The Education of a Traitor: A Memoir of Growing Up in Cold War Russia

by Svetlana Grobman

  I watch the children from afar. I know no one here, and, besides, these kids are older than me. The snowman is almost finished: three snowballs are piled up, two sticks with woolen mittens poke out from the snowman’s middle, and dull pieces of coal indicate his eyes and mouth. All he needs is a nose.

  A boy in an unbuttoned short coat with mittenless hands steps toward me, “Do you have a carrot?”

  “No,” I shake my head.

  “Then get out of here!”

  I shrink back—the boy sounds as if he is about to hit me.

  “Don’t be rude to the new girl, Vanya,” the gray-collared woman says. Then she gives me an appraising look, “What’cher name, honey?”

  The saccharine in the woman’s voice makes me feel uneasy, but my parents have taught me to answer an adult.

  “Sveta.”

  “Ah. And what’s that in yer hand, Sveta?”

  “It’s a caviar sandwich,” I say quietly, squirming under the woman’s glare.

  Both women exchange glances. Caviar is expensive, and it is usually served on holidays and other festive occasions, and not just an ordinary day.

  “Whatta yer parents do?” The woman with the spotted collar chimes in.

  “My mom is a doctor” (a low-paid profession in the Soviet Union) I say, deeply regretting not eating the sandwich at home. “And my dad goes on business trips.”

  The women exchange glances again. “Ah, trips … And where’s yer Mama now?” The light-collared woman does not let me off the hook.

  “She’s at home. She sent me outside to eat the sandwich.”

  “Oh, did she? So, why ain’t cha eating it?” Both women scrutinize me with their eyes peeping below their kerchiefs.

  “I don’t like caviar.”

  “You don’t?!” The women echo each other, looking at me as though I am a two-headed midget.

  “Throw it away then!” The spotted-collar offers after a brief pause.

  I look at her, confused. Is she joking? The woman’s face reveals nothing. I shift my gaze to my right hand. It is red from the cold, but as long as I hold the sandwich, I cannot put on my mitten. Suddenly, getting rid of the sandwich seems like the right solution. No, wait. Mom said, “Eat it to the last crumb ...”

  “Mom will be mad at me. She’ll put me v ugol,” I say.

  How would she know? We won’t tell ‘er. Right, Zina?” The light-gray collar says, winking at her friend.

  “Right, Lida,” Zina says and winks back. Then she turns around and points somewhere behind her. “You can dump it right there!”

  Following her finger, I turn and look at the snow-covered gap between our house and the house next door. Then I study my hand again. My fingers barely bend now, and if I do not do something very soon, I am going to lose my grip on the sandwich anyway, so I fling the sandwich into the crisp cold air as far as I can. It dives into the deep white powder, leaving behind a shallow whirlpool of snow.

  “Ah!!! Are you stupid or something?!” Zina exclaims, clasping her hands in her bulky woolen mittens. “We was just jokin’!”

  “What’s yer Mama going to say?” Lida joins in, her face shining with the pleasure of unexpected entertainment.

  I look at them without comprehension. How would Mom know?

  “Well, we have to tell yer mother,” Zina proclaims. “Don’t we, Lida? Children must learn not to throw money na veter (into the wind).”

  The two women get up from the bench and walk towards our house. I stand rigid. If there has ever been a moment when I wished that the earth would swallow me up or that I would never see my parents again, this is it. Unfortunately, the earth does not split open, and as for running away from my parents, where would I go? I do not even know how to get to my grandparents’ place. All I can do is stay here and wait for my inevitable execution.

  Soon, both women come out of our house and walk to their bench—neither one giving me another look. I catch fragments of their conversation: “I don’t know about those ‘business trips.’ Just one room. Nothing special.”

  “Sveta, come home immediately!” Mom’s voice is as sharp as a kitchen knife.

  Stumbling at every step, I drag myself to our house. Mom meets me in the doorway. Her face is flushed, and she holds her hands on her protruding belly as if trying to calm something inside it.

