Читать книгу The Russsian Factor: From Cold War to Global Terrorism - Simona Psy.D. Pipko - Страница 3

Children have always been the first casualties of war. Their childhood suddenly ends, and they have to share and endure the struggles their parents go through. In 1941, when World War II came close to Leningrad, children were evacuated from the city and sent to the eastern parts of Russia. My sister Rena and I became children of war, as we experienced the misery associated with that time in history. We slept on the floor and ran to the bomb shelter several times a night. We shared one bathroom with several families and, like them, suffered from hunger and cold. Though we had ration coupons, food was so scarce that we stood in breadlines for hours, often in snow and rain. Our only wish was to see our father again, to see him alive.

Before the war, my father had been a physician, an obstetrician-gynecologist at the renowned Erisman Hospital in Leningrad. As a medical professional, he had been drafted into the army as soon as the war broke out and served in a military hospital on the Leningrad Front for the four-year duration. When my mother, sister, and I returned from evacuation, we could hardly recognize him, as he had become so emaciated. He had lost much of his hair and was worn down to a shadow. Only the serious gaze of his blue eyes, touched with hunger, was recognizable. But the end of the war brought such happiness to our family that nothing could cast a cloud over our reunion. We had survived the devastating ordeal that our country and our people went through . . .

My father was elated at the possibility of returning to his beloved Erisman Hospital to work and teach in medical school again. He wrote one request after another asking to be discharged and to return to Leningrad. However, all his requests to military commanders were met with refusal. Instead, he was assigned to Minsk, two thousand miles away from home, to teach at a medical school there.

My family’s desire to be together was so strong that we planned to leave Leningrad as soon as the school year ended. In spite of incredible difficulties in getting train tickets, my mother finally succeeded, and after a rushed and exhausting day, we boarded a train bound for Minsk.

Nothing could surprise us in the smelly, overcrowded train’s compartment of the steam locomotive. There was no room to move freely, since the entire floor was covered with piles of bundles, knapsacks, and cartons. We were lucky to find two seats in the compartment, one for Mother and another for Rena and me to share. Though the wooden bench was hard and uncomfortable, we could finally rest, nestled close to each other. Exhausted and hungry, we fell asleep as soon as the train began to move, despite the constant noise and awful stench in the car. And then . . . nightmares, one after another terrified me all night.

“Simona, Simona, wake up, stop crying,” my mother’s face was close to mine, whispering, shaking me, and trying to break the torture of the night. As I opened my eyes, bright sun blinded me at once. Then I looked around. There were ten to twelve people sitting in the compartment, women in black and gray babushkas tied tightly under their chins. Men were wearing dirty long rubber boots. Some people still slept, while others prepared to get off and whispered to each other, like ghosts, scared by the sun’s beaming rays.

My mother whispered too, “Simona, please take Rena and quickly go to the bathroom while the other people are sleeping. There will be a line later on. Don’t forget to wash your hands afterwards, girls.”

Rena and I forced our way through bundles and cartons and finally reached the bathroom. It took some time for us to put ourselves together. Rena, seven years younger, obediently washed her hands while I was watching her. At that moment the train stopped, and a loud voice from the stout woman conductor ordered us to leave the lavatory. No one was allowed to stay in the lavatory when the train pulled into station. Getting out, we hardly recognized our car. Nobody was whispering anymore; they were yelling. People shouted obscenities as they tried to get off the train with their luggage, pushing and fighting their way to the exit. Rena and I stood quietly flattened against the wall for a long minute while a wild crowd rushed to the exit . . .

When we returned to our compartment, two glasses of tea awaited us. Mother gave each of us two pieces of dried bread and a small slice of cheese.

“Girls, please keep an eye on our suitcases,” she whispered. “Now I’m going to the bathroom.” We knew the situation and took our responsibility seriously. I moved to my mother’s seat behind our luggage. Theft was rampant in the land.

As the train stopped at smaller stations, some people would get off and others would board, quickly filling the vacant seats. And again, almost all the women were wearing black and gray babushkas, and the men wore long black rubber boots. Nobody smiled. Their faces revealed anxiety and gloom.

