Biographies & Memoirs

5. Lenin and Squirrels

MY THIRD-GRADE TEACHER, VERA Pavlovna, is bony and tall, a brown cardigan trailing from her shoulders, stiff as a clothes hanger. She teaches arithmetic, Soviet history, and Russian. In her class we copy exercises from the textbook into lined, skinny notebooks as she walks around the room, peering down over our heads, praising the uniform strokes of our handwriting.

Most frequently, her praise falls on Zoya Churkina, who sits in the row to my left, two desks closer to the front. Zoya is blond and perfect, her long hair arranged in two tidy braids with bows at the ends, her black apron buttoned over her smart brown dress with a white collar, always starched. “Our diamond,” Vera Pavlovna calls her as Zoya blushes, trying to suppress a smile.

She never calls me a diamond, although I finish the exercises as fast as Zoya does. The best nickname I ever receive is “our gold nugget,” which she bestows on me when I decline all the participles without a single spelling error. I resent Zoya, with her exemplary braids and her permanent diamond status. Although none of us has any idea of what a diamond or a gold nugget looks like, we are all aware of the diamond’s supremacy and thus of my second-place standing.

When the bell rings, Zoya erases the board and makes sure everyone goes into the hallway. She is the class monitor, the only one allowed to stay in at break time, the one to ensure that Dimka, the class hooligan, doesn’t instigate any fights.

Dimka is a dvoechnik, the one who gets a dvoika, or failing grade, in everything. The opposite of dvoika is pyatorka, a five, the grade Zoya and I get. “Most likely this Dimka is a plumber’s son,” says my mother, who just recently had an encounter with plumbers. After a week of daily visits to our apartment building office to complain about a water leak, my mother finally prevailed, and two plumbers were sent to fix the problem. But by the time they arrived they were so drunk that when my mother opened the door, they could only sink to the floor of the stair landing, their heads propped against the elevator shaft.

IT IS ONE DAY before November 7, the anniversary of the Great October Socialist Revolution, a topic Vera Pavlovna is passionate about in our history class. Stretching her long arm forward, like Lenin in the statues scattered around the city, she tells us how the retired World War I cruiser Aurora, which is now permanently anchored on the other side of the Neva, fired a blank shot signaling the storming of the Winter Palace.

“Workers and peasants,” she says, “ruthlessly exploited by the Tsar, climbed over the palace gate, ran up the October Staircase, and arrested the Provisional Government.” The part about the Provisional Government remains murky since she never explains how this government came to replace the Tsar, and why it, too, needed to be overthrown if it was the already de-throned Tsar who had plunged the country into the pitiful abyss requiring revolutionary intervention.

As her voice trembles describing the arrest, I try to picture a crowd of workers and peasants inside the Winter Palace, the home of the Hermitage, stomping their boots up the October Staircase with its inlaid marble floors and Italian paintings, hurtling past the throne of Peter the Great with their hammers and scythes. I cannot help thinking that, despite Vera Pavlovna’s ardor, they wouldn’t allow anything of that kind today, when simply to enter the Hermitage you must put on cloth slippers, cinch them around your ankles, and glide slowly under the gaze of a million babushkas in the corner of every room, making sure that you don’t come too close to the royal china or priceless oils.

“Tomorrow, November seventh,” she says, “all across the Soviet Union, from our glorious capital to the permafrost of the Siberian taiga, we will celebrate the anniversary of the Great October Socialist Revolution.”

“Why is it the October Revolution if we celebrate it in November?” asks Dimka the hooligan from the last row.

Vera Pavlovna stops in the middle of her story and looks at him with disbelief. The Julian-Gregorian calendar change is first-grade information, but even back then Dimka obviously wasn’t listening.

“Shame on you,” she says, pointing at him Lenin-style. “Shame on you and your ignorance.”

She pauses to let Dimka’s shame and hopelessness sink to an appropriate depth in each of us. After a minute of silence, as the train of her narration is irrevocably off track, she turns to more recent happenings.