  “What’s wrong with you? Why did you do that? We spend our last kopeks for you! Deny ourselves everything! Whom do you take after …”

  Once again, I find myself in the corner. But why? I did what the women said! How was I supposed to know that they were joking? I am so mad at Mom that I cannot even cry. Instead, I feel like digging my teeth into the rough fabric of the coats in front of me, tearing them with my fingers, and screaming from the top of my lungs, “I hate you! I hate both of you! And you know what? I’ll just die here, in this dusty corner with the moth-eaten coats and cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, and everybody will know how cruel you are!”

  There I stop. Who is going to tell everybody about what happened today if I’m dead? I think for a minute and, suddenly, it comes to me. I won’t die immediately. First, I’ll go into a coma, like that woman Mom and Dad were talking about the other day. Everybody thought she was dead, but when they started nailing her coffin shut, they heard some scratching noises inside it. They opened the coffin and saw that the woman’s eyes were wide open, her hands raised, and her cheeks wet with tears.

  Yes, that’s it! I’ll go into a coma, and, when they carry my coffin out, I’ll open my eyes, raise myself on my elbows, and, looking straight at my parents, tell everybody about the caviar, the ghastly women, and the unfair treatment my parents always subject me to. Then I’ll fall back on the flower wreaths and die for good!

  As I imagine this scene, tears of self-pity stream down my cheeks, but the sweet taste of revenge curls snugly in my heart and makes me feel better.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  GIVING DIRECTIONS

  It has been several months since we moved to Marinaja Roshcha, yet I still miss my grandparents, the little garden in front of their house, and Sokolniki, my favorite park. In our new place, greenery is at a minimum, and life is centered on the dusty courtyard surrounded by small wooden houses. Here, women chatter on rickety benches, men smoke papirosi (pungent Russian cigarettes), and kids scare sparrows with their games and shouting.

  Our schools are organized by neighborhoods, so all the children from our dvor go to the same school. After classes, they often play together, but they do not include me in their games. I am maljavka, too young to go to school yet, and no self-respecting school-age kid plays with me. They tease me a lot, though. By now, everybody knows that I am a bad eater, I am easily scared, and even more easily driven to tears. Also, my mom, a doctor, religiously believes in a midday nap for children. This makes me a laughingstock in our working-class neighborhood, which likes nothing more than mocking the wimpy habits of the intelligentsia.

  When the neighbors’ kids have nothing better to do, they climb on a bench and recite, with one of them swinging his arms like a conductor:

  Sveta has a lot of fears,

  Sveta pours a lot of tears.

  She can’t sleep, she can’t eat,

  She hates kasha, she hates meat!

  I turn away, pretending not to hear the singing, but treacherous tears quickly fill my eyes, fueling more laughter and enthusiasm from the mischievous choir.

  The only child who plays with me is Igorék, a boy from the house next door. He is a year older than I, but we both will start school next September, and, chances are, we will be in the same class together. Igorék is short and skinny, with long curly eyelashes and sad hazel eyes. Despite being older, Igorék is clumsy and weak, which makes him a perfect playmate for me. Our parents are friendly, too, and sometimes I sense that we all have something in common, although nobody tells me what it is.

  Today, Igorék does not come out. He is sick, Mom tells me. Igorék is sick a lot—one more thing we have in common—b
ut that is no consolation to me. In his absence, I am condemned to loneliness and boredom in our small courtyard world. I am too old to ask my busy parents to play with me, and I am too young to venture into the city streets on my own.

  “Don’t ever leave our dvor alone,” my parents warn me.

  Alas, there is only so much I can do here on this first warm day of May. Several girls are skipping rope by the house next door, but as soon as I get closer, they shout, “First, learn how!”

  I retreat and watch from afar as they jump over swooshing ropes, rhythmically raising clouds of dust with their feet and chanting a businesslike, “One, two, three …”

  My doll Masha and me, 1956

  It is not true that I cannot skip rope, but I cannot do it as well as they do, alternating their quick feet, crossing their skinny arms, drawing fleeting figures with their ropes in the glowing spring air. So, as often happens, I am alone with my old doll Masha. We sit on a patch of sickly grass in the middle of the courtyard, and I show her the chirping sparrows and the friendly blue sky with clouds dappling its infinity. In doing so, I am imitating my mother, who is very enthusiastic about the beauty of nature.

