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

by Svetlana Grobman

  “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?

  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, “Sve
tochka, 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.