“In two days, when we return to school after the holiday, we’re going to have a celebration of our own. A great honor will be bestowed upon you—you will all become Young Pioneers.”

Every year in the school gym, three sections of third-graders, lined up in perfect rows, take the Young Pioneer Oath and have red kerchiefs tied around their necks by the seventh-graders, who in their turn, at fourteen, rotate out of the Pioneers to join the Young Communist League. It’s as much a school ritual as the annual visit to the dental clinic, a day in the middle of March that everyone hates.

“All of you will take the oath in two days, the first step on the great road to becoming a communist,” continues Vera Pavlovna as she looks at Dimka. With a shake of her head she lets us know that, despite school policy, he is obviously undeserving of this honor.

The Code of Young Pioneers, which is posted on our classroom wall, requires good behavior and good grades of all its prospective participants, so technically Dimka is not eligible; but in reality every person in every class gets a red kerchief, and Vera Pavlovna can do nothing to stop Dimka from joining in. We all know, of course, that she would never try. She understands the necessity of diverging in practice from what’s been written on paper, of rules being something you recite and aspire to, not something you follow. It is clear to everyone that it wouldn’t look proper if some people during the ceremony remained unkerchiefed, raising all kinds of questions about their intent and allegiance.

“Look at our Pioneer hero of the past,” says Vera Pavlovna and points to the portrait of Pavlik Morozov hanging on the wall next to Pushkin. His story is in our textbooks, but Vera Pavlovna recites it again. “A son of wealthy peasants, Pavlik found out that his father was hiding sacks of wheat in his cellar—while people were starving. At night, this brave boy ran across the fields to the local Soviet and told them about the grain. The next morning the soldiers came to his house and confiscated the wheat. The local Commissariat gave Pavlik Morozov a medal.” Vera Pavlovna nods her head to punctuate the last word.

I glance at Pavlik’s solemn head looking down on us in a red Pioneer kerchief and a halo of righteous superiority, as perfect as Zoya Churkina’s.

“What happened to the father?” asks Dimka from the last row. Vera Pavlovna pauses and looks at him with a hopeless smile. Even if you don’t know what happened to Pavlik’s father, everyone knows what should have happened to him for hiding wheat from starving people.

“For this serious crime, and for breaking Stalin’s decree to give up all the harvest to the people, Citizen Morozov the elder was arrested and served ten years in the camps,” announces Vera Pavlovna.

I am not sure that ratting on your father and having him shipped to Siberia is a heroic thing to do, even if it saved someone from starvation. But I don’t say anything, and no one else does either, to contradict Vera Pavlovna in praising Pavlik Morozov’s vigilance and valor. We all know that some things are so obvious you just don’t debate them. You don’t debate what’s written in history textbooks. You pretend you think that Pavlik Morozov was a true hero deserving a medal, just as in nursery school we pretended to chew the bread with rancid butter.

But Dimka, because of his ignorance or stupidity, does not know the unwritten rules. Unlike the rest of us, he doesn’t weigh what to say before he says it. He doesn’t rehearse in his mind to make sure that what rolls out of his mouth will fit the Code of Young Pioneers. So, once in a while, he can ask an interesting question.

AT HOME, THE NIGHT before the Young Pioneer initiation, I wash my white uniform collar and my mother irons it and sews it back on. In the morning she braids my hair with two white nylon bows and stands me in front of a triple dressing mirror in our room. “What a pretty Young Pioneer,” she smiles. My father is fumbling through the armoire looking for his jacket. He left it hanging on the back of a chair, a fine place for a suit jacket, but my mother put it away and now he’ll be late for work. He tugs on a hanger, spills a tangle of cardigan sweaters, and pulls his jacket out of their midst. “Let me see the salute,” he says, the result of my mother’s orderliness crumpled by his feet.

I straighten my right hand and bring my thumb to my forehead, as our school’s Pioneer counselor has taught us.

