Six Days In Leningrad

Paullina Simons

DEDICATION

For my darling Papa

EPIGRAPH

We live; not as we wish to, but as we can

— Menander

GLOSSARY OF STRANGE AND UNFAMILIAR RUSSIAN WORDS

blini: yeast dough crepe-like pancakes

Comsomols: young communists

dacha: summer house

electrichka: short-distance train

Khrushchyobi: residential tenement-style buildings built during the Khrushchev era

koshmar: nightmare

matryoshkas: nesting dolls

metro: subway

pelmeni: Russian meat dumplings

perestroika: rebuilding

Pioneers: pre-Communists

Pozhalusta: Please

Prospekt: Avenue

Shepelevo: sheh-peh-LYO-voh

Shosse: highway

solyanka: a thick meat soup

Ulitsa: street

Zakuski: hot and cold appetizers

BEFORE: THE TEXAS LIFE

Kevin and I got to our new house at 8:20 in the morning and not a moment too soon because the moving truck was already parked in front of the driveway. We had to drive on the grass to go around it. We had barely opened the garage doors when the moving guys started laying down their moving blankets and getting out their wheeling carts. The next thing we knew, they were moving stuff into the house.

Into a house, I might add, that wasn’t ready yet. The builder’s cleaning crew had just arrived. The cleaning women were in the kitchen, scrubbing. The movers started piling boxes onto the carpet that had not been vacuumed since the day it was installed. So, in other words, never.

I asked the women to please vacuum the rooms before they continued with their other tasks so that the movers could pile the boxes onto clean carpets. You would have thought I had asked them to carry heavy objects on their backs upstairs in 100-degree heat. First the diminutive ladies huffed and puffed, and then they said they spoke no Inglés. Phil, my building manager, explained to me that the women worked at their own pace and according to their own schedule. I looked at him as if he were not speaking Inglés to me and finally said, “Phil, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re moving in. Please ask them to vacuum the floor in the bedroom and the living room.”

“Problem is,” Phil said, “Most of them don’t speak any English.”

“Could you find one that does?”

My two young sons, Misha, three, and Kevie, one, zigzagged in front of the movers. I think they were trying to trip them. Misha was crying, “I don’t want to go to Burger King for breakfast, I don’t want to go to Burger King for breakfast!” Natasha, eleven, was wisely reading, perched on top of a book box, ignoring everyone and everything.

The babysitter cajoled him, but in the meantime, the one-year-old had toddled off to the pool. The dogs barked non-stop. They either wanted to be let in, be let out or be shot.

My husband ran in and said, “Please go to the garage and talk to the movers. They need one of us there at all times to tell them where things are going.”

“But I labeled all the rooms!” I protested.

“Well, they don’t know where to go,” Kevin said.

The pool guy knocked on the back porch door. “Hey, guys? Is this a bad time to show you how to use the pool equipment?”

One-year-old Kevie ran in from the pool, draped himself around his father’s leg and wouldn’t let go until dad picked him up. The babysitter pried him off with difficulty. The dogs continued to bark. Three-year-old Misha continued to scream about Burger King. Apparently, he wanted to stay right here at the new house.

Our builder walked in. “Well, good morning! We needed just a couple of more days with this house, but that’s okay, we’ll make it work! Hey, do you have a couple of minutes to go over the change orders? I have your closing contract. I need both you and Kevin to sign.”

One of the moving guys stuck his head in and said pointedly, “Mrs. Simons, could we see you in the garage, please?”

The phone rang.

How could that be? I didn’t think we’d unpacked a phone yet.

Open boxes were on the kitchen counter.

The front door bell rang. It was the guy from Home Depot. He had brought the barbecue. Where would I like it?

Another delivery truck stopped in front of the house. This one was unloading a dryer and a television.

Another truck pulled up, this one with my office desk. The two desk guys steadfastly refused to take the desk upstairs, “because we’re not insured for damage.” They asked if maybe the moving guys could move my desk upstairs.

The moving guys said they certainly weren’t insured to move the desk upstairs. So I told the desk guys that either they moved the desk upstairs or else they could take it right back to the warehouse.

They moved the desk upstairs.

“Mrs. Simons!”

In the garage, the four large moving guys stood with their arms folded and impatiently told me they were having a problem with the cleaning ladies who really needed to stay out of their way. “We cannot do our job, Mrs. Simons.” Again punctuating my marital status.

The dogs were still barking. My sons were now running around in the street as the babysitter ran after them trying to corral them into the minivan.

Pressing my fingers into my temples, I looked at my watch. It was 8:45 AM.

The phone rang again. It was my father. “Hey, Papa,” I said weakly.

“Are you excited about our trip?” he asked.

“Huh?”

“Our trip to Russia? It’s not a small thing, you know, you going back for the first time in twenty-five years. Are you thinking about it?”

“Oh, absolutely, Papa. I’m thinking about it right now.”

The Bronze Horseman

We had been planning our trip to Russia for a year. Ever since the summer of 1997 when I told my family that my fourth novel The Bronze Horseman was going to be a love story set in WWII Russia during the siege of Leningrad. I said I couldn’t write a story so detailed and sprawling, if only in my mind, without seeing Russia with my own eyes.

My family had listened to me very carefully, and my 90-year-old grandfather said, “Plina, I hope I’m not going to be turning over in my grave reading the lies you’re going to write in your book about Russia.”

“I hope not, Dedushka,” I said. “Though you’re not dead.”

Going to St. Petersburg was not an option before the summer of 1998. The logistics of the trip were too overwhelming. How would I get a non-Russian-speaking husband and three non-Russian-speaking kids, one of them barely walking, to Russia? And what would they do there? Either my husband would be watching the kids full-time in a foreign country — and not just any foreign country, but Russia! — or we would be watching them together, and I wouldn’t be doing any research.

I didn’t need to go all the way to Russia to take care of my kids. I could stay home in Texas and do it. Kevin and I considered leaving them and going just the two of us, but in the end decided that was a bad idea. Leave the kids with a babysitter for ten days? Too much; for them, for us.

Still, thoughts of Russia would not go away. Also, there was no book. Eighteen months earlier there had been a nebulous vision of two young lovers walking in deserted Leningrad on the eve of a brutal war, but a vision does not an epic story make. How could I not go to Russia?

I finally said to Kevin that it looked like I would have to go on my own. He didn’t love the idea, my going to a “place like Russia” by myself. He said I should bring my sister.

I ran the idea by my father. “Kevin thinks I should take Liza to Russia with me,” I said.

My father was quiet on the phone for what seemed like an hour, smoking and thinking, and then said, “I could come with you to Russia.”

I had not thought of that.

A girlfriend of mine said, “Oh, that’s neat! When was the last time you and your dad took a trip together?”

“Never.”

That had been nine months ago. And little by little the trip took shape. My father told me, “Paullina, I’m retiring at the end of May. We have to go before I retire.” My father is the director of Russian Services for Radio Liberty/Radio Free Europe. Working has defined and consumed him. Working is and has been his life. And with good reason. His team of writers translated western news, both political and cultural, into Russian and then broadcast it over short waves to Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union. They broadcast to Russia 24/7 with 12 hours of original programming every day. For twenty-five years. I believe that four people were responsible for bringing down the Berlin Wall and Communism during 1989-91: Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher, Pope John Paul II, and my father.

We couldn’t find a convenient time for both of us to go. Finally my father postponed his retirement a few months and we settled on July 1998. It was the perfect time to go, my father told me, because we would stand a chance of having some nice weather. Also the nights would be white. “That’s a sight to see. You do remember white nights, Plina?”

“Not much, Papa.”

What would be the shortest time I could go to Russia, and not traumatize my kids? I figured a day to travel there, a day to travel back, and then six days in St. Petersburg. But I vacillated, procrastinated, mulled.

Truth was, I didn’t want to go.

In 1973 There Were Sharks

I was born in St. Petersburg when it was still called Leningrad and came to America when I was ten. We left Leningrad one fall day and lived in Rome while we waited for our entry visa to the United States.

Those were blissful months. Every Thursday my mother gave me a few lire to go to the movies by myself and buy a bag of potato chips. That bag was worth three movies. I’d never eaten anything so delicious in Russia. The movies were all in Italian, of which I spoke exactly three phrases: bella bambina, bruta bambina and mandjare per favore. Cute baby, ugly baby, and food please. It was two more phrases than I spoke in English.

We spent my tenth birthday in Rome. My parents asked me what I wanted, and I said, gum. I got gum. Also some strawberry Italian gelato and then we went to the American movies. We saw The Man for All Seasons. I liked the gum better than the movie. I didn’t understand a word of it, but at the end, a man had his head cut off.

We came to America two days before Thanksgiving 1973. Our first big American meal was turkey and mashed potatoes and something called cranberry jelly. We celebrated in Connecticut, in the home of a young man we met briefly in Vienna and who invited us to his house for the holidays. We gave thanks for our amazing luck, for getting out of Russia, for coming to America. After all, America was every Russian’s beckoning light. America seemed like heaven. True, first you had to die, but then, you had — America! The death was leaving Russia. Because once you had left you could never go back.

America was life after death.

That Thanksgiving when everyone else at the table was done with their meal, my father walked around the table and finished all the food that the Americans had left behind on their plates. People of a certain age born in Leningrad do not leave food on their plates.

Our second American meal was the lasagna our landlady brought up to our apartment in Woodside, Queens. Don’t ask me how this is, but during our stay in Rome, Italy, I had not tasted tomato sauce once. I had not had lasagna. I had not had pizza. I did not know tomato sauce until our Italian landlady knocked on our door in Woodside.

In America there was Juicy Fruit gum, and chocolate ice cream, which I had never had, and something called Coca Cola, which I also had never had. And television. I found a children’s cartoon: Looney Tunes. I had never seen anything like it in Leningrad. In Russia, we had black and white war movies, black and white news. There was some animated programming, but it looked like war movies, though less interesting.

War movies and news. The Olympics. Which was the single most exciting thing on Soviet television, but unfortunately the Olympics came only once every four years.

Suddenly, in my life there was Looney Tunes! Bugs Bunny! Elmer Fudd. Porky Pig! Our first TV set was black and white, but the cartoons were straight out of someone else’s Technicolor dream. The bunny blew up a pig and a hunter, ran away, blew up a cave and fell off a cliff, all in eight minutes.

The war movies in Russia were set in gray tents and starred two gray men who talked non-stop until there was a battle, followed by more dialogue, all concluding in a blaze, more dialogue and eventual victory for Mother Russia. The movies lasted, it seemed to me, as long as the war itself.

In Queens, after eight minutes, the Looney Tunes bunny disappeared and was suddenly replaced by a lady selling towels made of paper. Towels made of paper? The cartoon was over, so I turned off the TV, utterly disappointed.

It took me many weeks and the force of inertia to discover that the cartoon did not end but was merely interrupted by the lady selling towels made of paper. Imagine my happiness!

I used to read in Russia, and who could blame me? What else was there to do? Now that I had Bugs Bunny, all reading vanished for a good four or five years.

In school I would occasionally be asked to talk to the other students about my experience of life in the Soviet Union. That’s how it was put: “Your experience of life in the Soviet Union.” I wanted to say even then that it wasn’t my experience of life, it actually was my life, but I didn’t. I did give my broken-English little talk: about the communal apartment, the small rooms, the cockroaches falling on my bed while I slept, about the bed bugs and the smell of decomposing skunk they made when I accidentally squished them, about the lack of food, the lack of stores, the lack of my father.

When I was asked, “How did it feel living with that kind of deprivation?” I would shrug and say, “I didn’t know it was deprivation. I thought it was just life.”

My American friends grew up with Coca Cola and Jesus Christ.

I grew up with hot black tea and the astronaut Yuri Gagarin — the first man in space.

Kevin watched I Dream of Jeannie and Star Trek.

I watched Gagarin’s funeral, and a one-hundred-and-twenty part film called Liberation — burning tents and dark winter nights — which they rebroadcast every December because Decembers near the Arctic circle just weren’t bleak enough.

I’d never seen a palm tree, I’d never seen an ocean, I’d never heard a church service, and had never read Charlotte’s Web. I read The Three Musketeers, Les Misérables and a Russian writer named Mikhail Zoschenko. By the time I was ten I had read all of Anton Chekhov and Jules Verne, but what I wanted, though I did not know it, was Nancy Drew and Laura Ingalls Wilder.

What was baseball? What was peanut butter? I didn’t know. I knew what soccer was, what mushroom barley soup was, what perch was.

And who was this Jesus Christ?

I, who had not grown up with Christmas carols, pageants, cookies, decorations and a divine baby in a cave, had no idea what Jesus had to do with Christmas. My first Christmas Eve in New York my parents went out, leaving me, I thought, alone and joyfully watching Bonanza, except to my great consternation, Michael Landon on whom I had quite the crush, was replaced on Channel 11 by nothing but a log burning on the fire and instrumental musak playing in the darkened background. My Pavlovian reaction to learning that the pre-emption of Bonanza was all about something called Christmas, was less than spiritually positive, as you can imagine.

While my husband was vacationing near Lake George, I was learning how to swim in the icy Black Sea.

Kevin knew Atlantic Ocean beaches? I knew the dirty sand on the Gulf of Finland. It was enough for me when I was a child. I spent ten summers of my life in a tiny Russian fishing village called Shepelevo near the Gulf of Finland, and it was all I needed. My childhood summers in that village is the treasure I carry with me through life.

