“Simona, please. Don’t try to conceal anything. I see on your face that something happened. I want to know the truth.”
“Nothing bad had happened, Mother. I just met an American man in the park, and he told me a lot of good things about America.” Mother’s beautiful brown eyes became round, expressing sheer fear.
“Don’t worry, Mother. He didn’t do anything bad to me.”
Mother swallowed and whispered into my ear. “Why did you cry if he didn’t do anything bad?”
“Mother, he’s a good man, a very knowledgeable one. He wouldn’t harm a fly. We discussed the war, and he told me about Lend-Lease. He also told me about women in America. Don’t worry, he’s leaving for America tomorrow,” I whispered back.
“Anybody see you talking to him?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“If nothing happened, why were you crying? You look as if something has happened. Why were you crying?” she repeated, taking my face in both her hands, and I was glad Rena was not home.
“I didn’t know.”
Mother lost her patience. “Who knows then?”
I stood silent, looking at the floor. Mother took her hands off my face and adjusted her hair and her dark gray dress.
“OK, Rena will be back soon; we’ll continue the conversation in the evening. Go and clean your face with cold water, and don’t say a word to anybody.”
After dinner, Mother sent Rena to the neighbors. Then she began talking and again lowered her voice. “Dodik, I have to tell you a troublesome story that happened to Simona—”
“What happened to her?” Father almost jumped from his chair.
“She met an American and talked to him.”
“What? An American? Where? How?”
“She met him in the park, and they discussed the war and America.”
Fear, panic, and horror made Father’s face unrecognizable. He sat down next to me. “Did anybody see you with this man?”
“No, there was nobody in the park,” I said.
“Calm down, Dodik. The American is leaving tomorrow,” Mother implored him.
“He’s leaving, but the agents of our security apparatus will be with us forever. Don’t forget we are Jews.” Father abruptly stopped talking. His mouth closed tightly. The dimple in his chin almost disappeared. It seemed like an evil giant had invaded the space of our room.
“Verochka, it’s a very serious matter. Take Simona back to Leningrad.”
“It’s impossible, Dodik. We can’t get tickets right away. It will take at least a week. I agree, we should leave, but what do you think about leaving Rena with you in Minsk? I’ll return after Simona goes back to school.”
“You’re right, Verochka. Tickets will be a problem. Tomorrow I’ll ask in the office. Maybe we can get tickets through the medical school.”
With her hands shaking, Mother began taking the plates away and carried them to the stove that we used as a table when it wasn’t hot. Immediately, my parents started planning my escape. There was no doubt in their minds that I should be brought back to Leningrad. With fear in their faces, they whispered to each other, forgetting about my presence at the table. I had never seen my parents the way I saw them that night. Terror was filling our room . . .
I was not afraid of anything because I knew that the American would never harm me. My parents did not know that.
“Mother and Father, please, let me tell you something.” They stopped talking and looked at me astonished. I had dared to open my mouth. “What do you want to say?” Father asked.
“I want to tell you that the American is a very good man. He will never do anything bad. He respects women and told me how many kitchen appliances the American government has designed for women. Do you know that women drive big cars there?” My parents’ faces turned white. Mother’s hands shook. Breathing hard, she hissed with eyes opened wide, “Shut up, Simona!”
Father sat frozen, his eyes paralyzed with fright. I was confused. I had said nothing bad. Mother, as usual, had the last word. “No talk anymore. Simona, go to the neighbors and call Rena home. Don’t talk to anybody.” I obediently left.
Our neighbors, quite a strange couple, did not talk to anybody on our long corridor except my parents. They had no children, spoke very quietly, and each smoked two packs of cigarettes a day. The wife and husband always walked hand in hand, dressed in old-fashioned clothes. Once, I overheard the story they told my parents.
They got their Ph.D. in mathematics in Moscow in 1937 and celebrated the event with their friends and colleagues in the room of a communal apartment where they lived. Guests drank, danced, and exchanged jokes. One of them told a joke about Comrade Stalin. Early, in the morning both mathematician hosts were arrested and exiled to Siberia for ten years without the right to correspond with anybody. After the war and much trouble, their relatives obtained permission for them to return, but not to Moscow; it was a “closed city.” The wife had received a position in Minsk, and they moved to our dormitory. My mother often talked to her, but I seldom listened to them. I was not interested. I couldn’t waste time. I had to read.
That night, Father did not listen the foreign broadcasting. All night my parents talked to each other, their voices so low that I could only hear my name . . .
For reasons unknown to me, Father didn’t ask anybody in the medical school to help him with tickets. Mother stood in line for hours to obtain two tickets for us. Three days later, Mother and I left for Leningrad. Before our departure I wanted to return to my park for the last time. My parents did not allow me to leave the dormitory. But the memory of the strange park and meeting a young American officer stayed with me for many years. The strange thing was that I remembered closely the substance of our conversations, more than the American himself.
Thirty-five years later, I immigrated to the United States with my two children.
CHAPTER 2
Birthday in Leningrad
We all remember the city of our youth, whether it is a well-known place in the world or a small town hardly recognizable on a map. It’s a law of gravity—we are always drawn to the piece of land where first love visited us and left a pleasant impression on our souls and memories for the rest of our lives.
I was no exception. Moreover, I was lucky. Leningrad had been the city of my youth. In the 1950s and 1960s, many loved the famous city, some because it was considered the cradle of the October Socialist Revolution. Others recognized it as a unique and remarkable landmark of Western civilization, built by Peter the Great on a swamp and turned into a masterpiece of palaces, monuments, bridges, and European architecture. I belonged to the latter group. I loved the city as if it were a human being—intelligent and wise, magnificent and kind.
That is why receiving an invitation to celebrate the birthday of a friend from Leningrad in two weeks brought a lot of bustle, joy, and excitement to our home. A visit to Leningrad would mean a great deal not only to me, but also to my husband. We had both graduated from Leningrad law school. We had met there.
My husband, Garrik, was several years older than I, the first man I had fallen in love with, the first I kissed, the one I later married. And everything had happened in Leningrad: the unforgettable white nights on the embankment of the Neva River, the strolls along the Nevsky Prospekt, and many other marvelous memories . . .
Garrik