Molodets,” says my father. “Good for you.” He is standing in front of my mother, who is knotting his tie.

“We’re all joining in,” I say, “even Dimka the dvoechnik.”

“I don’t know about that,” says my mother and shakes her head. “What kind of a reward is this for a dvoechnik?” she says, and I know she is still fuming over the two drunk plumbers who have yet to fix our water leak. She threads the tie under the collar of my father’s shirt. “What do you think, Ilya?” she asks.

“What difference does it make?” he says. “It isn’t what it used to be.” He pats himself on the pockets to make sure he has his two packs of Belomor cigarettes for the day. “We used to believe in something. You went through the war, you know,” he motions toward my mother. “For motherland, for Stalin. Remember?”

My mother loops his tie back and forth and nods.

“There’s nothing to believe in anymore. You open Pravda and everything is so much better there than it was yesterday. And yesterday was better than the day before. At this rate, everyone will be out of communal apartments by next week, driving their own cars to load up on kolbasa. You know the joke about Pravda and Izvestiya?” he asks to no one in particular. “There’s no news in Pravda and no truth in Izvestiya.”

I think it’s funny—no news in the Truth and no truth in the News—and I laugh, but my mother looks at my father with reproach because, I know, she doesn’t want to disillusion me before I even join.

“Be a good Pioneer,” says my father, taking his briefcase and opening the front door. “And don’t forget that salute.”

“Listen well to what Vera Pavlovna says,” instructs my mother as we go down in the elevator, letting me know that, although what my father said may be true, it does not apply in school.

OUR MORNING CLASSES ARE canceled. Lined up in our special uniforms, white aprons instead of black ones for girls, white shirts under gray suits for boys, we stand at attention in the gym and solemnly promise to live, study, and struggle as the great Lenin bequeathed that we must do.

We stand in rows, the three sections of our third grade, a hundred and twenty of us, with Vera Pavlovna straight as a pole, her eyes on the principal at the podium. In front of us, along the other wall of the gym, are the three sections of seventh-graders, red kerchiefs stretched on their palms. When the principal is finished with her speech—the Pioneer duties and responsibilities we all know by heart—our music teacher signals a fifth-grader with a horn to play a few notes, and the boy tries so hard to hit them right that his face turns as red as his Pioneer tie. This is the signal for the seventh-graders to move forward and bind the kerchiefs they are holding around our necks. With inadvertent pushing and bumping as each fourteen-year-old moves toward each of us, our identical rows instantly collapse into a crowd. When a seventh-grade boy approaches, freckled and red-eared, he fumbles with my kerchief, tying it so that it hangs too long on the left, but that’s not important because the kerchief is all mine now and I can set it right or untie it altogether and make a brand-new knot.

I turn my eyes sideways to look at Zoya’s white bows obediently lying on her shoulder blades, at Dimka staring into space as he, along with all of us, bends his elbow in salute. Then the school’s Pioneer counselor, who is about twenty but who looks twelve and is in charge of orchestrating the whole event, takes in a lungful of air and yells out, “Be ready!” It is a signal to recite the Young Pioneer motto that we rehearsed so many times after classes and during the big break, pretending we had red kerchiefs tied around our necks. But this is the real thing. Little flames of polyester bloom around our collars, announcing to everyone in our school that we are no longer eight years old. We all breathe in, count to three, and shout as we were taught, “Always ready!”

After the ceremony, there is another opportunity for Vera Pavlovna to tell us about heroism and valor. She stands in front of our four rows of desks, talking about the Great Patriotic War. Stalin, she says, got his name from the word stal, which means “steel,” because he was as strong as steel. “Got his name,” she says, as though names were given out at some name-dispensation fair according to people’s character.

I wonder how Lenin got his name. According to our history book Eternally Alive, he chose it in honor of the great Siberian river Lena. But Lena is also my name, and this coincidence makes me uncomfortable. Am I somehow, in an odd way, related to Lenin? Does it oblige me to be as fervent as Vera Pavlovna in believing what our third-grade history lessons teach? Does it oblige me to admire Pavlik Morozov, who chose the starving people over his father and now sneers down at me from the wall?