Rena and I finished our breakfast and looked out of the window. There was nothing to see but the monotonous landscape of burnt tree trunks and scorched earth. It looked like a huge grave for multitude of soldiers killed in the war. On rare occasion, when my eyes could catch sight of young green shoots stretched out to the sun, a feeling of joy would come over me. Seeing houses in ruins did not surprise me. I had witnessed the same ruins in Leningrad . . .

I moved back to my seat when Mother returned to the compartment.

“Girls, take advantage of the daylight; you’ll not be able to read in the evening. Please, take your books. We’ll have our supper when the conductor prepares the tea for the second time, in the evening. Listen to me; our trip will take a few days, and you should adjust to the arrangement in the train. Simona, where’s your Dostoyevsky?” I took the book thinking about the evening tea, a Russian prerevolutionary tradition. I loved the tradition of serving tea in the train and understood now why Mother insisted on buying the tickets to a compartment car—it is hard to be without fluid for three days . . .

By the third night, we arrived at the last stop—Minsk, the capital of Belarus. In the dull light in the car, a hammering of complaints began while people formed a line and began to move forward. The line suddenly stopped in our compartment, and a tall man opened the window to look for his relatives. A draft of air brought the smell of burning coal from the locomotive’s engine into our stuffy compartment. But nothing could stop me. When the line began to move again, I stood on a seat and leaned out the window.

The railroad station had no electricity, and the only source of light guiding us was a full moon covered with traveling clouds. Flashlights were blinking here and there amidst the dark gray moving mass of people. Against the background of the train whistles, anxious voices were yelling out names of relatives and friends as they were trying to find each other. Behind the darkness of the window, I couldn’t see my father. He knew the number of our car, and we were supposed to wait for him; but waiting was difficult.

My parents had always forbidden Rena and me to yell or speak loudly. Normally, I complied with the rules, but my yearning to see my father was so strong that it overcame discipline. With all the force of a good pair of lungs, I gave a yell, “Papa, Papa, we are here!” From afar I heard my father’s voice, “Simosha, don’t worry. Tell Mother to wait for me in the car.” The familiar voice calmed me down. We waited patiently in the car while a line of people passed us by.

It was no secret in our family that I’d been my father’s darling. Our mutual love for music had bonded us together. A very gifted and talented man, my father was a passionate musician, who never parted with his violin. The instrument had survived the Leningrad siege along with my father. In the city of palaces and monuments, while one million people starved to death, he began composing music. The violin had become his closest friend . . .

I knew all of father’s songs and quartets by heart. After the war, Father and I spent many evenings entertaining our family with concerts. I would sing the melodies my father had composed while he accompanied me on his violin. Those concerts had become the best times of our live . . .

When all the people got off the train, my father finally came on board. The three of us embraced and kissed him, but there was no time to talk. The conductor ordered us to vacate the car. Father quickly lifted two heavy suitcases, and we left the train.

In June, there were white nights on the Baltic shore of Leningrad. In the heart land of Minsk, the nights were black. In the darkness, we slowly followed Father to the dormitory designed for the faculty where he had a room, moving along a narrow path around a ruined building. Even with both of our parents nearby, I felt frightened. When the clouds moved and uncovered the full moon, the destroyed building stood like the shadow of a dying evil giant, terrifying me. Finally, we stopped at the door of a building that reminded me of a military barracks. Father put the suitcases down, pulled matches out of his pocket, and gave them to Mother. We entered a huge dark corridor and followed Father, while Mother struck matches to illuminate our way. The familiar smell of burnt coal suggested proximity to the railroad station.

Father led us to a big room with white plastered walls. The room had only one small window. Under a dim lightbulb on the ceiling, we could see a wood-burning cooking stove next to the door, then two narrow metal cots, and a mattress on the bare floor in the corner. In the center of the room was a table covered with a white sheet, and on it a pitcher with a bouquet of wild daisies. My father couldn’t meet his wife without flowers. Then Father told us that one bathroom shared by seven families living on the floor was situated at the end of the corridor.

Exhausted, we went to sleep, my sister and I on the two narrow metal cots, our parents on the mattress on the floor. This time, no dreams disturbed me—I slept like a log.