But I didn’t want to go back there.

I lived ten years of my life in a communal apartment, nine families sharing 13 rooms, two kitchens, two bathrooms.

Didn’t want to go back there either.

My father was arrested when I was four and spent the next five years of his life — and mine — in a Soviet prison, in a Soviet labor camp, in exile.

I lived alone. With my silent mother.

Not interested in reliving any part of that.

There was no romanticizing our life in Russia. In leaving, we had all died and gone to heaven. If it weren’t for my stupid book, why on earth would I want to go back?

Molotov’s Grandson

My father got me the travel visa through Radio Liberty. The already painful Soviet visa process was further complicated by the fact that we were going to stay with my father’s best friend Anatoly at his apartment instead of in a hotel like normal, non-suspicious tourists.

“Papa, why don’t we stay in a hotel?”

“What hotel are you talking about?”

“Well, I looked in my St. Petersburg guide, and it lists two great hotels in Leningrad—”

“Don’t call it Leningrad.”

“Fine. St. Petersburg. Two great hotels: Grand Hotel Europe, and Astoria.”

“Astoria is a very nice hotel.”

“So it says. It says it’s located conveniently close to the statue The Bronze Horseman. That’s good for me. As you know that’s what I’m calling my book.”

“I want to speak to you about that. I think it’s a terrible title.”

I sighed. “Papa, it’s a very good title, and everybody likes it.”

“Who is everybody?”

“My agent, my editor. My former editor. My husband.”

“They don’t understand.”

“Fine. But hotels?”

“Yes. Hotels.”

“Astoria is nice then?”

“Yes, but Paullina, I can’t stay in Astoria. I’m retiring at the end of July. And my company won’t pay for such a hotel.”

“Grand Hotel Europe then?”

“Very nice hotel, right in the center of town, very close to Nevsky Prospekt. So convenient.” He sounded like a travel agent for Grand Kempinski, the Western hotel company that now owned Grand Hotel Europe.

“So which one is better?”

“Paullina, we can’t stay there. We have a perfectly nice apartment to stay in with Anatoly and his wife Ellie. Remember Ellie? She loved you very much when you were a child. They can’t wait to see you. They have room. You’ll be comfortable. Listen, it’s not the Grand Hotel Europe, but it’ll be fine.”

I thought about it for a few seconds. “How close are they to the center of town?”

“Listen, their apartment is not the Grand Hotel Europe, it’s not going to be fifty paces from Nevsky Prospekt. They live on the outskirts of town, the last stop on the metro. I have to stay with them. They will never forgive me if I don’t.”

Vacillating between the two hotels, my father finally admitted to me that his and my mother’s wedding reception was held on the top floor of Grand Hotel Europe. “Papa, I have to stay there then. There is no question.”

My father told me that when I was a baby, I had helped him smuggle strictly forbidden books out of Grand Hotel Europe. He had received them from an American friend visiting Russia. KGB agents checked all the bags leaving the hotel as a matter of course. They were watching my father particularly carefully because of a provocative letter he had sent to Pravda; he had to be cautious. So when he got the books from his American acquaintance, he put them under me in my carriage, wrapped the blanket around me and the books, and wheeled us out onto the street.

He smuggled out Thirteen Days that Shook the Kremlin by Imre Nagy, The Hungarian Revolution by Tibor Meray, A Bitter Harvest, the Intellectual Revolt Behind the Iron Curtain, a collection of essays and stories edited by Shelman Edmund, The New Class by Milovan Djilas, and The Communist Party of the Soviet Union by Leonard Schapiro.

Years later in 1994, a former KGB agent who used to watch my father met him at a gathering in Munich and asked him, “Yuri Lvovich, tell me, that winter night, how did you get those books out of the hotel? We were watching you so carefully.”

After my father told him how, the KGB agent shook his head and said, “We underestimated you, Yuri Lvovich.”

During our next conversation I said to him, “Papa, how about this? We stay with Anatoly and Ellie for a few days, then we pack our bags, and I will get us a suite at Grand Hotel Europe and we’ll stay there for the remainder of our trip.”

“How much is a room there? Four hundred dollars a night?”

“Five hundred.”

“Oh my.”

“Don’t worry about it. It will only be for a few nights.”

This is when we still thought our trip would be for eight days. We were going to spend four days at Anatoly’s and four days at Grand Hotel Europe.

But because I was going to be staying part of the time with friends, I couldn’t get a simple tourist visa. I needed to get a letter of invitation from a business. My father said he would take care of it. Radio Liberty/Radio Free Europe, which has bureaus in Prague, Munich, Washington, Moscow and St. Petersburg, would provide me with an invitation.

My father’s colleague in Washington personally walked my visa application over to the Russian embassy to be processed.

“The man who is walking over there, doing you a favor, processing your visa for you, treat him well, respect him,” my father told me. “He is Molotov’s grandson.”

Vyacheslav Molotov had been Stalin’s foreign minister, responsible for the war with Germany, the war with Finland and for unwittingly giving his name to the incendiary eponymous cocktails the Finns invented in his honor.

“Molotov’s grandson?” I gasped.

“Yes,” my father said, lowering his voice, “but don’t say anything to him.”

“Why?” I asked. “Doesn’t he know whose grandson he is?”

My father said it was a very complicated subject and spoke no more about it. I did think there was something Homeric about Molotov’s grandchild traipsing to the Russian embassy to get me my Russian visa so I could go to Russia to do research and then write about a time his grandfather was making history. I sent Molotov’s grandson my three books, all signed to his wife, and thanked him for helping me. I really wanted to ask him about his grandfather, but didn’t.

Grand Central Station

Grand Central Station wasn’t in New York. It was my house in Texas.

In Russia I had read a book about a place Americans called the west, and in this west were endless prairies and on these prairies rode cowboys with lassos. I didn’t know what a lasso was, but it all sure sounded exciting when I was a little girl growing up in Russia. One day, I wanted to see this prairie.

Having just moved and not yet unpacked, I was trying to get some work done before we went to Russia, but not only was my mother-in-law visiting from New York for ten days, but my builder must have had every contractor in Dallas stop by my house at least twice in the three weeks between our move and my trip.

I made a firm commitment to myself that I would finish reading one of my Russian research books before I traveled, but that was before Eric, the-screen-door-guy, came to replace the screen door — twice. The painters hadn’t finished painting before we moved in, and a quarter of the power outlets weren’t working, including one my computer was supposed to be plugged into. The faucet in the kitchen was leaking. The icemaker upstairs wasn’t making ice, while the frost-free refrigerator was making frost.

I had an event at a local bookstore and a live TV interview in Austin, Texas, four hours away. We had to go overnight.

The door latches in the house were all breaking, the garage door keypad was not opening the garage door, and the concrete driveway was getting marks in it as if it were made not of cement but dough.

The fence was not finished and the dogs kept running out onto the road.

The grass was dying, which could have had something to do with the fact that it had been over one hundred degrees in Dallas every day for the past six weeks with no rain.

I wanted the prairie and I got it.

The days were too full for me to do my regular work, much less think about going to Russia. But every once in a while, my dad would call and say, “Are you ready for our trip?”

“I am,” I’d say. “But I have to go because the Rotor Rooter guys are at the door. We have an overflow problem in one of our shower drains.”

We built our house on the edge of a prairie. We have the last lot in our development, and the community’s property ends a few hundred yards past our house. There the prairie begins — just a field that disappears into the sky. A lone tree. Some bales of hay. The sun rises in the back of our house and sets in the front. Nothing mars our view of the setting sun. Nothing. There is just the burned out field and burned out grass and dead corn, and the sun. And coyotes. And rats in the pool.

I still haven’t seen a lasso.

Slowly time inched its way to 12 July, 1998.

Fly Aeroflot!

My father told me to get a single room at a hotel and forget about a suite. “I will stay with Anatoly,” he said. “And you stay at the hotel for a few days. I will meet you there every morning and we will go about our business. Stay by yourself, getting a single room will be cheaper for you.”

It was. I booked the hotel for the six days. My father was surprised to learn I would be at the hotel the entire time. He thought I would be staying part of the time with him at Anatoly’s apartment. I was thinking of myself. How inconvenient to pack and unpack twice to stay in two places.

Besides it was only for six days.

The fare I booked was one of the cheapest. The travel agent was so happy when after an hour of looking — as I stayed on the line — she finally found something inexpensive for my exact dates.

“What airline is that ticket with?”

“Aeroflot.”

I wasn’t too sure about Aeroflot. When all the other airlines were quoting me a return fare of $1200-$1900, what was Aeroflot doing happily selling me a ticket for $530? I worried. “Is it standing room only or something?”

“No, no, it’s their regular fare. They don’t have a lot of seats left. And it’s a non-stop flight.”

Now I was excited. The other airlines were refueling in Paris, or London; here was a non-stop flight. Aeroflot did not need to refuel! I found it fantastic.

“Non-stop all the way from Dallas? Wow.”

“No, no,” the travel agent hurriedly said. “Not Dallas. JFK. New York.”

I hurriedly pointed out to the travel agent that I did not actually live in New York, I lived in Dallas, and as such would be needing a ticket from Dallas.

“Yes. I don’t have a ticket from Dallas. Well, I do, on Air France, with a three hour layover in Paris, for $1900.”

I remained silent.

“We’ll have to find you a connecting flight.”

I knew it couldn’t be that simple, and it wasn’t. My Aeroflot flight was leaving JFK, New York at 1:15 PM on Sunday, and my American Airlines Dallas flight was not arriving into New York until 11:30 AM.

Into LaGuardia.

Which would give me an hour and forty-five minutes — assuming my first flight was on time — to get my luggage, get a cab, drive across town, and check into an international flight — check-in time for which was strictly three hours before departure.

“I’ll take it,” I said to the travel agent.

I told Kevin I would bring only a garment bag and take it as carry on. How I was going to fit a week’s worth of clothes — and shoes — into one garment bag?

My father had given me suspiciously specific instructions about when he could meet me.

Of course I did it all wrong. Apparently I was arriving too early. “I told you,” he said, “don’t come before Monday, July 13th.”

“But I am coming Monday, July 13th.”

“Yes, but you’re coming in at 5:30 in the morning, and I can’t be there that early.”

“So come when you can and meet me at the hotel.”

I could tell he was frustrated. I couldn’t understand why. Maybe he wanted to meet me at the airport. “I can’t be there at five in the morning,” he repeated.

“Okay,” I said. “Come to my hotel when you arrive. You don’t have to meet me at the airport. I can take a taxi.”

Two days later he called me, “You won’t take a taxi. I will have a man meet you. Viktor. He will meet you holding up a sign with your name on it. In Russian. You know how to read your name in Russian, don’t you?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Pay him. Pay him like thirty rubles. Look, and if something happens and he’s not there, take a taxi then. There are plenty of taxis. Just negotiate the fare in advance. Because if you get in and say you’re going to Grand Hotel Europe, they’ll take all your money. Negotiate in advance. If they quote you a hundred rubles, don’t go. If they quote you fifty rubles, talk them down to thirty.”

“Okay,” I said, but I must have sounded hesitant, because my father quickly added, “But Viktor will be there. He will be there most assuredly.”

My father is nothing if not a planner. It’s a control thing, having been a manager of people for twenty five years. “I will meet you at the hotel, probably around 3:45 PM. Be ready at 3:30, though, just in case I’m early. Don’t go anywhere. Maybe go for a short walk, but better yet, sleep, have a nap for a few hours, but whatever you do, be at your room and ready at 3:30. Understood? We’ll go for dinner at Anatoly’s. They’re very excited you’re coming. Then on Tuesday we’ll go to Shepelevo.” He paused for effect. He knew how I felt about Shepelevo.

“Great,” I said. “How will we get there?”

“Viktor will drive us. We will have him and his car at our disposal for the whole trip.”

“Great,” I said, but not enthusiastically. I didn’t know this Viktor; why would I want a total stranger coming with us to Shepelevo of all places? It made no sense. I wanted to take public transportation. I said nothing.

“On Wednesday we will go to Piskarev cemetery,” Papa continued. “Friday is the funeral of the Romanovs. It’s a historic day, and I got you and me a press accreditation. It’s impossible to get in, but I got it for you. You’ll see history being made.”

“Wow.”

“I don’t know what else you want to do.”

“I want to go to the Siege of Leningrad museum.”

“Yes, that’s at Piskarev cemetery.”

Not according to my map, but who was I to argue? My father had lived in Leningrad for 35 years of his life, not including the years he spent in labor camp. He knew better than my stupid map.

My Great-Grandmother’s Grave

I talked to my grandparents, my father’s parents, the week before I left for Russia. It was my grandfather’s 91st birthday and they were happy I hadn’t forgotten.

“How could I forget your birthday, Deda?” I said. I had lived every summer in Russia with my grandparents in Shepelevo. Every 2 July we were together on his birthday.

I had not been equally close to my mother’s parents. My mother’s mother died when my mother was 16 and before I was born. I am named after her. My mother’s father was a Red Army man — not prone to easy attachments, certainly not to me. The last thing I remember about him was his coming to our communal apartment to talk my mother out of leaving for America. I was told to go in the kitchen, so the adults could talk privately in our rooms. I hung around the hallway, hoping to hear a word or two — with no luck. Suddenly the door opened, and he walked out, not even glancing at me as I stood in the hall. His hat was in his hands, his mouth tightly closed. He walked past me down the hall and out the front door. That was the last I saw of him. Possibly the first, as well. I really can’t recall.