My shoulders sag under the weight of this historic liability.

IN MARCH OUR THIRD-GRADE class is scheduled to go to a dental clinic. Vera Pavlovna writes the date on the board, in cursive letters uniformly bent to the right, and tells us to copy it into our school journals—Wednesday, March 10.

I hate the dental visit. I wish I could expunge the date we all wrote into our journals, eradicate it from the page and from existence. I wish I could cancel all future trips, one per grade, that will loom in the third quarter of each year, dampening the anticipation of International Women’s Day, when all the boys in my class timidly produce little mandatory presents for all the girls and the last period on March 7 is dedicated entirely to the distribution of pencil sharpeners, erasers, and pocket combs.

Last March, the dentist poked and prodded inside my mouth, looking angry when she didn’t find any cavities to fill. This time, I suspect, she won’t be so disappointed. You cannot be lucky two times in a row, says my sister, who is studying acting in Moscow, and she may be right. I think of the kilograms of Squirrels—chocolate candy wrapped in blue paper with a picture of a brown squirrel holding a huge nut—that I’ve cajoled out of my mother over the past year. My mother pretends she doesn’t want to buy the candy, but I know she likes to unwrap a Squirrel with tea, so every time we walk into a grocery store we play the same game I learned in nursery school.

“Please, can I have some Squirrels, please,” I whine as she stands in line to pay for bread at the cash register. The counter with sweets is right next to the bakery counter. Behind an indifferent saleswoman, ignorant of the fact that she has unlimited access to such treasure, sit chocolate candies called Red Poppy, Polar Bear, and Kara-Kum Desert, with camels trotting across the yellow wrapping papers. Under the wrappers is a thin layer of silver foil that crinkles under my fingers when I open a piece and a dark brown side emerges in all its nut-and-chocolate glory. “Please,” I beg, “only two hundred grams.”

“Candy is bad for you,” says my mother as the cashier gives her a receipt, which she must now take to the bread saleswoman. “I let your sister eat all the candy she wanted and now look—she’s studying acting. Maybe she’d be an engineer or a pathologist like Galya if I wasn’t so soft on her.”

The idea that Squirrels lead to acting makes little sense, but this is not the time to argue with my mother. “Just a little bit,” I wheedle. “A little tiny bit for the evening tea.”

At the bakery counter she exchanges the receipt for a brick of black bread and a loaf of white bulka.

“For the tea,” I whimper. “Chut-chut—just the tiniest bit.”

She glances at the line to the cashier, which now consists only of an old babushka and a woman with a baby in her arms. With just two people, you can’t even call it a line.

“All right,” she concedes and takes out her purse, just as I knew she would. “But only chut-chut.”

ON MARCH 10, THE thirty-eight of us pile into a streetcar that takes us to Dental Clinic #34. In pairs, we file into a fluorescent-glaring waiting room with a sharp odor of something that smells like the ether they use to kill rabbits in my mother’s anatomy lab.

We are told to sit down and wait. My partner, Sveta Yurasova, and I, still holding hands, take the two end seats, away from the door with the sinister sign “Treatment Room,” away from Dimka the hooligan, who glides across the linoleum pretending he is skating.

Vera Pavlovna lifts her arm, asking for our attention, but it isn’t her gesture that makes us all quiet down. The door into the Treatment Room opens and reveals rows of drills, ominous and still silent. In the doorway stands a square woman in a white gown and a cotton hat neatly ironed into creases that make it rise on her head like a meringue pie. We are all quiet now, frozen in our last gesture before the door to the Treatment Room opened, as if we were all actors performing the final scene of Gogol’s Inspector General, the most famous silent theater scene of all time.

