“No, there’s a new public park near our dormitory. You may go there, sit on the bench, and read. What about the list of books you have to read during the summer?”
“Where is that new park?”
“I’ll show you the place on my way back to the medical school.”
Father’s lunch hour passed quickly. In a rush, he walked me to the new park.
“Can you find your way back?” he asked.
“Of course, it’s pretty close to our dormitory.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, go. You’re late.” I kissed my father, and he hurried off.
Left alone, I looked around. It was a very strange park, not like the ones I was used to. There were many parks in Leningrad. Like green islands with big old trees and leafy foliage, they decorated the city, caressing our eyes. The park in Minsk had a different landscape. The small round flowerbed in the center held only weeds. Around it stood five benches, and behind them were young trees with weak thin trunks and a few green leaves. Even the hot sun and warm air were different. I didn’t like what I saw. But I could have a good tan, I thought.
Within a couple of weeks, I was accustomed to the new park. It almost belonged to me exclusively. Only rarely did other people visit it. I came to love it as my small refuge. It was a pleasure to sit and read under the hot sun. My skin became a light brown, very becoming to my blue eyes. Unfortunately, we were unable to get the American dress and shoes. My old ones were very small and uncomfortable. That saddened me a great deal. I was fifteen. I wanted to be pretty.
“What are you reading?” An unfamiliar but pleasant voice startled me. An officer of the Soviet Army was sitting next to me on the bench, wearing the same uniform my father did. This calmed me. I respected all people wearing military uniforms—they saved our country from the Nazis.
“What are you reading?” the officer repeated. His quiet voice, honest blue eyes, and tanned face made me feel comfortable.
“Dostoyevsky,” I answered.
“You’re too young to read Dostoyevsky. Do you like him?”
“No.” I answered. The young officer smiled, showing two straight lines of bright white teeth.
“Then why are you reading Dostoyevsky?”
I didn’t answer because strange thoughts ran through my mind. What a handsome man this young officer was! I answered him honestly.
“I have to read Dostoyevsky. My father gave me a list of seven books to read during the summer.”
“Is your father a teacher?”
“Yes and no. He’s an officer of the Soviet Army and a doctor. He’s teaching in the medical school here in Minsk.” The young officer took a good look at me.
“What is your name?” he asked. “Simona.”
“What a lovely name. It goes very well with your appearance.” He smiled. I smiled back.
But I couldn’t ask his name. There was a certain distance between the ages in our culture. I didn’t know how to address him and felt a bit uneasy. Like my father, he was an officer of the Soviet Army and older than I was.
“Are you living here in Minsk?”
“No, we live in Leningrad and came here for the summer to visit our father. Are you a sportsman?” I asked the question because our people, exhausted by war, usually had pale and emaciated faces. The officer looked very healthy, like a sportsman. He didn’t answer my question. Instead, he asked me again, “Have you seen the city?”
“No, my father doesn’t allow me to go farther than this park.”
“I don’t agree with your father. It is a unique experience of your life to see the consequences of the war.”
“I’ve already seen the consequences of war. I came from Leningrad. I’ve seen destroyed houses and burnt forests. I know the consequences of war.”
“Have you ever seen a totally destroyed city?”
“Totally destroyed? Maybe not.”
“I saw Dresden and Coventry. Have you heard about those cities?” he asked.
“Yes, I’ve heard about Coventry. Why are you asking about those cities?”
“Because Minsk resembles them. It will take a lot of time, human energy, and equipment to restore what the war destroyed.”
“I know that. But we won the war, and we will restore our country.”
“Simona, you’re mistaken. The Soviet Union won the war together with the Allies. Without the help of the Allies, it might not have happened.” His strong intonation and confidence astonished me. He was talking like a foreign radio broadcaster.
My father listened to the Voice of America and BBC every night. He thought that I was sleeping, but I wasn’t. And though he turned the volume very low, afraid that the neighbors might overhear it, I heard the news on the foreign radio program every night. I didn’t like it. My father did. Often I heard him commenting and calling our government the “bandits in power.” I vehemently disagreed with him. For me the Soviet government was the most democratic in the world, and I adored our leader, Comrade Stalin. Yet I had never voiced my disagreement with Father. Nobody could. He was opinionated, persistent, and stubborn. In our culture, a teenage girl couldn’t argue with an adult.
My mother was a different case. She suffered the worst possible experience in life. It happened in 1937, the year of overwhelming fear, arrests, and show trials, where leaders of political opposition had been publicly tried and then executed. At the time I was six or seven years old, and my mother was my first friend and my teacher and tutor—everything in the world to me. I loved her endlessly. Three times a week, she used to take me to music school to study violin. We traveled by tram. Some days, my German teacher took me there. One day I got two As in violin and, with eager anticipation, wanted to get home to show them to my mother. When I got home, my mother wasn’t there, only my father was. He told me that Mother had gone into the hospital, and that he was going to take me to Moscow to stay with my grandparents. He did.
My mother was not in the hospital. She was in prison. The events preceding her disappearance were simple. When our music school teacher told us about our kind and beloved Comrade Stalin, I had replied that he was wrong because my mother considered Stalin a bandit and a butcher who was killing innocent people. By the time I got home that day, my mother had already been arrested. I lived with my grandparents for a year. When I graduated from public school, my father told me about the real course of events. He also told me the end of the story—an incredible end . . .
In a communal kitchen, preparing a dinner, Mother had voiced her opinion. Several women in the kitchen were admiring the good deeds of Comrade Stalin. Mother disagreed with them. She said that Stalin was a butcher because he had killed innocent people. That day, my mother was arrested and charged with attempted murder of Comrade Stalin. Two of our neighbors were the informants. After the conversation at the communal kitchen, they went to the security agency to report on my mother. It was a miracle that Mother survived and was released from prison.
Working in a hospital, my father saved a newborn baby and mother, who had had a very complicated pregnancy. The grateful husband cried, thanking my father. The man was a district attorney, a prosecutor. When Mother was arrested, Father visited him and told him the story. In those years, nobody could have gotten out of prison. It was a dark time of fear, distrust, and suspicion. Yet the grateful district attorney performed a miracle. After thirteen months, my mother came back home. However, her personality had changed dramatically. She became very quiet and seldom smiled. She never kissed me. She no longer called me Simosha, only Simona. She never again discussed politics.
The incident did not decrease my love for our country and Comrade Stalin. I did