and shove me to the window. A bell rings, and the streetcar begins to gain speed.

I look out the window at the figure in the black suit—diminishing in size but still ominous, still following me with the cold glare of an assassin—and the old fears wash over me. What if this woman does have the power to ruin me? Should I at least try talking to her? Should I beg for forgiveness? I can get off at the next stop and run back. Yes, yes, I must!

I turn around and begin elbowing my way through the thick crowd, trying to get to the exit. I push and squeeze, and push again, not paying attention to the displeased remarks of other passengers. Finally, I reach the door. It opens, wide and welcoming, and I lean forward, ready to descend.

An old woman in a fallen kerchief looks up to me from the ground. Her hair is thin, her eyes are faded brown, and her pale lips are moving. She reminds me of someone … of … Grandma? What is she saying?

“Be brave,
bubala
. We’re all survivors. You have to be brave.”

I freeze. Did this woman really say that?!

No, of course not. The old woman is asking about the route. I breathe with relief, “Sorry, I don’t know.”

“Are you getting off or not?” I hear an annoyed female voice ask behind me. I turn and face the woman. “No,” I say firmly. “I changed my mind. I’ll ride on.” 

AFTERWORD

My school principal does not, as I fear, ruin my life. I finish college and, at the age of thirty-nine, leave Moscow and my home country for America. A year after that, my sister and parents immigrate to Israel, where my parents finally separate.

My best friend Ulya will not learn any of this. At twenty-two, just before graduating from Moscow State University and marrying a fellow geology student, she is killed by a drunk driver.

My mother country, the USSR, no longer exists. It crumbled around the edges, revived its old name, Russia, rewrote the words to its anthem—omitting Lenin and other outdated ideas—and blessed itself with a new flag, or rather the long forgotten Andreyevski flag from the Tsarist era.

I left the USSR before its great metamorphoses. My recollections are frozen in time, and as long as I live, things and events from long ago will remain preserved in my memory like fossils.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am very grateful to my husband for his support and encourage-ment. Without him this book would never have been written.

TO MY READERS

Word-of-mouth is crucial for any author to succeed. If you enjoyed this book, please consider writing a review online. Even if it is only a few lines, it would be a great help.

You may also drop by my blog: 
Writing with an Accent: Diary of a Russian Immigrant
,
where
I publish my stories and
essays. If you’d like to send me an
email,
please do it from my blog, too. Thank you for reading
!