“Antonova,” reads the woman from a file in her hand, and our eyes all turn to Anya Antonova, a girl with a red braid down her back who gets up and obediently follows the woman into a vast room behind the door.

“Alphabetical order,” says Sveta, and she smiles an embarrassed smile because she will be the last one to be called. I know she is thinking about all the things that could happen between A and Y, hoping for a sudden power outage, or a swift lethal disease that exclusively affects dentists, or even an emergency history test that Vera Pavlovna remembers she has to administer by the end of the day.

I don’t have Sveta’s luxury of hoping and waiting. My name is at the front of the alphabet, G being the fourth letter, after A, B, and V. Yet I know that even if I had the guts to run out of here, the first militiaman on the street would drag me back, to Vera Pavlovna’s scolding. I am nine and I’ve already learned that there is no escape from this waiting room, from this annual dental punishment, from this order of life.

But the worst drawback of being at the front of the alphabetical list is that no one has yet returned to tell the story. They are all still inside, the A’s, B’s, and V’s, pressed into cotton-padded chairs, cringing away from the drills.

The door opens again and the first dentist, the woman in the meringue pie hat, is staring into another folder. “Gorokhova,” she barks, my last name only, in a voice that suddenly sounds like Aunt Polya’s. I creep across the waiting room and Vera Pavlovna, who is now standing by the door, pats me on the back.

The room is the size of our school cafeteria, with twelve dental chairs arranged in two rows, although the drills make it look less like a cafeteria and more like a factory floor. A factory for neglected teeth compromised by too many Squirrels. I see my three classmates, small inside the tall chairs, their open mouths gaping in faces twisted with fear. As I follow the meringue hat around the towering drills, I see Anya Antonova, the first one called, her hand over her cheek, climbing out of the chair now designated for me.

“Sit down,” says the dentist, and she begins to study my chart. I hope she studies it well enough to see that I had no cavities last year despite all those chocolates my mother pretends she doesn’t like. I hope she decides I am an exceptional case and lets me out of this chair with padded arms and the drill looming on my right.

She stops reading, puts down the folder, and sinks onto a stool next to the chair. She is so close I can see little black hairs over her upper lip and creases radiating from her eyes into her hair. From the table that is out of my sight she picks up something long and metal. “Open wide,” she says and starts poking inside my mouth, tugging at my teeth with a metal hook, wheezing into my face with a breath of cabbage and black bread.

Then she stops, puts down the poking instrument, and starts writing in the file. She writes and writes, and the more she writes the lower my hopes sink until they cannot sink any lower, hitting the bottom of the dental abyss. I hear someone scream through the whizzing of drills, and it begins to smell like burning wire, or maybe smoldering bone.

“Open wide,” says my meringue-hatted dentist as she packs my mouth full of chalk-tasting rolls of cotton. “And stay open.”

I shut my eyes and stay open. I hear the drill roaring to life; I taste its metal heat as it bores into one tooth, then the second one, then the third, and then I lose count. The drill seems to gouge into the center of every tooth, burning and coming too close to something soft and unprotected that I know would hurt much more than I can tolerate. I clench my fists and think of my father. I think of how strong he had to be to survive the Gulf of Finland storm. I imagine him being pummeled by the waves, struck by the oars flying in the wind. I imagine him clenching his fists around the wood and rowing as hard as he could, hard pellets of rain whipping him in the face. He withstood it all. Not even for a moment did he think of crying or moaning or showing that it hurt.

When the buzzing of the drill finally stops and I feel the soaked rolls of cotton being pulled out, I open my eyes and see Vera Pavlovna standing in front of me, smiling.

Molodets,” she says. “Five cavities and you didn’t even cry.”

I know she is being generous because I feel the hot path of two tears that rolled down my cheeks. But I know they were silent tears nobody heard, and that makes them unimportant because my dentist with the meaty hands didn’t notice them or pretended she didn’t as she drilled the teeth decayed by too many Squirrels.

