yet. But… I got such a scolding… I think they’re going to fire me.“

      „For what?“

      „For the poetry. The devil deceived me, and I trusted Krugman. Anyway, remember what I asked you. OK?“

      „All right, I’ll ask around,“ Zina says hesitantly.

      Mama is even more upset, realizing that she cannot count on her friend for help. I try to distract her by pulling on the cord several times and calling sorrowfully: „Mama! Mommy!“

      It is useless. She doesn’t hear me, or she pretends not to hear; there is no reaction. She lights a cigarette. She takes Krugman’s poem that she is preparing for the next issue, reads two lines, and without finishing it, tears up the paper and throws it into the wastebasket. Before she finishes her cigarette, she puts it out in the ashtray, paces around the room nervously, and starts smoking again. She grabs the „Student Literary Organization“ package from the table that contains poems by Gorkin and Soldatov, and without opening it, throws it into the wastebasket. I begin to choke and cough, and don’t remember anything after that. My memory fails me.

* * *

      We are at home, and I am back to my senses. I hear the voice of Olga, and I am immediately on my guard, realizing that the conversation is about me.

      „What are you thinking of doing?“

      „An abortion,“ Mama says dryly.

      I roll myself into a ball and instinctively grasp for the umbilical cord, pulling on it carelessly. Mama cries out, feeling a sharp pain, and put her hand on her stomach.

      „What happened?“ Olga asks anxiously.

      „Nothing,“ Mama cuts her off. „At my age it would be foolish to have a baby.“

      „But you don’t have anyone now. This could be your chance.“

      „What chance?“

      „Your chance not to remain alone. That would be terrible in old age. No one to bring you tea, call the doctor or go out for medicines.“

      „Please tell me,“ Mila says angrily, „how the hell am I going to raise him? You know perfectly well that I’m single.“ She jumps up and paces nervously around the room, then stops abruptly and hurls her reproach in Olga’s face, as if she were personally responsible: „There’s no one I can count on for help!“

      An oppressive pause hangs over us. Mama goes limp, ashamed of her unfounded accusations, and says quietly: „I’m sorry.“

      „I understand,“ Olga answers sympathetically and carefully inquires: „Can you at least say who the father is?“

      I hold my breath – this is the first time anyone has talked about my father. Up until this time I have only been able to guess whom I owe my life to. Mila avoids giving a direct answer, not wishing to speak candidly:

      „What difference does that make? I’m not planning to marry him. It was just a one-night stand. It was my fault – I misjudged the timing and didn’t use protection.“

      „Victor?“ Olga asks persistently.

      „No, a poet from Moscow,“ Mama answers quickly and elaborates: „From the Youth magazine. Remember when they had that banquet in the student cafeteria after the Day of Poetry?“

      „Of course I remember. Slitchenko got drunk and passed out, and they beat him up.“

      „That’s not exactly what happened. Schwartz told me about it. When Slitchenko got smashed, they took him outside. He couldn’t even stand up, and the guys dragged him back to the dorm. And then he started yelling: „Filthy Kikes! I’ll kill them all!“ Makhankov lost his temper – he was walking behind him – and gave him a kick in the rear.“