When I woke up, my father had already left, Rena still slept, and Mother was unpacking our luggage. In the open suitcase, I saw our big mirror among other things. I was glad to see it—my mother knew well her two girls.

“How did you sleep, Simona?” my mother asked, unpacking the biggest of our suitcases and not even lifting up her head.

“Very well. I am going to the bathroom. When I return, I’ll help you to hang our mirror. Do you know when Father will come back?” I asked.

“Yes, he’ll be back at two o’clock for lunch. The medical school is not far from here. By the way, Father won’t allow you to go out—”

“Why?”

“He’ll tell you.”

My parents loved each other dearly and expressed it affectionately. Besides many other warm words addressed to each other, my father always spoke to my mother with exceptional tenderness. She was a beautiful woman, and in her youth, some poets had actually dedicated poems to her. Her name was Vera, yet we have never heard that name at home, but only Verochka, a token of affection. My father’s name was David, but Mother affectionately called him Dodik.

At two o’clock, my father came with a big package wrapped in newspaper. He put it on the table. “Verochka, I brought a very tasty present for us all, from America!”

“Wow!” Mother exclaimed, while Father added proudly, “It’s a program called Lend-Lease, which provides food and clothes to the devastated areas of many countries including ours. Here you are.” He unwrapped and placed four cans of stewed pork from America on the table. He called them “tushonka.”

“That’s wonderful, Dodik, but I don’t know how to prepare it.”

“Don’t worry, comrades from the office explained everything to me. It’s very easy to prepare. You either eat it cold or just warm it up. I have more good news. I’ve received two coupons for our family to choose two items of clothing from LendLease. We can have shoes for Simosha and a dress for Renochka.”

“No, Dodik, Simona should get both the shoes and the dress. She’s a big girl and grown out of her dress. The shoes she’s wearing are tight. Where can we get the things?”

“I don’t know yet. The comrades from the office will tell me the address at the end of the week. And now, please, let’s go eat the American ‘tushonka,’ Verochka. I have to go back in an hour.”

How tasty the new meal was! My mother warmed it up in a pan, and we ate it with dry bread, which was dissolving in a plate of fat and juicy meat. The aroma of the tasty meat filled the air of our room. Nobody talked. For the first time, we were eating American food. I had heard a lot about America, our ally in World War II. Now, I could taste and smell America. Moreover, I was overwhelmed at the possibility of having an American dress and shoes. I anticipated with pleasure how I would wear them. Father interrupted my thoughts.

“Simosha, I can’t allow you to go out to the city.”

“What? I should sit all day in the dark room?”

“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 not associate the leader’s name with that tragic event of my life. My parents never told me anything. I picked up the essence of the story by catching scraps of conversations, from relatives and neighbors. In addition to that, the school indoctrination was so extensive that nothing could shake my love for our motherland and Comrade Stalin. I loved him the way I loved my father . . .

“No, I’m not mistaken,” I told the young officer, “the Soviet soldiers hoisted our flag on Reichstag. The Soviet Army liberated Berlin, the capital of Germany. We won the Great Patriotic War,” I strongly repeated.

Two women passed by our bench and sat down on the next one. Rubbing his hands, as if enjoying the discussion, the officer put one leg over the other and turned his torso toward me with his back to the women. He smiled, and his black leather high boots gleamed in the sun. Then he put his hand on my book and said, lowering his voice, “I’m not arguing with you, Simona; I just want to tell you something you perhaps don’t know. We’re talking about a war where the entire world has been involved. Have you heard about the Axis, Rome, Tokyo, Berlin, whose forces were fighting the Allies? What do you know about the program of Lend-Lease, which helped the Allies?”

I had not heard a lot about the Axis, Rome, Tokyo, Berlin. But . . . oh, boy . . . I did know about Lend-Lease! “Of course I do. My father brought home four cans of ‘tushonka’ from Lend-Lease. We’ve already eaten all of them.”

“It’s good you know about Lend-Lease, but ‘tushonka’ and other food are only the tip of the iceberg. You probably know that World War II started long before Germany attacked the Soviet Union. It was Lend-Lease that helped the Allied troops in the fight against the Axis.”