The rest is easy. After the dentist mixes the ingredients on her table, she dips something cold and ether-smelling into each drilled hole. Then she scoops the mixture and packs it into each tooth, pressing hard with her metal hook. It doesn’t matter that the ether stings and makes my tongue go numb; it doesn’t matter that the scraping makes me wince. If I can withstand the drill, I can be like my father. I can withstand anything.

Back in the waiting room, I see Sveta Yurasova crouched in the corner. She is impressed by my valor, but her eyes are all pupils. I know she has realized that nothing extraordinary is going to happen between G and Y that will save her.

As I sit there waiting for everyone to be drilled and patched, I find out that five cavities wasn’t actually that bad. Dimka the hooligan, as it turns out, had twelve and is still sweating in the dentist’s chair. Zoya the diamond wailed so loudly and jerked her head so much every time she heard the drill start that the dentist screamed at her, kicked her out of the chair, and told her to come back with her mother. And Anya Antonova, the first girl to go in, has had a dose of arsenic crammed into the root of her tooth and is required to come back in three days when the nerve is dead so that the meringue-hatted dentist can perform a root canal.

My partner Sveta, the last one to go in, turns out to be the luckiest of all. She takes on my role of last year, the girl with perfect teeth, and even the meanest dentist, the one who yelled at Zoya for crying, fails to find a single cavity in her frightened mouth.

AT HOME, WHEN WE have our evening tea, I tell my father about the dental visit. He sits in his usual place at the head of the kitchen table, across from my mother, his knee drawn up to his chin, a pack of filterless Belomors next to his teacup. My father doesn’t like sweets, so he has a slice of black bread in his hand, a big piece my mother cut off the center of the loaf and slathered with a thick layer of butter. My father takes a pinch of salt with his fingers and sprinkles it all over the buttered bread.

“I hate zubniks,” I say, using a word I’ve made up, a tooth person instead of a dentist.

“Don’t call doctors names,” says my mother. “They are dentists, not zubniks.”

I like the word I’ve made up because it’s precise. Dentists are tooth people, that’s all they are, prodding around your mouth every March in desperate search of reasons to pull on the cord of a rusty drill and step on a pedal to grind it to life.

I wonder what my father thinks about zubniks. His teeth look perfect and white, undoubtedly because all his life he’s probably eaten black bread instead of Squirrels with evening tea. Maybe he can teach me something I don’t know. Maybe he can tell me a dental secret that only people with perfect teeth know, the secret that goes beyond staying away from chocolate candy.

“I want your teeth,” I say to my father. “Perfect, with no cavities.”

My mother gives him a look across the table, the look that makes my father reach for matches and shake a cigarette out of the pack.

I feel I need to take a closer look at his teeth, at the teeth that should be mine because he is my father, so I get off my stool and wiggle into his lap and tug on his lips. I pull them apart so I can see his flawless teeth, uniform and straight as in a poster for dental hygiene. In comparison, my mother’s teeth, which are full of metal fillings, should be a reminder of black bread’s superiority and a deterrent against buying more Squirrels.

But are perfect teeth worth giving up candy in favor of black bread? Is it worth suffering for years and denying myself the pleasure of Squirrels so I could end up with my father’s teeth, or is it better to succumb to guilt and a yearly dentist’s drill?

I’m proud of myself for asking these philosophical questions about guilt and pleasure, but I know that there is one big unasked question hiding behind this oratory. The question is this: are these perfect teeth real? Once or twice, when my father stayed in bed because he didn’t feel well, I saw a glass on the bathroom sink—something that was there only when he didn’t go to work—filled with cloudy water and chunks of pink, curved plastic sprouting something that looked suspiciously like teeth. Are his own teeth so full of cavities and metal that he has to cover them up with this pretend façade that needs to be kept in a glass? Is this just another instance of vranyo, like our dacha’s fake sink or my mother’s insincere disdain for Squirrels?