But my father’s father was a different story. The man had lived through the First World War, the Russian Revolution, the Russian Civil War, the Stalin years, the Leningrad blockade, the Second World War, the Khrushchev years, the Brezhnev years and through fishing on the Gulf of Finland with me. When he turned 91, I remembered.

“Happy Birthday,” I said.

My grandmother picked up the second line. “Happy birthday, nothing. You and your father, are you planning to go to Shepelevo? He said you were.”

“Yes, Babushka, we are.”

“Plinka,” she said. “You are going to go and visit your great-grandmother’s grave, aren’t you?”

“Of course.”

She started to cry. “Because probably no one has been at her grave since we left Russia nineteen years ago.”

“We’ll find it. It’s marked right?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“It’s not marked?”

“I can’t remember. It was a long time ago.”

“Do you remember the gravestone?”

“No.”

“Do you remember where in the cemetery you buried her?”

“Not really. Somewhere on the right hand side, toward the back.”

“I see,” I said. “Okay. We’ll find it. How hard can it be?”

“Plinka.” She cried harder. “If you don’t find your grandmother’s grave then you’re no good and you’re not going to heaven.”

At this point my grandfather interrupted her, asking if I would be coming to New York any time between the 2nd and the 12th of July, “because there are some people in Russia I want you to go and visit. The Ivanchenkos. Do you remember them?”

“Are they dead or living?”

“Living, living. They want to see you very much.”

Interrupting him, my grandmother said, “I’m sure the grave has not been kept. I don’t know if your cousin Yulia takes care of it. Probably not. She probably doesn’t even go to Shepelevo anymore. Who knows? But do you remember the Likhobabins? They still live in Shepelevo—”

“If they’re not dead,” Deda interjected.

“Leva, stop it,” said Babushka. “Plinka, I want you to give the Likhobabins money. Give them a hundred dollars. You have a hundred dollars, don’t you? Give it to them and ask them to take care of my mother’s grave.”

“So you’re not coming to New York?” said my grandfather. “That’s a pity. I really wanted to talk to you about the Ivanchenkos. Now is really not a good time to talk. I’m having a birthday party.”

TO LENINGRAD

My travel to Russia began at 4:30 in the morning. I slithered out of bed, having gone to sleep two and a half hours earlier. We had gone to my husband’s boss’s 50th birthday bash, and because I really thought ahead, I drank seven vodka and cranberries. It could have been six or eight; not being much of a drinker, after the first two I lost my ability to perform simple math tasks.

While lack of sleep was certainly a factor in my morning paralysis, worse was the alcohol that was left over in my body from the night before. I couldn’t remember the last time I had that much to drink. I vaguely recalled my college days when, perhaps on one or two occasions, I may have had one too many. I went to sleep for twelve hours, and when I woke up in the afternoon, I was sober. Mostly.

Well, today, less than three hours after going to bed, I wake up to travel five thousand miles, and I wake up not sober.

My flight to New York-LaGuardia was leaving at 7:10 AM. We were in the car at 5:45 for the 50-minute ride to the airport.

I sat stiffly staring straight ahead — out of necessity. As Kevin drove, I asked him to please not make any right or left turns and at all costs avoid coming to complete stops. When we got the airport, I felt a bit more clear-headed. My eyes weren’t sloshing atop my brain any more.

My whole plan for catching the plane out of JFK to Leningrad depended on taking my garment bag as carry-on. My publisher had arranged for a car service to pick me up and take me across town so I wouldn’t waste time flagging a yellow cab. Even with all these precautions, it was clear I did not have enough time. When I called Aeroflot to inquire about check-in times, the woman told me in her perfect accented English that I had to be at the check-in counter three hours before departure. Since that was clearly not possible, I asked what she recommended as the minimum check-in time, explaining to her my connecting flight situation. She said, “As long as you’re there at least two hours before, you’ll be all right.”

That was good to know.

I had one hour and forty five minutes to get to JFK from LaGuardia, and only those who have battled the Van Wyck Expressway and lost understand that time was not going to be my friend.

Bottom line: my garment bag simply had to come with me.

Not according to the woman printing my boarding pass.

The first thing she said was, “That can’t come with you.”

“It has to,” I said. “I have a connecting flight in JFK at 1:15.”

I’m not sure she knew what JFK was. Certainly she didn’t care. Shaking her head, she said, “It has to be checked. See?” She flung her hand in the direction of the metal frame into which we were supposed to fit a carry-on. “It has to be that size.”

“But this isn’t a carry-on,” I pointed out. “It’s a garment bag.”

“It has to be that size,” she said dismissively, and turned away from us to fill out a gate check ticket.

“What are you talking about?” my husband said. “We’ve taken this bag with us three times and every time they’ve let us take it on the plane.”

“Uh-uh. It doesn’t work that way,” she said, and pulled the bag out of my hands.

I became suddenly endowed with the ability to see the future. I saw my future at LaGuardia, trying to find my bag, waiting for the luggage carousel, missing my plane to Russia.

The woman was clearly a graduate of an Advanced Rudeness Training seminar of the kind given in an American Airlines Rudeness night school. Suddenly a muscular young man came up to Kevin and began to assure him that everything was going to be all right because there were forty more just like him also going to St. Petersburg on my flight. Their group leader had already called Aeroflot who agreed to hold the plane for all forty until they made their way from LaGuardia to Kennedy.

This made us feel better. Consequently we did not do what we usually do when confronted with graduates at the American Airlines Advanced rudeness program, which is to display our own higher learning degrees from Angry and Defensive Rudeness schools.

Kevin and I didn’t have time for a decent good-bye. It was 7:10 AM, time for take-off. Bye, I’ll call you, I said. I don’t know when — because of the time difference. I’ll do my best, kiss the kids for me when they wake up.

I sat in seat 7A — a bulkhead seat! The first time I had one in eleven years of flying.

As I was climbing past the girl in the aisle seat, I noticed she was extremely friendly. She made lots of eye contact, said hello, was interested in the contents of my purse, in my magazines, in my Walkman, and in finding out how I was and if I was well.

She turned out to be a missionary, one of the forty traveling to St. Petersburg. She told me they were all from a mission near Dallas.

“Oh,” I said. “A Catholic mission?” Because Catholics were the only kind of missionaries I knew. It made sense that the Catholics would be headed to Russia to preach Roman Catholicism to us Russian Orthodox. The Catholics have been trying to reunite with us ever since our one Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church split in the Great Schism in 1054. Boy do we hold a grudge. We still haven’t forgiven them for what they did to the Nicene Creed way back then.

But no, these weren’t Catholic. Carrie said they were a non-denominational mission, going to preach the word of God to the Russians. Like trying to convert us. As if the Russians were heathens.

I wanted to tell Carrie that though the Communists tried to create their own brand of religion with Lenin worship and Stalin worship, they failed, but before I could speak, Carrie looked outside my window at the clouds and the sun, and said, “Isn’t this beautiful? How can anyone doubt there is a God when you see beauty like this that He made?”

I mumbled incoherently, glanced indifferently outside the window and turned on Guns n’ Roses on my Walkman screeching at me that in paradise city the grass is green and the girls are pretty. Carrie tried to talk to me. Blessedly she gave up and put on her own Walkman. She then tried to write in her diary, but I could tell she was not inspired, even by the lovely clouds. I read over her shoulder. She began, “I thank my Father for …” and stopped.

For good. She closed her notebook and went to sleep.

She snored loudly. I heard her through the din of the 747 and Guns n’ Roses’ Appetite for Destruction.

My stomach, still queasy after my vodka dinner the night before, could take no more than half a banana. When she woke up, Carrie offered me hers and her yogurt too.

We landed in LaGuardia at 11:30 a.m., right on time.

My bag wasn’t there.

First I checked at the gate, hoping that maybe it would be there, the way my children’s strollers magically appear.

I went to the baggage claim area, and met my soon-to-be driver, a polite fiftyish West Indian man, who stood with me and watched the baggage carousel go round and round and round.

And round.

And round

The missionaries’ bags came. All three hundred of them it seemed. The other passengers’ bags came. People were lifting off three, four bags at a time. But my one lousy garment bag would not come.

I lived the whole rest of my trip in those 25 minutes when I stood and waited for my bag. I was so tense, if someone blew on me, I could have snapped in two. I imagined … the bag going on a different flight, to Las Vegas, Chicago, Seattle. In the past my kids’ car seats would sometimes disappear. Other times our suitcases would not make our plane but would arrive on a later flight. It was now certain that I would miss my St. Petersburg flight. Could I go to Russia without my clothes? Could I go and buy what I needed there? All that I needed? Did Russia even have all I needed? Shoes, underwear? Jeans, make-up? But what about the ten T-shirts I bought for my father’s friends? What about my coat?

No, I’d have to miss the Aeroflot flight. My six days in St. Petersburg were now going to be five. What if the bag was irretrievably lost? Well, I knew American Airlines would apologize. They would say they were really, really sorry. All this because of one unhelpful woman. I never hated anybody more than I did her during those 25 minutes. My body twitched with anxiety.

During this time, my Minute Man driver, courtesy of the publicity department at St. Martin’s Press, was standing next to me serenely humming a happy tune. Bob Marley’s Don’t Worry, Be Happy. I wanted to put a sock in his mouth.

I was so tightly wound that when the bag finally did appear, hallelujah, I did not feel immediate relief.

Cheerfully the Minute Man grabbed my one single bag and began to wheel it. I hurried. He sauntered. We ambled across the road into the parking garage and guess what? He couldn’t find his car.

It was 12:05 p.m.; my plane was due to leave at 1:15 whether or not I was on it, and he couldn’t find his car.

He approached one black Lincoln Towncar, laughed — as if it was so funny — and said, “Wait, that’s not mine.”

Oh. Ha ha.

Aimlessly we searched for a while. He looked at another Towncar license plate. “No, that’s not mine, either.”

And then he stood. He just stood not moving, in the middle of the parking garage, looking to the left, then to the right, but basically looking as if he had absolutely no idea what to do next. Perhaps he was thinking of hailing a cab.

Lacking any ability at that moment to hide what I was feeling, I said nothing, in the fear that I would greatly offend the man and he would refuse to drive me even if he did eventually find his vehicle.

And eventually he did. He laughed again, leaning into my face, inviting me to laugh too, and said, “They all look the same!”

I smiled thinly. “Are you sure this is yours?”

He laughed harder.

We took off at 12:12 p.m., and got to Kennedy in great time. The Van Wyck did not defeat me. On 12 July 1998, I came as close as Elaine on Seinfeld had come to beating the Van Wyck Expressway.

On the way, I pictured my husband in the pool with the kids in the d100-degree weather. New York was 85 and lovely. The Van Wyck is not a particularly beautiful road — to say the least. Why did the Van Wyck look so beautiful to me then? I missed New York.

I wheeled my bag to the Aeroflot check-in line, and stood for five minutes behind 70 people. Someone yelled in Russian, “Anyone for the St. Petersburg flight?” About ten of us moved forward.

“More for the St. Petersburg flight? Flight completely full!” the man yelled with exasperation, still in Russian. What would my Kevin have done? Or 99 percent of the American population who don’t actually speak a word of Russian? My husband can say two things: “Koshmar!” (“Nightmare!”) and “Bozhe Moi!” (“My God!), both phrases aptly describing the situation of waiting in the wrong line for a flight that was leaving in a half-hour and was completely full. I looked for the missionaries, but they were nowhere to be found. Had they made it to Kennedy before me? They certainly got their hundreds of bags before I got my lousy one.

In any case, I was shepherded “over there,” and waited for an Asian woman to take care of me. She spoke no Russian, which at first seemed a blessing, but a small one, for she spoke no English either.

Her computer broke down in front of my eyes, and she looked as helpless as the Minute Man driver searching for his black Lincoln. She spent five minutes threading tape or paper into the computer, another five looking longingly at the screen. “Is there a problem?” I finally said.

“Yes,” she said. “The computer broke.”

“Of course it did.” I wanted to know what that had to do with my business, but I feared, everything. “I still don’t have a seat assignment.”

“Yes, yes. I will take care of it.” She looked around. “I have to go and use another computer to check you in. Wait here.”

I waited. She fiddled with someone else’s computer. A man came over and glanced at her computer, shook his head and walked away, yelling, “Pasha!”

Everyone at the Aeroflot check-in was named Pasha or Seriozha or Tatiana, and no one seemed to speak English or if they knew, they were not letting on.

I stood tapping my fingers insistently on the counter, waiting for the Filipino woman to take care of me.

Thirty minutes passed, and then when she came back, I timidly inquired if I could have a window seat.

“A window seat?” she said, looking as if she were about to laugh. “There are no window seats left. This is a completely full flight. I can give you aisle.”

Wondering about the availability of window seats twenty minutes earlier — before the computer broke — I kept my mouth shut and got 24D.

I ran to my gate, but though it was 1:15 p.m. and time for departure, we hadn’t even started boarding yet. Bless Aeroflot. I had a bit of time, so I called Kevin, who didn’t answer: probably still in the pool. I bought two more magazines, because the five I had in my bag just weren’t enough. It was now 1:20. I didn’t see the missionaries. Had they not checked in yet? I found that hard to believe, what with my slow-arriving bag, and playing hide and seek with the towncar, and computer problems.