“So what?” I retorted.

He looked at me, surprised by my remark.

“That means that thousands of men and women perished before the Soviet Union even entered the war. Have you heard about the battle for the Atlantic Ocean, where hundreds of Allied ships were sunk? Lend-Lease provided the Allies with new ships.”

“No, I’ve never heard about that.”

“Thousands of sailors from America, Britain, and Canada gave their lives for victory in World War II. Believe me, their mothers, wives, and children dearly loved those who perished, the same way the Russians loved theirs. Have you ever thought about the reason why the war was called World War II?” He had a point. His deepset blue eyes were no longer kind. Instead, they were sparkling and indignant. His information surprised me.

Despite my obvious embarrassment, he continued questioning me.

“Maybe you’ve heard about the Lend-Lease convoys to Russia, to the ports of Murmansk and Arhangelsk? Some convoys’ routes reached to the Arctic Circle bringing trucks and food, military equipment, and ammunition to the Eastern Front. Do you know how many people gave their lives to feed the Red Army with ‘tushonka’? Do you know the cost of bringing help to Russia?” I didn’t know. I had no words to raise an objection, and he had no intention of stopping his barrage of words.

“The Allies helped us in the war, and they’ll help us to restore the cities like Minsk. Let’s take a walk; I’ll show you the city.”

He stood up and adjusted his soldier’s shirt. Then he took my book in one of his hands and took my hand with the other. I stood up too.

The moment he stood, I could see not only his handsome tanned face, but also a slender and very tall man. The military uniform increased his charm. We started moving toward a nearby street, which turned out to be the main street of Minsk. He stopped in front of a big dark building with small windows on the other side of the street. Under the blue sky and shining sun, the building resembled a huge brown coffin.

“This is the House of the Government, the only building in the area that had survived. The Germans retreated so fast that they didn’t have time to blow it up. Let’s go a little bit farther.” I obediently followed, walking beside him. After several minutes he stopped again, touched my shoulder, and lifted his hand with my book of Dostoyevsky.

“You ought to remember this view to understand the tremendous tragedy and grief any war brings to all people. Look at this street.”

I did. He was right. Under an unbound dome of clear blue sky, we stood on the high point of an absolutely empty wide and quiet street. There were no people or cars. As far as the eye could see, one side of the street presented a long solid wasteland, cleaned out of ruins. Along the other side stood skeletons of what had been houses. Some had all four walls and roofs but looked like wounded and blind human beings, with windows reminiscent to empty eye sockets. Others were half-destroyed, their stoves’ metal towering over the ruins like frozen sentinels. Only a roaring truck, moving in our direction, animated the dead landscape. Maybe my father didn’t want me to see that devastating picture; the thought flew through my mind, and I stopped. I was shocked and frightened.

“Please, give me my book; I don’t want to go any farther. I’m going home.” My voice trembled a bit. The officer immediately returned my book as if he shared my feeling of sorrow and grief. We walked back toward my park.

“Don’t be saddened by what you saw, Simona. This is the reality of our lives, and we should face it with courage and open eyes. Don’t be afraid of the difficulties ahead of us. Our allies will help us restore the destroyed cities and villages, build new roads, and feed our people.” He talked like a teacher, with a spirit of compassion and confidence. At that time, his blue eyes comforted me, and his strong voice calmed me. His conduct revealed great intelligence and knowledge. Like my father, he had an excellent command of the real Russian language, a rare occurrence among Soviet officers. Suddenly, he asked me, “Do you believe in God?”

“God?” I was puzzled. Why would a Soviet officer ask such a question? We still walked slowly when he looked at his watch. “Sorry, I’m late to an important meeting. Hope to see you again, Simona. You’re a wonderful girl. Read your book of Dostoyevsky. Have a nice day.” Perhaps he really was late, because he almost ran in the direction of the House of the Government.

No one was in the park. I went home. My entire being was shaken by the conversation with the young officer. It wasn’t only the outpouring information that impressed me. The image of the man, his eyes, the conviction in his voice, and his empathy for people alive and dead overwhelmed me. Moreover, like my father, he spoke the language of Chekhov and Tolstoy, the language of Russian intellectuals.