  “Ah! See how blue the sky is!” she proclaims, and her hands fly up like two exclamation points. “How high! The clouds are so light, just like dreams! And the air … can you smell the air? It’s so fresh! Look up, both of you! Isn’t it wonderful! Are you listening to me, Natán?”

  Dad nods in agreement, but his expression is vacant. The sky and the sun do not impress him. His world is a black and white world of engineering textbooks, with no space for smells, colors, or the “oohs!” and “aahs!” of his easily excitable spouse.

  My parents before I was born

  The truth is, my parents are very different. It starts with their looks. Dad has a Mediterranean complexion, unruly black hair, serious dark eyes, and a prominent nose that descends immediately from his thick eyebrows. Mom’s complexion is light, her soft hair is chestnut-colored, and her eyes are deep green with yellowish speckles floating in their smiling depth. Also, unlike Dad, Mom can strike up a conversation with nearly anybody: strangers on a bus, women in grocery stores, even a militsioner (a policeman) on the street.

  I wish I could be like Mom, smiling and easygoing, so the kids in the neighborhood would like me and play with me. Unfortunately, I am more like Dad. I have a hard time making friends, and I am easily embarrassed. On a playground, I never talk first, much less ask children to play with me. I just stand there, quietly watching, until Mom grabs a girl by the shoulder, turns her toward me, and says, “This is Sveta, my daughter. She’d love to play with you. Right, Sveta?”

  Also, I am afraid of thunder and lightning, stray cats and dogs, dark rooms, and, according to my cousins, even flies. My parents do not have to worry about me leaving our small courtyard and venturing into the big outside world. I am afraid of that, too. Today, though, with nothing to do in our dvor, I edge toward the entrance and look out into the street.

  Big cottonwoods border the sidewalks on both sides of the street. The trees are still bare, but new leaf-buds are already popping up in their crowns. I walk up to the nearest tree, lift my head, and study the scrawny branches set against the sky. The clouds above my head are as puffy as the cottonwood tree balls that will fill the air later in the summer. And the aroma ... Mom is right, it is so fresh, so tempting …

  I am not supposed to go any farther, but the spring sun caresses my face, and a playful breeze whispers something sweet into my ears. I take several steps forward and find myself on the street. Across from me, a group of men in drab shirts and pants cluster around a telephone pole, talking loudly in deep hoarse voices and smoking papirosi. On my side of the street, two men in black work uniforms and cloth caps walk toward me, perplexedly turning their heads right and left. I watch them approach. They must be looking for something or someone. What if they ask me a question? Mom warns me against talking to strangers. I’d better go back to our dvor.

  I start moving backwards, to the courtyard entrance, but before I escape, the men stop and one of them shouts across the street, “Hey, fellas, where’s the fire station?”

  The smokers on the other side stop talking. “The fire station? You’re almost there,” says one of them, screwing up his eyes against the bright sun and letting a large white cloud of out of his mouth. “See that filthy zhidovskoe otrodje (kike’s spawn) on the corner?” He nods in my direction. “Turn right of her and you’ll see the fire station on the left.” With that, the man puffs again, turns back to his friends, and their dissonant conversation continues to disturb the quiet of the street.

  I look around, confused. Who was he talking about? It couldn’t have been me. For one thing, I’m not filthy. Mom had washed and ironed my dress. It’s not new, of course, but it’s not filthy either. I glance at Masha, drooped in my hand. Masha does not look good—her colors are peeling, her straw-colored hair is tangled, and her dress is faded and wrinkled. But she’s just a doll, not a person. Is there anyone else here?

  I turn around. The men seeking the fire station have disappeared around the corner. The smokers are still by the telephone pole, and a vague silhouette of a woman appears off in the distance.