I walked around aimlessly, looking for someone to ask what was going on. A vague line formed near the gate. I would have liked to ask the Aeroflot woman behind the counter, but she was busy snapping in Russian at someone over the phone.

As I was walking past the crowd of people, I overheard a young woman and young man conversing in English. Coming up to them, I asked, in English, “Excuse me, do you know when they’re going to start boarding?” The girl and guy looked at me vacantly. The guy said, “Mhy ne govorim po Angliyski.” (“We don’t speak English”) I stared back just as vacantly, trying to recall some words of the conversation I had just heard. I could’ve sworn they had been talking English. Now of course, I couldn’t remember a single word. It felt as if I was inside an abstract expressionist Jackson Pollock painting. I nodded, said, “I see,” and edged away to stand near the rudely Russian-speaking Aeroflot employee.

Before I had a chance to ask anyone else, we started boarding. It was now 1:30 p.m.

When I got on the plane, you’d think I’d be grateful to sit but no — I was thinking ahead to the next 8 hours and 39 minutes in seat 24D, which was not only an aisle seat, but an aisle aisle seat. Three seats on one window, three seats on the other and four seats in the aisle. I was the fourth seat in the aisle. I couldn’t be more exposed. Also the cold air was blowing on me. I reached up and screwed closed the vent opening. The air continued to blow. I screwed closed every one of the four vent openings. Still blowing. I pressed the orange help button. A polite thirtyish man came up to me. “Pozhalusta,” I said. “Please, could you close the vents? It’s cold.”

Nodding, he reached up and touched something. It was better for a moment. Until he walked away. Then it started blowing again.

An announcement over the PA system in Russian informed us that the missionaries were delaying the flight indefinitely as they continued to check in. As an afterthought the announcement was repeated in broken English.

I had plenty of time to sit and think as we waited for the first sign of the missionaries.

It seemed like everything had been a mad dash for the proverbial door — women and children overboard. There were no long goodbyes with the children the night before, not even time to feed them McDonald’s for dinner. Kevin fed them while I got ready for his boss’s party and packed for Russia at the same time.

My youngest boy Kevie had watched me get ready, bringing me batteries he took from my purse, saying, “Here you go, Mommy.” Later Misha got out of his crib when he woke from his nap, opened his bedroom door and left the room. He came downstairs, took my hand and said, “Come, Mama. Kevie wants you.” You could say Kevie wanted me. He was crying hysterically in the dark room.

I felt unsettled, overwhelmed.

I didn’t want Misha to get out of his crib and his room because I was left unable to finish whatever I was doing. Packing, blow-drying my hair, getting ready. “You know, Misha,” my husband said, “you have to stay in your crib till we get you.”

Misha replied with a roll of the eyes, “You keep saying, Dad, that I have to stay in my crib, but I had to get out, I didn’t want to stay there anymore.” Big, exasperated 3-year-old sigh.

When it was time for us to leave, Kevie was too busy playing with Little People to look up. I wore a gold lamé dress with matching necklace and earrings. The kids barely stirred. Natasha, grunted something like, “Have fun in Russia, Mom.”

I almost — no, I absolutely couldn’t believe that so much had happened in such a short time. How could we be in our new house already?

My oldest friend Kathie sent me an impromptu letter, full of her life and her kids, signed “I love you.” I was too crazed by my life to send her a birthday card. I wasn’t spending enough time with my own children. I had no time for anything but the new house.

Kevin went to work outside of the house. He published children’s books about a dog who reads. I worked inside the house. Which meant my work stopped when the painters came. When the security men came, the pool guys, the lawn mower guys, the appliance guys, the plumbers, the electricians, it was me, each and every day, calling them, arranging times, talking to the building manager, answering their questions, babysitting their time in my house. And carrying the baby. That’s what I did, and when I was in my office for the briefest of minutes, I remained filled with the house and filled with the kids. I was filled with my life. I was not filled enough with World War II, with Leningrad under siege. Half a million people froze to death and died of hunger in Leningrad during the winter of 1941, and I was sitting in my office that was 80 degrees, and so I called the air-conditioning guy to make an appointment for him to come and fix the air conditioning because it was not cold enough in my office. Outside it was 105 and had been a 105 for 45 days. Leningrad, 1941: snow, death, no electricity, no running water, no food. Texas, 1998: my children shrieking in the swimming pool and the pool filter running 24 hours straight for weeks and continuing to do so for the rest of the summer.

125 grams of bread a day for children during the siege; bread cut with glue and cardboard. I calculated how much 125 grams was. About 4 ounces. Maybe 3.8.

“Misha,” I asked, “Would you like a baked potato with butter and cheese and bacon bits?”

“No,” he replied. “I don’t want anything. Just Tootsie Rolls.”

I built my office upstairs so I could have a lovely view, but I had to close my ivory blinds so I wouldn’t see the view, so it wouldn’t distract me, so I wouldn’t see my children being happy and the dogs running around and leaping into the pool. I might as well have been sitting in the rented house we had been living in, sitting in the small, hot attic room over the garage, looking out onto the driveway and the road and the neighbor’s house. Another minus — the Texas sunshine, all well and good, was actually blanching my computer screen. I couldn’t write if I couldn’t see.

My grandfather used to pour a bit of paraffin oil onto a plate, put a piece of wick in the middle and light the wick. When the oil ran out, it would be dark. All day, all night. He allowed himself only a tablespoon of paraffin oil every 24 hours. That was winter in 1941, no electricity and sundown all day — the flip side of the sublime white nights my father had asked me about.

My refrigerator was still not making ice, and the hot water dispenser still not dispensing hot water. When would the plumber come and fix that so I could be more comfortable in my home office, where I would write about three million people starving to death?

My grandfather and great-grandmother had to burn furniture for firewood in their portable ceramic stove that could have cooked some food had there been food to cook.

Sitting waiting, I wondered what the chances were I’d be fed pelmeni on the plane. Pelmeni is my favorite Russian food — meat dumplings in chicken broth. I also like mushroom barley soup, Russian potato salad, and caviar. Thinking of all this food, I realized I was STARVING.

What did a 3.8 ounce ration of bread look like?

I was anxiously excited about returning to Leningrad.

My mother, who had recently moved to Maui, said to me when she called as I was packing, “You know it upsets me when you don’t call me. I know you’re busy, I know you have children. But Paullina, you can have many many children, but you only have one mother.”

Who could argue with that logic? I wanted to say, Mama, I’m sorry but what about my latches? They’re too tight, and the doors don’t open properly. How can I call you when I have to take care of the latches?

My mother said, “Your father doesn’t like the title of your new book, The Bronze Horseman. He says it’s like calling a book Romeo and Juliet.”

“No, it isn’t. No one in America’s heard of Pushkin’s poem, The Bronze Horseman.”

“Well, I don’t think you should call your book Romeo and Juliet.”

I paused. “Okay, Mama, Um, I won’t.”

My mother told me she was jealous of my father’s and my going to Leningrad together. Without her. With a heavy sigh, she added, “Under different circumstances, I would have liked to come with you.”

I had no response to that except a, “Yeah, that would’ve been great.”

Back in 1991 my father, mother and sister drove down to Sanibel Island in Florida. I wasn’t allowed to go on that vacation with my family. My father said, “Paullina, I would love for you to come, but you and your mother, you know you just keep going at each other.”

When they had come back, I asked my sister how the vacation went. Liza rolled her eyes and said, “You wouldn’t believe it, they had the hugest fight about forgetting the sunglasses by the time we got to the bridge.”

I laughed, thinking it was pretty funny that by the time they got to the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, about an hour and a half drive from our house, with another two days of driving to go, they had already had a big fight.

“They had a fight on the Verrazano over dumb sunglasses?”

“What Verrazano?” Liza said. “They had a fight at the bridge crossing over the Long Island Expressway!”

Not a bridge, an overpass — a mile from our house.

They had to turn back to get the sunglasses.

So when my mother said to me she wished she could come with us to Russia too, I kept my mouth shut.

We were still on the ground an hour after scheduled departure. I could have walked from LaGuardia to Kennedy.

The missionaries had not materialized inside the main cabin yet.

In 1996 my parents bought a condo in Maui, and my mother suddenly moved there by herself in 1997. Which is why she couldn’t come with my father and me to St. Petersburg — because she moved to Maui by herself last November. Had she remained in Prague with my father, she would come with us to Russia.

God looks after us in ways we cannot fathom.

My father, who had been working at Radio Liberty in New York since the moment we set foot on American soil in 1973, planned to join her in Maui as soon as he retired in three weeks. He worked for RFE/RL’s New York bureau until Communism fell. The following year, in 1992, he was promoted to director of Russian Services for the entire multi-city operation and relocated to Munich and then Prague. My mother adjusted dismally to Europe, missing her life in America and becoming and staying blackly depressed. She was so lonely while he spent all his minutes working. The carrot dangling in front of her was his impending retirement when they would be able to spend all their time together.

You know what they say about why God answers your prayers.

In 1996 they went to Maui on a fact-finding holiday. They’d never been, so they went to see if they liked it, if it really was paradise on earth like the Internet said.

They came back two weeks later, agreeing wholeheartedly with the Net, tanned, and sudden owners of a plush new condo.

No one in the family could understand why they’d done it. My father’s elderly parents were still alive, my 19-year-old sister, Liza, was attending art school in New York, there was me and my three children. Yet with this move to Hawaii they would be permanently six thousand miles away from all of us, literally halfway around the globe. Any further away and they’d be closer.

Yes, but the weather was apparently always in the eighties in Maui. All great things worth having required great sacrifices worth giving. Who said there wasn’t a price to be paid for glorious weather?

When my mother and I spoke as I was trying to stuff eight changes of clothes into one garment bag, she said to me, “I don’t like Hawaii anymore.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I have made a terrible mistake. It’s all my fault.”

“But Mama,” I said. “It’s Hawaii. Paradise on earth. The Internet said so. You know, if you can’t be happy in paradise, you can’t be happy anywhere.” All her life, my mother had been looking for paradise every place she lived.

“That’s the problem,” she said. “It’s sunny all the time. It’s very depressing to have sun all the time. You want a rainy day once in a while.”

“I see.”

“Hawaii is a nice place to go and visit for two weeks, but not to live. I’ve made a terrible mistake,” she repeated. “And it’s my fault.”

She told me that on top of the great weather there was also the issue of red dust and wind, which were inexorably tied together. At noon every day, the winds began. They whipped up red dust from the earth and blew it all around Maui, into all the open windows, onto the tables and the sofas and the shelves and the chairs. My mother had to dust daily, because otherwise the red dust became an eighth of an inch thick, then a quarter, then a half, in less than a week.

Trying to find a solution, I said, “Why don’t you close the windows?”

“Close the windows? But it’s so hot.”

I was afraid to ask. “Don’t you have central air?”

“Central air? What central air? There is no central air. We have one air conditioner in the bedroom, but it’s small.”

My father didn’t know about the red dust. My mother was afraid to tell him.

“Didn’t you see the red dust when you went to visit for two weeks?” I asked.

“No. Who sees? We stayed in a hotel. The cleaning people dusted everything. It’s only now that I have to do it myself that it’s unbearable. I can’t wait until your father retires. Then we can suffer the dust together.”

The missionaries started filtering through — it was about time. There had been six announcements all in Russian, apologizing for the delay.

The same muscular blond guy who had talked to my husband in Dallas walked by me shouting something to one of his friends, saw me and said, beaming, “See, I told you, you’d make the plane no problem.”

The plane taxied off at 2:30 p.m.

My head throbbed, my left eye throbbed, even six Advils later.

Aeroflot tried hard but they were hardly British Airways. Where was the back-of-the-chair TV screen? Where was the beautifully presented four-color brochure with a painting of a beach or a sunset, and inside a typed-up menu? Grilled salmon, exquisitely prepared with Hollandaise sauce and sautéed onions, served with new potatoes and string beans.

On Aeroflot they took a more informal approach. The man in blue and gray wheeled his trolley to my seat and barked in Russian, “Shto?” which means, “What?”

I looked at him inquiringly, but before I could ask, he said, “Fish or turkey.”

“What kind of fish?” I asked, also in Russian.

The man shrugged.

“I’ll take the fish,” I said.

The server came around with the drink tray, she said, “Shto?”

“Please could I have some tomato juice and some water?”

She nodded — and poured me tomato juice and some water. Both were room temperature. Ice was not offered. I smiled. It was as if we were already in Russia. They had started assimilating me in transit so it wouldn’t be too much of a shock when I landed. They’ll give you ice if you ask, but it seems they have to go in the back and chip it off the air conditioning unit, which by the way, seemed to be running at full power. No matter how I wrapped the blanket around my shoulders, I could not get warm.

When I had said tomato juice and water, I fully expected to be denied both. No. I was given both; that was a pleasant surprise. Like I was saying, Aeroflot tried hard to be western.

So what if the plastic glasses were filled only half way? I downed their contents and after eating the “fish” became thirsty. The fish was cod, I think. With rice and carrots. Served with plastic utensils of the cheap picnic set quality. I pressed too hard into a pea and one of the tines broke off. I ate the fish, I ate the Caesar salad with vinaigrette — no, vinegar — dressing, I ate the ham, pepper and potato salad in thick mayonnaise, I ate the small carrot cake, and then I started on the bread roll. I ate like I fully expected blockade-level conditions in Russia for the next six days. As if further preparing me, the roll was ice cold (oh, so something is ice cold!) and decidedly unfresh. I ate half of it with unsalted butter. Russians don’t eat salted butter; they consider that a travesty of the churning process, and they start breaking the Americans of the salted butter habit right on the plane.