Mother met me with worry in her voice. “Simona, where have you been? We’ve already had our dinner. I put yours under a pillow on our mattress to keep it warm. Take it. While you’re eating, I’ll tell you the news.”

I didn’t feel hungry, but I took my portion of potato with onion. The food stuck in my throat, but I made believe eating it was a pleasure. I didn’t tell Mother about the young man I met. Had I told my parents that I spent several hours with a stranger, I would never again see my little park.

Sitting and eating, I listened to my mother.

“We have news, Simona. Father got two coupons this afternoon. Tomorrow we’re going to the Lend-Lease place to choose a dress and shoes for you. I’m glad you’ll finally have both. Father already told me how to find the place. It’s pretty far, and we have to walk there. But I know you’re ready to fly there for a new dress.”

Mother was right. My dreams about the new dress haunted me ever since Father first informed us about the coupons. Cloth was scarce, and my dress was altered from an old dress of my mother’s. Of course, I was dreaming about a new one, but something unexpected had happened that day. I was turned from my purpose by my conversation with the young man in the park. His face stood before my eyes. I couldn’t escape it.

Rena was sitting on her cot with no smile on her face. She knew that I was the darling of our father, but it was Mother who decided to give me both a dress and shoes because I was the older sister. It was fair.

Sitting and eating, I could not get the conversation with the young officer out of my mind. His face was imprinted in my memory, especially his deep-set blue eyes. The sweet sense of something unfamiliar pulled at my heart and stayed there. That feeling didn’t leave me the whole day. That night, for the first time, I didn’t listen to the foreign radio broadcast. I dreamt about the new dress and meeting the young officer again.

The next morning, I was awakened by Father’s voice, “Simosha, Simosha, wake up.” He bent to my ear and whispered, “You’re going with Mother to the Lend-Lease warehouse to pick out your dress and shoes.” I quickly jumped off my bed.

We left at eight, while Rena was still sleeping. It took an hour and a half for us to walk through the streets and wastelands, but neither of us was tired.

A couple of big trucks and the presence of military personnel identified the location of our destination. As we approached a wooden building, a military man stopped us. Mother showed him our coupons. He opened a door and called to another man. We entered a small room, loaded to the ceiling with empty boxes and cartons. A big-nosed, foppish captain with brilliantine black hair and a foxlike face was sitting at a desk. Mother again showed our coupons. The captain found our name on the list and made a check mark. Then he stood up and walked us to a large room full of goods. He pointed to the piles of clothing, cartons, and boxes with shoes and boots on the floor.

“You have ten minutes to choose your two items.” He returned to the door where he stood, watching us from a distance. Mother went to the boxes containing shoes.

Left alone, I observed the premises. Perhaps it was a former meeting room because the walls did not have wallpaper but were plastered. The windows were nailed shut, and two bright bulbs in the ceiling lit the room like two bright suns. The piles of clothing and cartons of shoes made me nervous. I stood there confused, unable to move.

“Simona, don’t waste time. Go and choose a dress. Other people will come soon, and they’ll take the best items.” I moved toward a pile of clothing and stopped. I was dazzled. Never had I seen such a diversity of colors. We were the children of war. We saw black, brown, and dark blue. We had no idea of a pink or yellow dress. I was mesmerized by the variety and brightness of the colors.

“Simona, what’s the matter with you? Choose a dress, fast,” Mother yelled from another side of the room, her hands inside a carton of shoes.

What a task it was! My beloved yellow color was out of the question—I couldn’t wear a yellow dress. But I didn’t see any brown dresses; no black or dark blue dresses either. I saw a beige one and lifted it out of the pile. No. It was the size of a big woman. I put it back. Behind it, I saw a green one with white polka dots. My heart began pounding. I took it out of the pile. I had good luck! The dress was a small size. I was lost in admiration.

“Mama, come here, I found a dress.” I was holding it up to myself while waiting for Mother. She approached me with a pair of yellow shoes in her hands.