  There isn’t anybody else on this street, which is lined with the budding cottonwood trees and splashed with the golden glow of spring. Then … he must’ve been talking about me! What did he say? What is a kike’s spawn? I’ve never heard these words before. Do they have anything to do with my leaving our dvor? Does he know that I shouldn’t have been here? Will he tell my parents?

  Questions without answers rush through my mind. Nobody is looking at me now, but—I suddenly realize—that man was not looking at me then either! He looked through me. He just stated a fact, like it’s sunny today or it’s raining.

  The light wind, which I enjoyed so much a short time ago, now feels cooler and stronger, and in its gusts I suddenly hear muffled screams: Go back! Back! Before it’s too late! I turn around and run as fast as I can. I run past the cottonwood trees, the kids skipping rope, and the women gossiping on the bench. I do not understand what has just happened, but an acute sense of shame coils inside my chest like a snake ready to strike.

  I reach our door and, breathless, grab the handle the way a drowning person grabs a life vest. Then I look back. Everything

  is the same. The sun is still glowing and the sparrows are still chirruping as if nothing is changed. As if the world is, and always will be, a warm and friendly place. As if the words I just heard were never spoken, and I will never hear them again.

  That night, I ask my mother, “Is Igorék a filthy kike’s spawn, too?”

  “Where did you hear that?” she says.

  “On the street. This man said ‘filthy zhidovskoe otrodje.’ But I wasn’t filthy! Why did he say that?”

  “How many times must I tell you? Don’t ever leave the dvor alone! You hear me? Ever!”

  “But Mom …”

  “Never!”

  And yet, in just a few months, I will leave our dvor to go to school, where I will hear such words time and again.

  CHAPTER NINE

  WHERE DO BABIES COME FROM?

  My sister is born on a cold and windy January day in 1958. I do not know she is coming until my father takes my mother to the hospital. Neither of them tells me what is about to happen, and I haven’t thought much about the changes in my mother’s appearance or to what those changes will mean for me.

  Pregnancy, of course, is not a topic people talk about freely and certainly not with children—not because of the sublime mystery of it all, but because of a vague sense of shame and, especially, superstition, so prevalent in our country. Unlike our Western counterparts who do not hesitate to express their happiness, we, builders of the great kingdom of communism, are afraid of saying anything positive. In those rare cases that we do, we cross our fingers, knock on wood, or spit over our left shoulders three times, “tfu, tfu, tfu.”

  As for th
e future, we never jinx it with irresponsible prattling; we avoid talking about it altogether. Only close adult relatives are initiated into the detail of a pregnant woman’s condition or (God forbid!) informed about her due date. And what does it matter? We have no custom of throwing baby showers or bringing presents for the newborn. In fact, even future mothers’ parents do not buy anything in advance; or, if they do, they keep it a secret.

  Even after the baby is born, the cloud of superstition does not dissipate. New parents never blab out that things are going well, and they do not invite anybody but the immediate family to see their newborn until it is several months—better yet, a year—old. Nor do they take the baby’s picture before it is at least six months old. As they say, better safe than sorry. The world is full of malevolent people who are more than happy to cast an evil eye on you and your family.

  I am very puzzled when Dad comes home with the news that I now have a sister. Where did she come from? What do we need another girl for? Can I have a brother instead? Dad never answers my questions, but on the next day he takes me to the hospital to visit my mother and new sister.

  Packed crunchy snow lies everywhere, and snowdrifts pile up to the first floor windows of the hospital. Visitors are not allowed into the maternity ward beyond a small reception room, where a reticent nurse collects small parcels and letters for the patients.

  Like everybody else, we give her our offerings: some fruit and a letter that we wrote together the night before. My father did the writing, and I supplied names for my new baby sister. Not having any preferences, I listed all the female names I knew, starting with Tanya, and my father diligently wrote them down.

  Dad asks the nurse about Mom and the baby and, after her indifferent “Everything’s the way it should be,” he pulls me outside. There, we join other visitors who are attempting to spot familiar faces behind the dull, double-layered windows of the maternity ward.