When I eat on planes I always wonder what my husband would be able to eat. He hates mayo, salad dressing, vinegar and doesn’t like fish. He would have to eat the whole stale roll and leave the butter off because he doesn’t like butter either.

Does this roll of stale bread weigh more or less than 125 grams?

Thirsty, I stopped the stewardess in a garish red uniform walking by and asked in my politest Russian, “Could I get some more water, please?”

“No,” she barked. “Not now. Maybe later.” She walked away.

Later, she did come back to bring me half a cup of tepid water, which I drank gratefully and thanked God for having it.

I drank two cups of black tea with sugar. To Aeroflot’s credit, the sugar was not doled out in tiny western one-teaspoon increments, as it is on domestic flights and even on British Airways international flights, but in thick communist packets of a heaped tablespoon. Much better.

After dinner, I slept when I could shut out the bickering married couple sitting across from me. It was very hard to sleep because the husband and wife were immensely entertaining. They made up for lack of TV screens. Thoroughly Russian and in their sixties, they sat as far away from each other as was possible without actually sitting in different rows. The wife could not stop commenting on her husband’s every move. “Vova, why are you putting your hands there? This isn’t your magazine. Don’t touch it. They’re bringing our food soon.”

Slowly the man would pull out the flight magazine anyway.

“Why are you looking at that, Vova? What is so interesting about it?”

“Do you want to get a new suitcase?” Vova asked in his gruffly appeasing voice. His face was lined with resignation.

“Get a new suitcase? Vova, put the magazine down. I’ve had enough of your nonsense. And don’t drag the blanket on the floor.”

When the food came, Vova had the bad luck of dropping something his wife urgently needed. Both food trays were lowered, so it was impossible for him to bend down and retrieve it. All during their meal, she talked about nothing else. I missed what it was that he dropped, and I think the husband did too, because he continued to eat and said nothing in response the entire dinner.

After dinner, he wanted to have a smoke. Being Russian, he assumed where he was, was the smoking aisle.

“You can’t smoke in here, idiot,” she said to him. “Didn’t you hear the captain?”

So the man got up from his seat and, standing in the aisle, lit up.

“Idiot! What are you doing? They told you not to smoke here!”

The yielding husband shrugged and said in his quietest voice, “I just wanted to light up.”

“Idiot! What are you doing?”

He extinguished his cigarette and sat back down. She wanted him to pass her the blanket, but apparently he wasn’t moving fast enough. “Can you just give it to me? Can’t you see I’m cold? I’m getting a headache from the cold. Just pass it already.”

Kevin had suggested that on such a long flight maybe I could write a few beginning pages of The Bronze Horseman, perhaps the first chapter. Yeah, right. When I woke up, I read Good Housekeeping, Redbook, McCalls, InStyle, Reader’s Digest, People, and half of Shape before I got bored and finally picked up one of my research books, 900 Days, an account of the Siege of Leningrad.

What surprised me was how little the people around me read.

They read nothing. They sat staring catatonically into space, into the chair in front of them, or at me. The Russian woman entertained herself by yelling at her husband. The girl next to me just sat. I offered her my In Style magazine, which I thought would be perfect for her, because no reading was involved, just looking at the faces and houses of beautiful people.

“Yes,” she said, without much enthusiasm.

She leafed through it politely and gave it back to me. “Thank you.” Opening her journal, she took her pen out, placed the pen on the paper and did not write a word for five minutes. Then she closed her eyes. I looked at her blank piece of paper. So I wasn’t the only one with writer’s block, I thought.

For the entire flight, a very heavy girl in tight shorts across the aisle stared at me and my magazines and the food I ate, and the blanket that I had over my shoulders. I tried not to look at her. Apparently she didn’t need to read when she had me for entertainment. Motionless, I peered at her through my nearly closed eyelids. Still staring.

The first time I asked the steward to turn down the vents, he did so with a smile. The second time, he did so without a smile. The third time he did so, he did so with a grunt and a sigh, much like my ten-year-old daughter does when confronted with polite requests.

It was still blowing Arctic-like air down on me.

I drifted off with 900 Days opened, thinking that I would like to finish it in 900 days. I just might fail in that task.

I recalled what I could of Russia.

I was afraid to see it. I knew I was, too. Shouldn’t some things remain a memory? I thought so. Memory is so kind. I had no regrets. I left too young to have regrets. I had not left love behind, or friendship. We left family behind, but many were now with us in America. My father saw to that. Because of his extraordinary effort in getting himself, my mother and me out, four other families were delivered into Florida and Maine and North Carolina and New York: my grandparents, my father’s brother and his family, my father’s oldest friend and his family, and the oldest friend’s son and his family. He gave them all an American life.

But we still knew many in Russia who could not come, or would not.

I don’t want to go, but I know I need to see it with my own eyes. My grown eyes. It’s like gawking at an old boyfriend: how is he? You hope he is well, but not better than you. I wanted Russia to be well.

To see Shepelevo again was going to be worth the whole trip.

So much of my Bronze Horseman story was still a vapor to me. I hoped being with my father would not crush my muse, for when the muse comes, your heart has to be open to receive it. Maybe I would have some time alone to think, to write. We weren’t planning to spend every minute of every day together, were we?

When we first came to America, I knew little about it, except that there were sharks and they ate people. That I learned in school.

The Americans killed their presidents, and the sharks ate the Americans.

When my father had told me that we were going to be leaving Russia and going to America, the first question I asked him was, “Will the sharks eat us?”

“No,” he said. “They won’t.”

The second question I asked him was, “Do you think we will ever come back?”

He looked at me for a long time before he answered. “Never,” he said with sadness. We were walking down Nevsky Prospekt and as always he held my hand.

“Maybe when there are no more communists?”

He shook his head. “Not in my lifetime,” he replied. “Not in yours either.”

Yet, here we both were, proving him wrong. My father isn’t wrong about many things.

It was true, when we were leaving in 1973, that the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics seemed an all powerful monolith designed only to perpetuate the power of the Communist Party, fourteen million members strong, and to subjugate the rest of us. We could choose to become Communists if we wanted to. We could become Pioneers in third grade, then we could become Comsomols or young Communists in tenth, and afterward we could get a party card. A party card meant you could get into all the best stores.

Since the rest of us couldn’t get crap in any stores at all, party membership seemed pretty appealing.

Yet, even then, knowing nothing, the day I spat at a statue of Lenin when I was 8, I knew I would not make a very good communist.

After Mikhail Gorbachev came to power, and perestroika became the mantra of the land, the rules were relaxed a little.

My mother made an unprecedented trip to Russia in 1987 to visit her dying father. The fact that my mother went back all by herself astounded everyone in the family. My father had been afraid to go with her. He must have thought perestroika or no, the communists would throw him back to the labor camp and not be as kind this time.

So she went by herself, and then the Berlin Wall came down two years later. After the wall fell, my father, for all his protestations, made a trip to Russia. Then my father’s friend Anatoly visited us on Long Island, and then my Uncle Misha from Moscow came, and finally in 1994, my mother and father went to Russia together for the 50-year celebration at my father’s alma mater. My father was invited as an honored guest, a man who had left Russia and made a great success of himself.

I am not saying that all these events transpired because of something my mother did in 1987, but I can’t rule it out.

If there is one question I am always asked after I say that I was born in Russia, it is, “Have you been back?”

During Communist rule, my answer was always a puzzled, “Of course not.”

But after 1991, the simple “No,” became infinitely more complicated. There were children involved to be sure, and a sense of danger, of unstable economic and political times, of — as always — logistical issues, but most of all, it was the question of me: why would I go back? What was in it for me? What would it profit me to go back? What was the point?

I was happier thinking I would never go back.

There was a certain romanticism in being that kind of outcast. A refugee for life. Woman leaves as a young child, childhood memories intact and having already shaped her development, and then she carries Russia with her in her soul, but never again sees the place where she was born and grew up. Such melodrama!

That was one of the reasons I was reluctant to go back. To me going back felt like capitulation. Like I wasn’t going to appear as delightfully melancholy.

But now it was for a greater good. It was for my book. Finally a book about Russia, and about a time and place during WWII few people talk about or know about.

I had to see the Leningrad streets. I had to see where my two lovers walked, where they fell in love and said their goodbyes, and where my soldier fought against a mortal enemy, and against the Nazis, too. I had to see the streets where people starved to death by the thousands.

I had to see the city where I was born.

Clearly I am not comfortable with it. My first three books are all close to my heart, but not thatclose. I liked to bare my Russian soul, so long as I didn’t have to bare it about Russia.

Also. I really had no interest in getting in touch with my sensitive Russian side. During my adolescence, what I would not have given to be less Russian, less foreign, less un-cool. I wanted a pair of new jeans, I wanted American hair, which meant hair not cut at home by my mother. I wanted coats that were not knit by my mother. What humiliation, no matter how well-meant.

I wanted to be able to speak the language of the hip kids in school, I wanted to be able to say “Hi,” in English without sounding like a dork.

As I grew, I carried with me the feeling of wanting to be an American wherever I went.

I went to England. I was twenty.

The English, smiling their sly, sardonic British smiles at me would ask, “So … wher’ you from?”

“New York,” I’d say.

Those smiles again. “Really? We never would have guessed.”

They thought they were being so clever in mocking me. “What have Americans ever given us?” they’d say. “Except McDonald’s and herpes?”

I thought I couldn’t have been luckier. To the British I wasn’t Russian, I was American. It took five years of my living in London for me to become an American. In England, I was not from Russia anymore. I was from NooYawk.

But despite my best efforts, I knew I was only an American on the surface. I knew that I could make a really good show of it, get a nice American haircut, buy nice American shoes, and a pair of Levi’s. I could drive a Chrysler minivan, and even learn a word like equivocate and use it in a sentence.

Regardless of what the English thought, my soul was painfully Russian. It was Russian music that brought tears to my eyes, and Russian food that made me fullest, and Russian language that made me feel as if I were home.

Having turned myself inside out to become what I was not, inside I still craved pumpernickel bread with sunflower oil and fried potatoes with onions.

For twenty five years, I tried to put away the child part that was Russia, but now I was being called home.

Where was breakfast? I was starving.

Breakfast was served to me on the plane at eight in the evening U.S. time. I was fed roast beef that was not considered by Russians to be a perishable food, so it was room temperature. It was served with another 125 grams of roll, and a slice of pale tomato.

We were told by the captain in Russian first and then reluctantly in English that the temperature in St. Petersburg was 18 degrees Celsius. We were landing. It was raining.

THE FIRST DAY, MONDAY

Before we landed, the missionary leader went around and told his people that they had to chronicle the trip in their diaries. “What has the trip been like from God’s perspective?” he asked. I really wanted to know what the girl sitting next to me, who couldn’t muster any interest in my brainless magazines, thought about God’s perspective, but I couldn’t read her handwriting. When we landed at Pulkovo, all the missionaries clapped.

I wanted to see out my window what St. Petersburg looked like at six in the morning in the rain, but all I saw was wet buildings and tarmac. And uncut grass.

Inside the terminal, I expeditiously got in line for passport control. The two women behind me clucked away in Russian. I made a mental note to stop being surprised at hearing Russian all around me. It was the rule now, not the exception. The two women were talking about the missionaries. One of them said, “Yeah, I wish them well, but I think they’re going to have a hard time over here.”

I don’t know why the Russian woman thought the missionaries would have a hard time over here. Unless it was because they didn’t speak a word of Russian.

Now that time was no longer of the utmost essence, my garment bag rolled down instantly. I had to fill out a customs form on which I wrote that I was bringing in six hundred American dollars and not much else. Oh, and a camera.

No one checked my bag. When I was waiting in the customs line, the control officer suddenly got up and walked away. I stood dumbly for about five minutes, and then concluded he was not coming back any time soon, so I went on another line. It was a good call, for he had permanently disappeared.

The international arrivals area was jammed with people who did not move out of my way to let me pass. I came to an impasse with one man, who glared at me, at my bag, and then finally stepped half a hostile foot back. I may have run over his foot with my bag as I wheeled by.

I saw a sign in Russian that said, . I went over to that sign. It was held by a skeletally thin man of indeterminate age with big lips and blue eyes. He was Viktor Smirnoff, our driver for the week.

When we came to his car, we found it trapped between two other vehicles with no way out. There were no lanes marked out within the parking lot and no parking stalls either, so the cars were parked wherever and driven wherever. The parking lot at Pulkovo International Airport was very small, half the size of the one at the Appleton, Wisconsin, a tiny local airport where I’d gone a year earlier for a book event.

In any case we were stuck and Viktor had no plan.

After some minutes of sitting in the car, silently staring at the terminal building as if for guidance, a car mercifully pulled out in front of us and we started to drive out. Immediately another car approached to take up the space. Viktor and the other driver sat and looked at each other. Viktor motioned in the direction of … I don’t know. Possibly the exit, though it was hard to tell where the exit was. After Viktor motioned, the other man motioned also. Viktor nodded. The other driver rolled his eyes, but reversed his car a few feet, just enough to let us pass.