“Show me what you found.” I lifted the dress with two hands. She shook her head. “Simona, be practical. The dress is very light colored. You’ll have to clean it every week. Besides, the girls in school will mock you by calling you a frog. We have a few minutes; find something else.”

“No, Mama. I don’t want anything else. The other dresses are all big sizes. I like this one. I want it. Please, Mama.” I clasped it to my chest with both hands.

“Please, Mama, the dress is just my size—”

Mother was strangely speechless, looking at somebody behind me. An authoritarian voice announced, “Your time is up. Vacate the premises.” Behind me stood the captain with the foxlike face pointing his finger toward the door. I didn’t move. Mother took my hand and dragged me to the exit. Passing the small room, she gave me one yellow shoe and whispered, “Simona, try it on quickly.”

“It’s forbidden to stay in this room,” the foxlike face yelled. Sweaty and nervous, we left the building. Outside, we saw a line of five or six people waiting for their turn.

When we got home, I tried on my dress. There was no end to my happiness. It fit me as if it were tailored for me. The yellow shoes brought me even more joy; they were exactly my size, and the white rubber soles allowed me to wear them in summer, fall, and spring. Yes, Mother was a very smart and practical woman.

In the evening, I met my father wearing the new dress and shoes. He could not hide his delight. “Wow, what a wonderful dress it is! Simosha, wear it in good health; the dress is very becoming to you.” Smiling, I lifted a foot to show him my new yellow shoes. “Congratulations, you finally have good shoes. Enjoy both your new dress and shoes. But . . . Renochka didn’t get anything, and I’m in a very tough situation, Verochka.”

“Why, what are you talking about, Dodik?” Father put on the table a small package. The smile disappeared from his face. “Today, people from our office brought a box of the Lend-Lease clothes. The women distributed it between themselves and gave me a small blouse. It’s too big for Renochka, but too small for you, Verochka. It means that Simosha will get the blouse too.”

“No, I want the blouse,” Rena yelled and ran up to the table. She unwrapped the small package. A white-and-blue-striped jersey blouse fell to the floor. Father picked it up. My heart sped up—I adored the stripes.

“Renochka, don’t try it. You can see, my girl, that the blouse is an adult size. Don’t be upset; I’ll give you Simona’s brown blouse,” Mother said.

Returning to her cot, Rena yelled, “No! I do not want Simona’s blouse; I want the American one.” She started crying, her big belly shaking. Her small mouth became a big one. Her cry got louder as she swung and gnashed on her metal cot. Father couldn’t tolerate it. He sat down and said sadly, “I told you, Verochka, it’s tough to deal with two girls. I leave it to your discretion.”

“Don’t worry, Dodik; I’ll cope with them. Simona, come here and try on the blouse.” I took the blouse and went to the mirror to try it on. My God! It was as if a bright light lit me up in our dark room. The blouse was so becoming on me! I had never imagined having such a beautiful piece of clothing. I didn’t want to take it off, admiring myself in the mirror. Mother cut my dreams short.

“Simona, take it off and help me set the table for dinner.” I obeyed her. Rena stopped crying. We ate our dinner in silence. I washed all the dishes and dried them while Mother narrated the entire story of our visit to the Lend-Lease storage, even describing the stern captain with the foxlike face. That night, only one thing was on my mind—how I would meet the young officer again, wearing my new dress and shoes.

Mother didn’t wake me up in the morning. Summer was the only time of the year I could sleep late. When I woke up, I looked around for my new dress. It was hanging on the chair, and my new shoes were waiting for me on the floor. But I didn’t see the blouse. “Mother, where is my blouse?”

“Calm down, Simona. I put it in our suitcase. The blouse is a dressy one. You can’t wear it now. September first is your birthday, and the blouse will be a present for you. I’ll also make a skirt for you from Father’s pants, and you will wear both in Leningrad. Get up now, we’ll have breakfast, and after that we’ll go to the market to buy some vegetables.” Then she called, “Rena, get up, we are going to the market” and said to me, “Simona, you shouldn’t wear your new dress to the market.”

“OK, Mother, but I can’t wear my old shoes; they’re too tight on me.”

“Wear your new shoes, but don’t throw out the old ones. We’ll save them for Renochka.”

