“Living in the thirties was like being inside a giant metal forge,” says Inna. “Incessant drumbeats and songs, street loudspeakers, radios blasting behind every door.”
“It was feast in a time of plague,” declares another friend, Lena, quoting the title of Pushkin’s play. “You were happy each new day you weren’t arrested. Happy to simply smell tangerines in your house!”
“My father had murdered Kirov,” announces Musya, an octogenarian former Leningrader, in a clear, spirited voice. “I was convinced of this as a child. Why else would he and my uncle silently pass notes to each other at dinner?”
Did she think of denouncing him? asks Inna.
Musya vehemently shakes her head. “We Leningraders hated Stalin!” she retorts. “Before anyone else in the country, we knew.” When Musya’s uncle was arrested, men in long coats showed up and confiscated her family’s furniture. Sometime afterward Musya recognized their chairs and sideboard at a secondhand shop. She jumped with joy, hugging and stroking the plush blue upholstery. Her mother just yanked her away. “I lost my innocence at that moment,” says Musya.
“I remained innocent—I knew nothing until Stalin died,” Katya confesses. A vivacious former translator near ninety who still smokes and swears like a sailor, Katya grew up—“a true Soviet child”—in provincial Ukraine. Happiness to her meant the clean, toasty smell in the house when her mom ironed the pleats on her parade skirts. And singing along with the crowds.
“I too knew nothing about Stalin’s crimes,” Inna puts in ever so quietly, nervously stroking her immaculate chignon. “But I hated him for taking my mother away.” What she means is that her fanatical mother devoted her every breath to the Party. “On the day she noticed me, hugged me, and promised to mend my socks, I went to bed the most euphoric child on the planet,” Inna tells us. Her mother never did mend the socks. When she was forced to relinquish her Party ID card because Inna was emigrating, “she howled like an animal.”
The ladies finish their champagne and Mom’s Soviet-style truffles and prepare to depart. “Living under Stalin,” Inna reflects at the door, “we censored our thoughts, terrified when anything bad crossed our minds. Then when he died, we kept on censoring, purging any traces of happiness from our childhoods.” Everyone nods.
The autumn cold of 1939 ended Mom’s fire escape music lessons. She and her pal Ninka found a different occupation: helping older kids in the building chase spies. All children in paranoid Russia played at chasing spies. Anyone could be a suspect. The lift lady, for instance, with her single odd metal coat button. Comrades wearing glasses, or fedora hats instead of proletarian caps.
Along twisting lanes, through dim podvorotni (deep archways), into silent, half-hidden courtyards—Mom and the gang pursued would-be evil betrayers of Rodina (Homeland). Mom liked the podvorotni. They smelled, not unpleasantly, of piss and decaying fall leaves. Under one of them a babushka in a tatty beret stood hawking an old doll. Forty whole rubles she was asking. Unlike the usual bald, grinning Soviet toy babies, this doll had flaxen hair, a frayed velvet dress, and melancholy eyes out of a tragic Hans Christian Andersen tale. In late November Naum relented; at home Mom inhaled the doll’s musty mystery. The next morning Naum went away on a trip.
December brought soft, flaky snowfalls, the resinous aroma of fir trees, and invasions of gruff out-of-towners in stores. New Year’s festivities were still new to Soviets. Some simply hung their trees with walnuts in tinfoil; Liza propped a bright Kremlin star on top of their tree and bought presents for Larisa and Yulia. Mom only wanted things for her doll. There was no news from Naum, and Liza’s face had assumed a grim, absent expression. Silently she stood in lines for toy washboards and miniature versions of the dinner sets depicted in Mikoyan’s parsley-green cookbook.
Every day Mom consulted the cookbook for dollhouse decoration. Every day Liza perused its pages, churning out panfuls of kotleti and trays of cottage cheese korzhiki (biscuits). Uncharacteristically, she baked elaborate dried apricot pies—listening intently to the rattle of the approaching elevator. But it was usually Dora or the composers next door. Ninka and the Pokrass children ate most of the pies—their cheerful chewing filling Mom’s heart with toska.
For New Year’s Eve Liza draped a brand-new tablecloth over the table. It was deep red like a theater curtain, as plush as a teddy bear’s cheek. Naum didn’t come home to admire it. The Sovetskoye champagne stood unopened as fireworks exploded above the Kremlin clock.
“Nichevo, mozhet nichevo.” (Nothing, maybe it’s nothing.) Their neighbor Dora had been whispering this lately to Liza while Mom hid under the table chewing on the tablecloth tassels.
“Nichevo, nichevo,” Mom whispered to her doll, licking tears off her face. The doll’s eyes said that she understood everything: the worm of despair in Mom’s stomach, the mystery of her father’s absence, her gnawing suspicion that the Radiant Future was passing them by. Stroking and braiding the doll’s flaxen hair, Mom desperately wanted at least to make her silent friend’s life happy, abundant, and cheerful. She had an inspiration. With Liza out of sight, she reached for her scissors. The first piece of tablecloth she cut off didn’t fit, so she kept cutting more: for the doll’s tablecloth, for her toy bedspread. When Mom was done the doll’s house was draped in red velvet, golden tassels lining its floor.
Seeing Mom’s handiwork, Liza flailed a dishrag at her, but without her usual vigor. That day, and for days after, she kept looking for the key to Naum’s desk. She was trying to decide if now was the time to read Larisa and Yulia the letter he had written and locked in a drawer. The letter that urged his children to love him, love their mother, and love their Rodina—no matter what might suddenly have happened to him.
CHAPTER FOUR
1940s: OF BULLETS AND BREAD
On the weekend of June 21, 1941, in honor of the official arrival of summer, Liza finally switched from listless hot winter borscht to the chilled summer version. Tangy and sweet, the soup was alive with the crunch and vitality of the season’s first cucumbers and radishes. Following a short cold spell, Saturday’s weather was heartbreakingly lovely. Sun beamed on the lipstick-red tulips and dressy white lilies at the Pushkin Square flower beds; petunias scented the Boulevard Ring. Girls in their light graduation dresses floated past couples embracing on the Moskva River embankment. Summer plans, stolen kisses, blue and white cans of Mikoyan’s condensed milk packed for the dacha. Even the babushkas who hawked fizzy water with cherry syrup at parks somehow looked decades younger. The happiness in the air was palpable, stirring. Or so it seemed to my mother on her Saturday stroll with Yulia and their father.
Naum was back with them—for a brief while at least. Ever since his alarming disappearance in 1939, when Liza thought him arrested or dead, his absences had gotten more prolonged and frequent. One morning Liza sat on the narrow cot that Mom shared with Yulia and explained Papa’s job.
“Soviet spy?” Mom squealed with glee.
“Nyet, nyet! Razvedchik (intelligence worker).”
That too sounded thrilling. To protect their dad’s secrets from enemies of the people, Mom and Yulia took to stealthily eating his papers. They’d tear them into confetti, soak them in milk, and dutifully chew, handful by handful. This felt heroic—until Naum threw a fit after they swallowed his sberkassa (savings bank) documents.