All I wanted to do was look at the countryside. Pulkovo is twenty kilometers south of St. Petersburg. The Germans bombed Leningrad from Pulkovo Heights for the duration of the war — before the airport had been built. I expected to see the foliage of northern Maine in the trees and the leaves and the fields. But I didn’t recognize Maine in the countryside near Pulkovo. It looked flat and slightly swampy, a bit like Holland. With the tall overgrown grasses, my first impression was of something rural and unkempt. I didn’t see the skyscraper pines of Maine, nor the sugar maples of New England, nor the white cedar-shingled farmhouses.

It had stopped raining. The sun was peeking out.

In Viktor’s little white Volkswagen, we drove to St. Petersburg on the Pulkovo Shossé or highway. The traffic signs looked a lot like those coming out of Gatwick in London, except in another language.

Also — are the roads near London much smoother or is that just my imagination?

On a map, Leningrad looks like a glob of cotton candy surrounded on two sides by water — Gulf of Finland to the west, Lake Ladoga to the east. The city was built in the narrow neck of a wide isthmus, on the banks of the mouth of the River Neva.

To the north is Karelia and farther north and northwest is Finland. The Finns and Russians have fought bitterly over the Karelian Isthmus for three hundred years, ever since Peter the Great built Leningrad in the swampy mud and then wanted to put some distance between his window-to-the-west city and the Finns. The Karelian Isthmus exchanged hands a number of times, the last time during the Second World War. Today, nearly all of it belongs to the Russians. The Finns had sided with Hitler, and so to the victor went the spoils.

Lake Ladoga is the largest lake in Europe. The Neva is formed in this lake and flows 73 kilometers to empty into the Gulf of Finland just outside city limits. In fact, the Gulf is the city’s limits. South is where the rest of Russia lies, and it was south where the Nazi Panzer tanks stood in a semi-circle at the bottom of Leningrad for three years from 1941–44. The German-Russian southern front looked like a smile on the face of death. The Germans knew they didn’t have to encircle the entire city. Finland, a German ally, stood ready to fight the Red Army north in Karelia, and to the east and west there was water. The Nazis only had to worry about the south. It looked so foolproof that Leningrad would starve and surrender, in that order, that Hitler booked the Astoria Hotel in Leningrad for a victory celebration. The invitations had been printed, with the exact time of the party. Only the date had been left blank.

Hitler never set foot in Astoria.

He was too busy keeping his men from frozen collapse during the invasion of Moscow in October, 1941. Afterward a celebration was not possible because Leningrad would not surrender. Moscow would not surrender, Stalingrad would not surrender.

After Hitler lost the Battle of Moscow, the Battle of Stalingrad, and the Battle of Leningrad, it was just a matter of time.

Time and 20 million Soviet dead.

As we neared the city limits, the shossé turned into a prospekt, which is an avenue or a boulevard. I finally saw something familiar — a wide road with four-story buildings flanking it.

The buildings were in pretty bad shape. Their façades were finished in stucco in a pastel palette: blues, greens, yellows, grays. The paint looked to be pre-war, not that I would know what pre-war paint looked like. I don’t remember old paint from when I lived in Russia.

The buildings looked as if they haven’t been painted in decades. A little fresh paint would do wonders, I decided. Then I saw rotting window frames and chipped and unhinged doors. I wanted to look away, but there was nowhere to look.

In the movie White Nights with Mikhail Baryshnikov, Leningrad looked so beautiful and pristine. Had the film been made in a different city? I hear my father’s voice in my head from years ago. “Of course it wasn’t filmed in Leningrad. Who would allow them to come inside to make a movie about Baryshnikov of all people? It was filmed in Helsinki. That’s why it looks so beautiful.”

There were very few trees. Moscovsky Prospekt had a concrete stoop for a divider between two wide, broken roads.

There were no trees growing on the divider. It wasn’t Boston.

Moscovsky Prospekt, also called Prospekt of Victory, runs in a straight line from the south straight into the heart of Leningrad, as if it’s a stick in the center of cotton candy.

St. Petersburg’s public transportation consists of four options: the tram, the trolleybus, the bus, and the taxi.

Trams, or mini-trains, run on rails in the middle of the widest avenues, like the Moskovsky. Next to taxis, trams are the least common of all the public transport, but they do run to the outskirts of town and they go to all the major boroughs.

Imagine the trolleycar in San Francisco. The trolleybus looks nothing like that. This is a bus with rails.

The rails of the trams are set in concrete that is in varying degrees of disrepair, from badly cracked to ravine-like. The rails are uniformly rusted. Oxidation has removed a good part of the rails; it’s a wonder electricity still surges through them.

As I look at it, I feel sad. The holes in the asphalt around the rails don’t seem like an anomaly. The roads don’t look as if they’re in need of just minor repair.

There is something else too. The streets are empty of people. Where is everyone? I look at my watch.

10:45.

My mind is blank. 10:45 what? At night? In the morning? Had I already changed my watch to Russia time? My attention was temporarily diverted from the streets of Leningrad as I tried to subtract nine hours from 10:45, then add nine hours to 10:45. Five minutes of this and I gave up and asked Viktor. He told me it was 7:45 on Monday morning.

I know Monday morning in New York City — buzzing, teeming with chaotic, purposeful life.

Here nothing looked open and no one was out.

Well, why should they be? Nothing was open.

But wasn’t there work to go to?

There were a few stores. I was amused by the large-scale signs, SONY, or SANSUI, or NOKIA, some translated into Russian, some bilingual, some left in the Latin alphabet. There were stores selling cellular phones and consumer electronics and small appliances.

“Viktor, these stores weren’t here before when I lived here, were they?” I asked.

“Of course not. There was nothing then. It’s much better now.”

I nodded, and then my head nearly went through the roof of the car as we dived into a pot hole.

The Name Leningrad

My father told me after I e-mailed him with a possible title for this book, Thinking About Leningrad, “Paullina, please, don’t ever call it Leningrad. Call it St. Petersburg.”

So I tried.

In my defense I will say that The Bronze Horseman is set during WWII and in those days St. Petersburg was Leningrad.

My Aeroflot tickets stated that I was arriving at LED. When I asked the helpful airline personnel what LED stood for, she looked at me askance and brusquely said, “Leningrad.” As if, duh.

Russians have been waiting 80 years to call their city St. Petersburg again. The affectionate name all Leningraders have for the city is Peter.

When Communism fell, four million citizens voted by referendum and overwhelming majority to rename Leningrad St. Petersburg. Yet everyone you actually speak to still calls the city Leningrad.

We drove past Moscow Station — one of the five major railroad stations in St. Petersburg — and a very famous building in its own right. The Moscow Station had not been painted — since the war? Since which war?

It has probably never been painted.

The Moscow Railroad station is a large imposing blue building with white window frames, apparently in every detail a sister twin of the Leningrad Railroad Station in Moscow. As you come out of the station and look across the big city square you see another large imposing blue building, and on top, in Rushmorian-proportion letters that light up at night, stand the words: HERO-CITY — LENINGRAD.

Viktor told me the sign was there to greet travelers arriving from the rest of Russia by train. Hero-city — Leningrad.

Rename that, I thought. Change that.

Those three words scream in the night, all lit up by the halos of the angels — we starved and we fought and we died, but we did not surrender.

I felt better that I could not easily call Leningrad St. Petersburg.

The letters in the sign are facing every which way. The letters are 20 feet tall and they look as if they’re about to fall over.

We are still on the outskirts of town, I told myself. They haven’t gotten around to repairing it yet. Viktor, as if reading my mind, says, “Everything is kept up much better in the center of town.”

Then we got to the center of town. The road we needed to be on had been cordoned off. The road under repair looked every bit as rough and full of holes as the roads we’d been just driving on.

“They’re repairing it, see?” Viktor smiled. “They do little by little. They’re starting at the center and working their way out.”

I nodded politely.

“It’s much better than before,” he said, as if on the defensive.

My father was right about my hotel, the Grand Hotel Europe on Mikhailovskaya Ulitsa. It couldn’t be in a better location, standing on the corner of Nevsky Prospekt, the Rodeo Drive of St. Petersburg. In 1991, the hotel had been extensively renovated inside and out and was now run by Kempinski, the oldest luxury hotelier in the world. The side of the hotel that faced Nevsky Prospekt was freshly painted yellow stucco with white window trim. The side that faced Mikhailovskaya was freshly painted brown stucco, with ornate stucco window detail. The hotel looked inside and out as if it belonged on the streets of Paris.

Dutifully I offered Viktor money just as my father had instructed, but he refused, saying we would take care of it later. We agreed, as per my father’s directive, to meet at 3:30 that afternoon.

The desk clerk spoke to me in courteously accented English as he took my passport and visa, promising to return them to me in a few hours. I asked him why he needed my passport and visa. He told me, by way of explanation, “You’re going to be exchanging currency.” As if nothing more was required.

“Yes, that’s true,” I said.

He smiled, self-satisfied.

“But I’m not going to be exchanging currency now.”

“Yes, but later,” he explained.

Ah, yes, later. Okay. He took my passport and my visa, and I went to my room.

“Will there be more bags, madam?” said the bellman.

“No,” I replied. “Just the one.”

It was Monday morning, 12 July 1998, 8:30 a.m. Russian time, or Sunday night, 11:30 p.m. Dallas time. Aside from the three hours of unsober sleep and one hour of tense and uncomfortable sleep on the Aeroflot flight, I hadn’t slept in any time zone since 8 o’clock Saturday morning. How many hours was that? Thirty-six? I then and there made myself a rule to stop counting after 30 hours of wake-time.

My room had a large entranceway, and the main room was taller than it was wide. It had 20 foot ceilings, a crystal chandelier, and gilded ceiling trim. The two twin beds (!) had down pillows, down mattress pads and down quilts. I was afraid to sit on the bed for fear that I would fall asleep in a sitting position. I didn’t come to St. Petersburg to sleep. I was going to unpack and take a walk.

After I called Kevin, I looked out my window, which had a built-in thick ledge of about 18 inches. How thick are these walls, I marveled, comparing them with the two-by-fours that had framed my house in Texas. It had looked like a house made of sticks before the sheetrock and the stucco went up.

I had a view of the Italian Gardens, right across from the Russian Museum.

The road crew was repairing the street underneath my windows. What they were repairing didn’t look so much like a pot hole as a crater. The crew was two men, both wearing white dress shirts. The men were taking a smoking break, and then they picked up their jackhammers and got back to work, making the crater even larger. I wondered if they were building an underground bomb shelter. All was quiet on a St. Petersburg Monday morning, aside from the two JACKHAMMERS right below me on the street. As a soundtrack to sitting on a ledge looking out onto the tall leafy oaks of the Italian Gardens, this did not work. I was about to close the window when the noise suddenly stopped. The work men were taking another smoking break.

As I was closing the window, I noticed a sign on the latch that said, “To keep the insects out of the room, kindly keep windows closed.”

What insects? I thought.

The room was the nicest I’d ever been in. The bathroom not only had a separate shower and a bath but was the size of a bedroom.

My first experience with the Soviet toilet was a pleasant one in my hotel room. The toilet was a magnificent feat of ingeniously simple technology. It didn’t look quite as nice as the toilet at the Boardwalk Villas at Walt Disney World, but then what does?

I unpacked slowly. I wasn’t sure what to do with my bounty of alone time. Should I go for a walk? Should I, without a map, just on childhood intuition, find Fifth Soviet, the street where I had lived for the first ten years of my life?

I decided to have breakfast. I was feeling hungry, and my eyes were getting that sandpaper glassy feeling of being up too long. I walked down one flight of stairs to the health club that advertised a number of different services: massage, acupuncture, sauna, weight room, small pool, pedicures, facials. I was interested in a blow-dry and a massage. So I scheduled a massage from ten to eleven and a blow-dry at eleven. My hair is at best unruly, and if my father’s friend and his entire family were turning out to see me for my first return to Russia in 25 years, I intended to have my hair conquered by a professional.

I rushed to have breakfast. Opening the doors of the stairwell, I thought I had walked outside, yet it wasn’t chilly. When I looked up I saw a glass ceiling a hundred feet up that gave me the illusion of being outside, without any of the disadvantages of, say, rain or wind. The patrons of the hotel could sit and sip their tea and have their finger sandwiches and read their newspaper, as if they were on a warm Rue de Paris, surrounded by fresh flowers, all the while untouched by Arctic weather.

It was the famous glass mezzanine of Grand Hotel Europe, a partial floor between two stories.

At the end of the mezzanine were two restaurants — the Caviar Bar, and the opulent European. The Caviar Bar was open for breakfast, but the European was offering a breakfast buffet which included red caviar and blini — yeast-raised pancakes.

I love blini and caviar. I took two. They were costing me 24 u. That’s 12 units per blini, which were fat and small, like silver dollar pancakes, instead of more crepe-like, as blini are supposed to be.

Everything in the Grand Hotel Europe was in units. Not rubles, not dollars, but units. I asked the hostess about it, and she cheerfully told me that units were indeed dollars. “So nothing is in rubles?”

Smiling courteously she shook her head. “Not in this hotel,” she replied. “Outside yes. But the dollar is a more stable currency at the moment.”

After wolfing down my blini with caviar and some sautéed mushrooms with potatoes, I bolted to the health club. It was a few minutes after ten and I didn’t want to be late. Svetlana, the girl behind the counter, gave me a towel and a robe and told me I could use the sauna while I waited.