The entire day I had to help Mother. But I couldn’t stop thinking about meeting the young officer in the park.

The next day I wore my new dress and shoes, and with trepidation, I walked to my park. Fortunately, there was no rain; a hot and shining sun greeted me. It was the middle of July, and the young trees in my park with overgrowing foliage looked like the guards of Buckingham Palace wearing their fur hats.

I sat on the bench pretending that my open book was my only concern, my thoughts preoccupied with only one scenario—meeting the young officer. Vivid pictures danced across my mind. The sun moved to the center of the sky, and the heat became unbearable. Usually, by that time of day, I would be home helping my mother set the table for lunch. My parents would be puzzled by my absence. I had to go home.

“Simona, why aren’t you eating?” Mother asked me at dinner. “You’re red, like a lobster. Go and put sour milk on your face. You got a sunburn.” My forehead and nose were indeed on fire. I put the sour milk on my skin and felt a pang of excruciating pain. I stayed home suffering, for several days, ashamed to go out. It took six or seven days for the burnt skin to peel off. What agony I went through! Mother saw it.

Though I didn’t like Dostoyevsky, I had time to finish The Brothers Karamazov and took the next book on the list, Crime and Punishment.

When I finally went to the park, I sat on a bench with my back to the sun. I had learned my lesson. I had already laundered my new dress, which lost no color in the process. It was bright and beautiful with a nuance of blue. I waited for the young officer.

A week went by; he did not come. Every day I experienced deep disappointment upon entering the park and leaving it. Every day my dreams shrank. I even thought about talking to my mother. I cast the thought off; my parents had never allowed me to talk to strangers. I couldn’t talk to Rena as she was only seven.

The weather changed in August, and frequent rains prevented me from going to my park. I’d already read sixty pages of Crime and Punishment when the sun peered out from behind the clouds.

“Simona, don’t sit in this stuffy room. You can go to the park to breathe fresh air. It won’t rain today,” Mother suggested. I was reluctant to leave home. The disappointment I had experienced for so many days had taken its toll. I didn’t want to repeat it. Still a ray of hope was smoldering in my heart.

How refreshing it was to breathe the cool and clean air of the park after being cooped up in our stuffy, dark room. I enjoyed the sunlight and the light breeze. Recent rain had cleaned everything in the park, the leaves on the trees, and the narrow sand path I was walking along. From afar, I saw a shorthaired man’s figure sitting on the bench. I recognized him immediately and instinctively jumped aside, behind a nearby pile of construction planks. Standing there covered to my head by the planks, I heard the drumming of my heart. But I could not move. I worried that perhaps my face had become so pale that I might have exposed my vulnerability. I didn’t want to show my feelings to this young man. Thoughts flew through my mind, but I lacked the courage to leave my cover.

Meanwhile, the officer stood up and turned his head. He could not see me. Bent over, I stood behind the pile of planks, in mud, which hadn’t yet dried after the several days of rain. Like a periscope, I stuck my head up to observe the area. Suddenly, an idea hit me: my new shoes, they could be stained! Instinctively, I leaped back to the sand path, not realizing that the move could attract attention. It did. In a split second, the officer left the bench and headed toward me. In my green blue dress, confused, I was standing in the open field like a target. The meeting I had been dreaming about for so many days, at that moment, almost caused me to suffer a nervous breakdown.

“Simona, I’m so glad to see you again.” Smiling, he approached me with outstretched hands. He took both my hands, one still holding the book.

“Wow, you’re reading another book by Dostoyevsky. Let’s discuss it.” Walking toward the park, he talked nonstop about the weather and the rain. Listening to him, I tried to hide my nervousness.

As usual, there was nobody in the park. I sat on the bench. The officer did not. He put one foot on the bench and leaned over it, his head close to mine.

“Simona, all this time, you were on my mind. I consider myself lucky to see you again. I’d like to tell you something very important. Please, don’t be scared. I know you’re a smart girl. You ought to understand the difficult subject I’m about to discuss with you.” He looked straight into my eyes, no smile on his face.

“Simona, we live in a tremendously interesting time, but it’s also a dangerous one.”