My father pulls away from my hands and lights a cigarette. He doesn’t want any more bread, he says, when my mother picks up a knife to cut off another slice. “You want my teeth?” he asks, lifts me from his lap, and puts me down on the floor.

My mother looks up, a frown on her face, as if she were uncertain about what she should do next.

“What did that zubnik say when she patched up your five cavities?” he asks, using my made-up word, ignoring what my mother said about not calling doctors names.

“Nothing,” I say. “She was silent and mean. She put arsenic in Anya Antonova’s root canal.”

“Did she say anything about this?” He picks up a Squirrel from the little metal vase on the table and dangles it between his fingers as if it were poison.

The Squirrel looks so enticing in its blue wrapper that I decide it isn’t worth suffering. Next March is a century away, and I have a whole zubnik-free year stretching ahead of me, a year that can be sweetened with kilograms of Polar Bears and Red Poppies and Squirrels blooming on the shelves of our grocery store.

My father can sense that I’ve decided not to care about ruining my teeth, that I’d rather live with my mother’s metallic smile than give up chocolates.

“Do you want to see what happens when you ignore your teeth?” he asks and stretches his arm to put the piece of candy he is holding back into the vase.

I don’t know if I do. I stand in the middle of our kitchen, between the cupboard with jars of our dacha jam and the stove with a pot of borsch under a warmer, not knowing if I want to face the truth. And then, as my father leans forward and drops the candy back, as the sleeve of his flannel pajamas brushes against my empty cup, I do know. I’m certain now that I don’t want to see his real, damaged teeth behind the fake perfect ones. I’d rather fool myself into thinking that his teeth are healthy and white; I’d rather pretend that my father is invincible and faultless.

“Your father had scurvy during the war,” my mother says, preempting whatever she thinks might come next, seeing from my face that I don’t want to see anything that would blemish him. “That’s why he lost his teeth, because of hunger and a lack of vitamins. It happened to a lot of people during the war.”

War and hunger are the two words we hear everywhere: in our classrooms, in our news, in the conversations of babushkas on the benches of our courtyard. They are nonspecific and worn out, something that happened not to individuals but to the entire country. Yet, it occurs to me, my father’s lost teeth happened specifically to him, to this bony man sitting in his chair under the shelf on which the radio is cheerfully dispensing Tchaikovsky’s “Dance of the Little Swans.” In a quick move, I dash toward him and dive into his lap again, wrapping my arms around his neck, burying my face in the flannel folds on his chest. He smells of the brown soap my mother uses to scrub the laundry in the bathtub against a wooden washboard with metal ribs, and of his Belomor cigarettes, and of warm skin flushed with tea.

These are comfortable smells that make me press even deeper into the flannel of his pajamas, but I know it’s dangerous to lull yourself into a sense of false safety. I’m no longer in second grade and I just had five teeth drilled. I think of war and hunger, not the hunger that happened to the country, but the one that took away my father’s teeth. The specific hunger as opposed to the abstract hunger my teacher Vera Pavlovna lectures about in our history class. I think of the hunger that made Pavlik Morozov a hero, but I also think of what happened later, the part I learned from Marina, the part Vera Pavlovna never talks about at school. Despite Pavlik’s heroic status, his own uncle—in cold disregard of all the people Pavlik had saved from starvation by denouncing his father—picked up an ax and delivered his own, personal justice to his nephew’s head. And that unsanctioned, private act left a far greater impression in my mind than all the stories about saved people and triumphant collectives crammed into our history textbook.

But aside from partitioning the individual loss that affected my father from the collective loss that affects nothing but our grades in history class, I have a more weighty question knocking in my head. Despite his perfect fishing cast and expert rowing and powerful arms, there was something even stronger that was able to harm him. Something that even my father didn’t have the power to prevent. So as I sit in his lap breathing in tobacco and soap, the question is a distraction from these cozy smells of home. If he could succumb to war and hunger, what else is lurking out there, what else is so deeply hidden and unmentionable that it makes my mother press her lips together and sigh?

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