“Waited?” I said. “Waited for what?”

“For the masseuse, of course.”

“Oh,” I said. “I won’t be waiting long, right?”

“No, no.”

In an American health club, you come in for your appointment a few minutes late, and the masseuse is already waiting for you, towel in hand, tapping her foot on the floor.

I sat disrobed for ten minutes in an empty locker room. I was about to fall asleep, so I stood up and came back out to the reception area. “Will it be long?”

“No, no, not long,” Svetlana assured me.

I went to look at the pool. It was an oversized Jacuzzi. There was no one else but me at the club. Not even the masseuse.

After another ten minutes, I began to feel like I did waiting for the missionaries on Aeroflot while the captain made his vague apologies in Russian.

The difference: I was impatient and cranky, tired of waiting and of being awake. And of being half-naked for no good reason.

“Svetlana,” I said. “Listen, if there is a problem, maybe I can come back later.”

“There is no problem.”

“I’ve been waiting twenty minutes, and I need a full hour, but I have a hair appointment that you made for me in forty minutes. I don’t want to wait anymore. So how about if we reschedule, okay?” But it wasn’t a question. I had already turned around to go get dressed.

Just as I was coming back out to the reception area, the masseuse ran in panting, “I’m sorry. That traffic. They’re fixing the roads.”

“Yes, they certainly are,” I said.

I was relieved that he was late and that I was already dressed, because the masseuse was a man, and I’d never had a massage by a man before. I sold this Russia trip to my husband under the auspices of research and sentiment and desperately needed wisdom. I knew that the aforementioned husband would not be especially keen to learn that five thousand miles away from home, his wife lay half naked while being rubbed down by a panting Russian man.

I had my hair blow-dried instead. It took an hour, almost like a massage — a very long hour — during which I nearly fell asleep in an upright position.

The stylist looked all of twelve. I was surprised to see what a good job she did straightening my hair.

Back at reception, I asked Svetlana how much the blowdry was and was told two hundred and twenty.

I churned this for thirty seconds. “Two hundred and twenty UNITS?”

“Yes,” Svetlana replied, then a quick no when she saw my face. “Rubles,” she said. “Rubles.”

And that was it. Rubles. As if the rest was up to me. How much was two hundred and twenty rubles? I didn’t even know how many rubles made a dollar. I could not exchange dollars for rubles in the United States, since the Russian government did not and still does not allow their rubles to be exported.

I pretended to think about all this for another minute as Svetlana and the masseuse stared at me.

Helpfully, Svetlana said, “About six rubles to a dollar.” I conjured up a thoughtful face, to create the impression I was trying to work out the conversion in my head. Truth was, I was falling asleep as I stood leaning against the counter. I didn’t think Svetlana would understand. Finally, to end my suffering, she said, “About thirty five dollars.”

After paying I went back to my room, just for a second, I said to myself. It was noon, and outside looked like a lovely day. I had three and a half hours to myself before I had to meet my father, and I couldn’t wait to go out for a meander.

I looked at my down-covered twin bed. I had chosen the one closest to the window, while the other one had already become a storage surface. It was covered with information packets, a map of Leningrad, the room service menu, listing of the restaurants in the hotel, the hotel’s alphabetical list of services, my three purses and a pocket Olympus camera.

But my twin bed had a down quilt on it and down pillows and a down mattress pad. The room was full of daylight. It was noon, my first day in Russia. I went to the window. The two smoking road warriors in white shirts must have run out of cigarettes because the street was empty and quiet.

I sat down on the bed. Then I lay down on the bed, just for a sec, I told myself, and careful, don’t mess up your hair.

When I opened my eyes and looked at my wristwatch, it said 3:15.

I jumped up. My father was going to be here in fifteen minutes!

I tried to dress thoughtfully. I didn’t want to be too dressy. I was about to meet and have dinner with my father’s oldest friends, Anatoly and Ellie, and their daughter Alla, who was once upon a time my best friend. Two years older than me, she now had a husband, and two children — by Russian standards a tremendous amount of children. I wore a white denim skirt, a brown pullover v-neck shirt, and low-heeled strappy sandals.

Precisely at three-thirty the phone rang. It was my father. “I’m waiting downstairs,” he said.

I hadn’t seen my father since our trip to New York the previous summer. He nodded in my direction, almost smiled even, and I gave him a hug, on a Leningrad street outside the doors of the Grand Hotel Europe. Were these the same doors he wheeled my baby carriage through when he was smuggling books given to him by his American acquaintance? It had been winter then, colder and darker than it was now. The sunlight was very bright now.

My father looks exactly like me. If I were a man, 27 years older, a few pounds heavier, smoked and drank lots of beer, I would be my father. I get my curly hair from him and my Russian features. He is medium height and always dresses extra nicely. Like today, he was wearing jeans with suspenders and a button down shirt. He is always freshly shaved and smells clean. As his cousin Tania told me — with whom he spent years as a child in hunger and evacuation — she, who knew my father very well, for they had been very close growing up: “Your Papa when he was an adolescent was always trying to find himself, to reinvent himself. He didn’t know if he wanted to be Gerard Philippe or Clark Gable, but knew he wanted to be someone great and important. And as ever — humor oozed out of his every pore.”

Papa studied me silently. He said he didn’t recognize me. “What did you do to your hair? Why are you always trying to be something you’re not? And you’re not really dressed for the weather, are you? Where is your coat?”

“It’s so warm,” I said.

He shook his head.

As we got to Viktor’s car, my father said, “Get in the back, it’s easier for you in the backseat. I will sit in the front.”

After we started driving, I casually asked where the street Fifth Soviet was so I could walk there another day. I felt such regret for sleeping. I could sleep any time. But to walk to Fifth Soviet by myself, on my first day in Russia, how often could I do that, for the first time in twenty-five years?

Now, never.

Papa asked Viktor to please drive us to Fifth Soviet so we could see for ourselves. “Just for two minutes, Viktor, all right, because we have to go to Anatoly’s. They’re all expecting us. They are very excited to see you again, Paullina.”

The road was bumpy and in the backseat, I felt even more thrown-about. It felt like the Cyclone, a wooden roller coaster in Coney Island, without the attendant screams, or the salt of the ocean, or the smell of the sausage-and-pepper heroes, or the sight of the shiftless men, standing on the corner waiting for something to do. Okay, maybe the last part. I saw a man in a dress shirt standing on a corner, smoking a cigarette. He looked as if he had nowhere to go. He could have been one half of the road crew working on the bomb shelter under my hotel. Or he could’ve been homeless. It was impossible to tell the difference. I watched him until the traffic light changed, and we lumbered away.

I saw very little of Leningrad out of the small back window. But the back of my father’s head, his cigarette, and the traffic lights out in front I could see perfectly.

I began. “Papa,” I said, “tell me again why you couldn’t meet me any earlier than Monday?”

“I don’t know what you mean,”

“Papa! You’ve been telling me I couldn’t book my arrival any earlier than today, and in fact even today was too early. Why was that again?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he repeated doggedly, taking a long drag of his cigarette.

“I see,” I said. “So tell me … how was the World Cup Final yesterday?”

Pause. “Fine,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason. Did you enjoy watching it?”

“Yes, very much. Zinedine Zidane was a marvel. I invited some people over. France has never won the Cup before yesterday. It was a momentous occasion. If you knew anything about anything, you would have been glued to your television.”

“So why didn’t you tell me this is what you were doing?”

Viktor was smiling at this point, but my father kept a straight face. He sort of flung his head back in my direction, to pretend to look at me. “What?” he said. “I have to report to you all the time?”

“No, no, of course, not,” I said. “Here we are going to Russia, and I thought you were delayed and limited by work …”

“What do you care what I’m delayed and limited by? I told you no earlier than Monday, but you of course don’t listen.”

“I just wanted to know how your World Cup Final was, that’s all.”

What I wanted to see was the Russia where I used to live. I wanted to see it with grown-up eyes and compare it to my childhood memories: the pavement, the turn of the road, the flashing light, the sidewalk, which was the color of slate, and wide, slightly warped, with a shallow curb. I remembered the sidewalk because I was short and very close to it as we strolled around Leningrad when I had been a child.

On the corner across the street I saw a red brick four-story building partially covered by a tall iron fence and large leafy trees. My father said, “See there? That was the hospital we took you to after you swallowed a whole bottle of aspirin. You were two. We took you right there. And do you know what you did as soon as we brought you back home? I come into the room and you are standing on our bed, and your mouth is filled with more aspirin. You must have hidden the bottle somewhere, and as soon as we got home you retrieved it.

“Oh, and here? See these cobblestones? This is where I dropped you on your head out of your carriage. Do you remember that?”

“Oddly, no.”

“Oh, how you cried. Then we brought you to the same clinic you went to for the aspirin overdose. And you were so scared as the doctors took you, that you stretched out your arms to me and cried, ‘Papochka, come, let me carry you.’ Instead of the other way around.” He laughed fondly.

He told this story as we waited for the light to change at Ligovsky Prospekt. Right in front of us was a large concert hall.

My father said it was the October Concert Hall. No, I said, it was the Grechesky Concert Hall. He said he couldn’t believe I was arguing with him. “What do you know?” he asked. “I know everything. It’s October Hall.” Viktor didn’t help any by agreeing with my father. I said I knew it was Grechesky Hall, because I used to play on the building’s steps as a child.

“You might have played there, but you didn’t know what it was called,” said my father.

I let it go; I wasn’t in the mood to argue. Seeing the big, blocky, beige, ugly square building in front of me, I was flooded with … childhood. When I was five, I performed in that concert hall with my kindergarten class. I held a big square block in my arms, a block bigger than me, and I danced. My mother was in the audience. My father was in prison.

On the weekends, when my mother would be cleaning or cooking, she would send me out to Grechesky Concert Hall to play. Sometimes there would be other kids playing, but sometimes there was no one at all. After all, it wasn’t a playground, just steps.

I would cross Grechesky Prospekt by myself, hoping other kids would be there.

There was one girl I really liked. I can’t remember her name or how I knew her, but she was a few years older than me, and she would always let me play with her and her older friends.

One day she must have noticed I was cold. Was I shivering? Was I blue? “Are you cold?” she asked. I nodded. And she said, “Oh, my baby!” She knelt in front of me and hugged me to her, and rubbed my back to warm me up, and I remember being stunned to be hugged for a prolonged period, to be comforted.

I never forgot that girl, and every time we played thereafter, I would say I was cold, or hungry, or that something hurt because I wanted her to hug me again.

When I was a child, Grechesky Prospekt seemed extremely wide to me. A tram ran through it. Now as an adult, I saw that the street was really quite narrow. With the sun setting down the length of it, it looked almost rural.

There were hardly any people on the street. Then as now.

Across from the Concert Hall, on the corner of Grechesky and Fifth Soviet, I saw a four-story olive green stucco building. “That’s it, right?” I said to my father.

“What? Yes, that’s our building. Listen, when I came to St. Petersburg last time, I walked by here and the building was closed off. They were doing renovation or repairs. I don’t know. It could be anything now. Condos. Business. Anything. You won’t be able to go inside. I wasn’t.”

We crossed Grechesky and pulled up. We sat quietly for a few seconds. Viktor did not turn off the car, or even put it into park. I could see fragments of the green stucco in my limited viewing range from the back seat window. “This is our building,” my father said. “Do you remember it?”

What a funny question. It was one of the few things I remembered whole. But he knew that. He was asking to be dramatic. For a rhetorical flourish.

All right, maybe not entirely whole. I was surprised to discover it was green. But the location of the building, I remembered spot on. Even the address. House no. 3, apartment 4.

I didn’t remember it looking so old, or the decorative and intricate stucco trim work being all chipped. The glossy crème front door looked loose and hung unevenly on the hinges. The double doors didn’t close properly against each other. One hard push and they might fall right off.

“I thought you said they were renovating it?” I asked.

“Yeah, I don’t know. That’s what they told me.”

I sat in the backseat, staring at the double entrance doors. I was remembering what it was like walking through them and going up three flights of stairs.

“Well, we’ve seen it,” my father said. “Ready to go?”

I didn’t answer.

“Or …” It seemed almost difficult for him. “Or do you want to get out?”

“I want to get out,” I said instantly.

Papa looked at Viktor almost apologetically. “Okay, Viktor? Just for a second.”

“But of course,” unflappable Viktor said. He turned the car off.

We got out, and my father looked up. “There were our windows. Over there on the third floor, on the left, see them?”

I looked up. I felt weak.

It was at that precise moment, and not a second before, that I began to feel helplessly adrift in a Kvas of strong sentiment. Not when we were driving through the marshland, nor through the Hero-City square, or through Nevsky Prospekt, or even the concert hall where I played, but here, looking up at the windows of the rooms where I used to live, did it suddenly occur to me that I may have gotten in over my head. I had come mostly on an intellectual exercise and out of undeniable curiosity, but the memories of the life we used to live, memories deliberately untouched by me for so many years, unrelived and unrelieved, might turn out to be too much for me.

I was frozen, still looking up. I had remembered those windows as large and majestic. But they were small and old, with cracked frames.

I didn’t know what to say.

“Papa,” I said, “didn’t you one November try to walk on the ledge from one window to the other?”

“Yes,” he said, with a sheepish titter. “We were celebrating. I had a little too much to drink. I can’t believe you remember that.”