“Why?” My voice returned to me.

He sighed. “It’s especially dangerous for you and me.” He moved closer to my face. “I’m not a Soviet officer; I’m an American.”

I wasn’t scared, though I was very surprised. “Where did you learn to speak Russian so well?”

“It’s my family’s language.” Then he added, “Tomorrow I’m leaving for America.” Shocked, I clasped the book to my heart. “Yes, Simona, I’m leaving for America because I am an American. The Soviet military commander has allowed me to wear the Russian uniform since we have done a lot for your country. You know the program of Lend-Lease. We have brought plenty of goods from America to the Soviet people. Tomorrow I’m going back home.”

My face betrayed me. “Don’t be scared, Simona. Our countries are allies, and America will continue to help Russia.” I wasn’t scared; I just didn’t want him to leave. Obviously in a good mood, he continued talking. “Oh, you’re wearing the American shoes. I recognize them. And the dress too.” He took his left foot from the bench, put up the right one, and leaned over it. His face was close to mine. He whispered, “Come with me to America.”

There was no thunder or lightning bolt in the sky. The earth in the park did not crack under my feet. I wasn’t dreaming. Everything was happening in real life. The sun looked at us and smiled. Birds continued their songs in different voices, peacefully watching us. The young leaves, swinging slightly in the breeze, sent me signals of approval. Yet my face must have expressed such sadness. He realized how shocked I was by his invitation. He quickly changed the subject.

“Have you heard about Tommy Dorsey and Glen Miller?”

“No.” I shook my head. “Are they athletes?”

He smiled. “Your dress, Simona, is very becoming to you. Do you know that there is a new fabric for clothes in America? You can hide a dress in your fist. The fabric is lighter than silk. It’s called nylon. Have you heard the name?”

“No,” I answered, while only one thought was drilling my mind. He was leaving. The news devastated me. His departure was like losing a friend, one who respected me as an equal in our discussions. I was fifteen. Maybe it was also a new feeling toward the opposite sex and the mystery of meeting a foreigner. I was listening to him talking about American women driving big cars, about their liberation, about new kitchen appliances, names I had never heard before.

“Do you know, Simona, what a wonderful feeling all men experience, sitting at the dinner table and admiring their mothers or wives serving dinner? What can be better than the peaceful picture of a family at a dinner table, after the war with its destruction and death?”

I nodded agreement. He couldn’t stop talking. Proud of the America he loved, he told me how beautiful his country was, describing different trees, lakes, and small towns. I loved my country no less. We lived in completely different worlds. This was clear to me.

To escape the sun, we moved from one bench to another, but he never stopped talking. It was a special day in my life. He took my hand and looked me straight in the eyes. “Simona, you’re an inspiring spirit of honesty in this unfortunate country. You’re an exceptional girl. I want you to know that. Can I write to you?” I didn’t answer. How could I give him my address in Leningrad? It was impossible. A letter from America would scare the neighbors to death in our communal apartment. Besides, I attended an all-girls school, and my parents did not allow me to talk to boys on the street.

Holding my hand, he waited for an answer. What could I say? After a long pause, he replied sadly, “You can’t give me your address. I understand.”

I didn’t know exactly what he understood. Yet I hesitated to ask. He carefully put my hand back on my book and stood up. His face serious, even stern, he said, “It’s better to say good-bye now. I’ll remember Minsk for a long time because of you. I wish you the best in your life. Please, remember a man from America. God bless you.” He took a few steps back then turned and walked toward the House of Government.

I didn’t move. My brain, as if paralyzed, didn’t work. My hands were still on the book. I watched the departing male figure getting smaller and smaller. When the silhouette disappeared, bitter tears rolled down my cheeks, dropping on the book. Dostoyevsky was weeping with me. I didn’t know how much time passed, but the entire hard cover of the book was completely wet. Quickly, I went to another bench under the sun and put the book down to catch the sun’s hot rays.

“What happened, Simona; did somebody hurt you?” my mother yelled in fear when I returned home.

“Nobody hurt me.”

“Why were you crying?”

I knew my eyes were puffy from weeping, and Mother saw it. I was afraid to reveal the truth.

“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.