I walked under the windows and stood there staring. This was not how I wanted to see the house where I grew up, with Viktor, standing by us not understanding — and who’d want to explain it to him anyway? And what to explain when I didn’t understand it myself, why seeing two old windows would fill my insides with such unexpected anguish.

I didn’t want to see them this way, not with Papa, standing by me smoking, in a hurry to get going. I wanted to find the windows myself. To walk up to my building, to stand and linger at the concert hall, to cross Grechesky Prospekt as a grown woman, remembering crossing it as a little girl, who tried to find some friends to play with while my mother cooked dinner.

I wanted to have a reaction that didn’t include my father looking at me for a reaction.

I hoped my face was blank.

I stared at the windows and my father stared at me.

“Okay?” he said. “Ready to go?”

“Absolutely,” I replied, getting into the car.

As we drove down Fifth Soviet, my father showed me a little park at the end of the street where he used to walk me in the stroller when I was a baby.

“I don’t remember that park,” I said.

“You were a baby.”

Briefly I caught sight of the avenue flanking the other side of Fifth Soviet, Suvorovsky Prospekt. Seeing Leningrad this way, from the back of a car, was surreal, as we whizzed away and crossed the Neva. It was as if I were looking at Leningrad though the myopic viewfinder of a stranger’s camera.

We were driving through a part of town I’d never been to. That was better. It wasn’t hitting close to home.

If I thought there were few people in the center of town, then here, the city was practically deserted: just a western ghost town. It was more deserted than the western side of Topeka, Kansas, after the city opened up a new shopping mall on the east side, near Lake Vaquero.

I focused on looking out of the window onto the treeless street, as I filled up inside from the bottom up with a swell of a quiet wave.

To avoid thinking, actually to avoid feeling, I asked Viktor when the sun set in Leningrad these days.

“Oh,” said Viktor. “Now it sets, I guess, around nine in the evening.”

“Nine?” I was mildly surprised to hear that, because we came to Leningrad on 13 July — the day after the World Cup Final — so we could see the white nights.

In Texas in the summer the sun set around nine, and there certainly weren’t any white nights in Texas.

“There are no more white nights,” Viktor said firmly. “No. It’s quite dark by about ten.”

Disappointment felt better than what I had been feeling.

The southeastern part of town we were driving through looked shabby to me. Away from the city center, the buildings, not regulated by zoning ordinances, were built larger. I didn’t understand these tall nine-story buildings, all broken apart, with balconies filled with hanging clothes and wood and debris. Nothing had been painted. The windows were rotted out.

“When were these apartments built?” I asked carefully. I didn’t want to offend anyone. Viktor could live in one of these.

“Some in the sixties, some in the seventies,” he replied.

I couldn’t help but say the wrong thing. “The nineteen sixties?”

“Of course,” Viktor said from the front of the car, as my father smoked and said nothing.

Finally my father spoke. “You remember your Babushka and Dedushka’s apartment building?”

“Of course.”

“It was exactly like one of these buildings,” said my father.

I didn’t believe it. Their apartment on Polustrovsky seemed so luxurious to me, the dank staircase with the drunk fainted man lying on the landing notwithstanding.

“That’s not true,” I said.

“Exactly,” my father repeated quietly, “like one of these buildings.”

Viktor showed us an outdoor market, telling us it was a hotbed of drug activity. It looked like a rural supermarket with some stands. It looked harmless and Russian. Apparently selling illegal drugs in outdoor supermarkets was now a Russian thing to do.

Anatoly and Ellie lived near the market on a street called Ulitsa Dybenko, lined with the once-white tenement slum dormitory halls with unswept sidewalks and unmowed grasses and sloppy trees. Unswept, unpainted, run down.

What St. Petersburg needed, I decided was a community association like the one we had in Stonebridge Ranch, Texas. The association oversaw how high our grass could grow and the size and color of our play fort in the back yard.

Didn’t I just get a third letter from the association warning me of severe penalties and loss of privileges if we didn’t immediately plant shrubs in front of our air conditioning units? That’s just what St. Petersburg needed. Foliage police. First, though, they would need to get some air conditioning units.

Anatoly

It took us a few minutes to find where Anatoly and Ellie lived. Their group of buildings looked inauspiciously the same as all the others we had just passed. My father had trouble locating the right one.

“What street is this?” Papa asked Viktor. “Is this still Dybenko?”

“I think so,” Viktor replied. “The tram is running through it, see?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Maybe there is a street sign?” I offered helpfully.

“No,” Papa barked. “There are no street signs.”

We drove around amidst the buildings.

“Papa, have you been here before?”

“Of course I have, but look, the buildings all look the same.”

“What number is it?”

“Thirty-eight, but that won’t help. There are no numbers posted on the buildings.”

“Oh.”

“Look!” My father exclaimed. “I think that’s Ellie on the balcony, waiting for us.” We pulled up to the building, got out of the car, and my father waved. The woman on the balcony didn’t move. “No, it’s not her,” my father said, shoulders slumping. “But I’m pretty sure this is the building. Yes, I’m almost positive.”

We let Viktor go until later that evening and walked up to the front door.

“Do you know what apartment number it is?” I asked him.

“Yes,” he said. He sounded unsure. The door looked as if it hermetically sealed the building from the outside. There was no handle, no lock, no hinges, just a metal bar running down the length of it. It almost didn’t look like a door, but a metal part of the wall. “Number nineteen,” he said.

My father seemed to know what to do, to my surprise. There were no names next to apartment numbers, no little black square buttons you pressed to ring the bell. There were no apartment numbers. No intercom. Instead there was a contraption like a giant combination lock. Papa turned three dials, one to 0, one to 1 and one to 9 and pressed a button.

In a few seconds, there was a buzz and the door sort of popped open an inch or so. Papa put his hands inside the metal re-bar and pulled it open the rest of the way.

We walked into a tiny, dark, low-ceilinged entrance hall that smelled of old urine. Not that new urine would have been much better. My father had two heavy bags he brought with him. I carried one while he carried the other. The stairs were narrow, the landing even narrower.

To carry the bag up the narrowest stairs I had to hold it in front of me. There was no room for me and the bag side by side.

Why do we have to walk up seven steps to get to the elevator? I thought. Haven’t the Russians heard of the 1991 Persons with Disabilities Act?

When we got to the elevator, I had to hold my breath not to smell eau de urine.

As we waited in the gloomy hall, to make polite conversation, I asked, “So … Babushka’s and Dedushka’s building was like this?” Trying (poorly) to hide my rank skepticism.

“Almost,” my father said. “Theirs didn’t have an elevator.”

The elevator door opened; my father hopped in, and the door promptly started to shut before I even got near it. I shoved the bag in the door, which continued to close unmindful of me or the bag. For the next fifteen seconds the door and I engaged in a fierce battle of wills while my father stood and watched with the helpless yet detached expression of a television viewer.

Finally, I won.

I got into the elevator, out of breath, and I asked my father what seemed to me a reasonable question to ask in an elevator. I asked, “What floor?”

At first I thought he hadn’t heard me. I was about to repeat myself when he said, chuckling, “I really don’t know.”

“Have you been here before?”

“Many times. But I can’t remember the floor.”

The number of the apartment was 19. What floor would that be? Using logic and inferential deductive reasoning, what would we in America do?

“Is the first floor?”

“No, definitely not.”

“Is it the nineteenth floor?”

“The building has only nine stories.”

“Is it the ninth floor?”

“No, they’re not on the last floor. I’m sure of that.”

We stood and waited. The elevator door remained calmly open, as if, in fact, it had no intention of ever closing again.

My father pressed floor 8. “Maybe it’s eight,” he said. “Though I don’t think they’re up so high.”

The elevator creaked up to eight, and before the doors had a chance to open completely, they began to close again. I squeezed myself out first between the vise-like grip of the doors and then pried them to remain half-open so my dad and his bag could get out too.

We stood on the small landing with three apartment doors, none of which was open. “This is not the floor,” Papa said, and then stood near the stairs and yelled, “Ellie? Ellie!”

A woman’s voice from below yelled back, “Yura!”

“Ellie! Where are you?”

“I’m coming down!” Ellie yelled.

We heard footsteps somewhere below us, heading down the stairs.

“No, don’t come down, we’re up! Up on the eighth floor.”

The footsteps stopped. There was a silence. “What are you doing up there?” a woman’s quizzical voice asked.

“I forgot what floor you’re on! What floor are you on?”

Ellie laughed. “We’re on fifth.”

“Fifth,” I said. “Of course.”

“We’re coming down,” yelled Papa.

We were coming down when the elevator decided we were coming down and not a moment before. It took several minutes.

On the fifth floor, Ellie was standing on the landing waiting for us. I hadn’t seen her in twenty-five years, yet she looked just as I remembered her. She was blonde, with the same sweet, small-nosed, freckled, clear-eyed pixie smiling face. Her arms were open to hug me.

We walked inside her apartment. “Where is Anatoly?” my father asked.

“He is getting bread. He’ll be here soon,” she said, looking at me, smiling happily at my father.

Ellie showed me their apartment. It was tiny. This is where they are after living in Russia for 60 years? But a smiling Ellie proudly showed me her tiny kitchen with a sunny view and I realized with shame that she thought she had done quite well having such a nice apartment in Russia.

I made a mental note not to be such a judgmental idiot. What did I know? Nothing. And what I did know I had obviously spent twenty-five years succeeding in forgetting.

There was a short corridor with two narrow doors. “Those are the bathrooms,” said Ellie. “One is a toilet, and the other is a bath. Do you need a toilet?”

“Not right now.”

“Good,” said my father. “Because I’m going to put my things down and take a shower. Is that okay, Ellie? Before dinner?”

“Of course,” she said.

Ellie showed me the rest of the apartment which even after my trying very hard to do mental gymnastics, still remained much smaller than our first American railroad apartment in Woodside, Queens, to which the nice Italian landlady had brought us lasagna.

My father was going to be occupying the computer room for the next six days.

Ellie showed me the 10 by 16-foot living room in the middle of which stood a dining room table and a 10 by 12 front bedroom with a narrow long concrete balcony that overlooked Ulitsa Dybenko. I guessed that it had indeed been Ellie who had stood on the balcony and watched us as we pulled up in Viktor’s car. When we got to the bedroom, Ellie said, smiling, “Plinka, why don’t you stay with us? You see, we have plenty of room for you. We would give you our bed.”

“No, stop it,” I said. “Where would you sleep?”

“Oh, we’re living at our dacha now.” All the Russians live at the dacha — their summer house — during the summer months.

“Oh, yeah? Where is it?”

“Lisiy Nos.”

I shook my head. “Lisiy Nos. Never heard of it. Don’t know where that is.”

“Across the Gulf from your Babushka and Dedushka’s dacha in Shepelevo.”

“Where we’re going tomorrow, by the way,” my father pitched in from the other room.

“Oh, so you’re in Karelia?” I said excitedly. Part of my book I planned to set there. “Papa, how do you say isthmus in English? Is it peninsula?”

“No, not peninsula,” he called out. “Peninsula is surrounded by water on three sides, isthmus on two.”

“Oh.”

He stuck his head in. “So what two bodies of water surround the Karelian Isthmus? Do you know?”

“Ha! Of course I do,” I said, thinking furiously. “Gulf of Finland and Lake Ladoga?”

He laughed. “Why is there a question mark at the end? Are you asking me or telling me? Because I know.”

I saw an empty bottle of Lancôme’s Tresor perfume on the nightstand. “Your mother gave me this, when she was here last,” said Ellie. “It’s all gone, but I really liked it. The bottle still smells of it a little.”

The floor was warped hardwood, the cabinets, the tables, the red curtains, the bed, the bed stand were simple and old. I looked at their dark wallpaper. I needed to say something. The wallpaper looked new, not peeling off the walls, Pointing to the bedroom, I said, “Nice wallpaper.”

“That one?” Ellie said dismissively. “What about this one?” We went to the living room with the dining room table. The wallpaper reminded me of the paper in my former council house in England; paper that was once yellow but had darkened to sooty gray with cigarette smoke; paper we had spent money we didn’t have to remove.

Ellie smiled. “It’s from Europe.”

“Oh,” I said. “Europe. Very nice.”

I saw my father down the hall, coming out of one door with towels, then going back in with a change of clothes.

After he reappeared in the living room, all fresh and washed, Ellie said to him, “Did you have a nice shower? Plinka, maybe you want to have a shower today? The water is nice and hot. Have one. Because tomorrow they’re turning it off.” She glanced at me and chuckled.

I chuckled back. “Oh, yeah?” I said. “Don’t worry. I can have a shower at the hotel.” I paused. “When will they turn your water back on?”

“August 5th,” Ellie replied without blinking.

I stared rather dumbly at her. “You don’t mean no hot water.”

“Yes.”

“In the whole building?”

“Right. Will you stay? You can sleep in our bed.”

Before I could answer, my father said, “No hot water? Paullina, I’ll have to come and shower at your hotel.”

That’s when Ellie’s husband Anatoly came home.

Anatoly and my father had known each other since 1952, when my father and Anatoly were 16. They had known each other ten years before my father and mother met and married, eleven before I was born. If it weren’t for Anatoly, there would be no pictures of me as a baby, there would be no home movie of three-year-old me being stung by a bee while eating watermelon in the Red Cave in the Caucasus Mountains by the Black Sea. If it weren’t for Anatoly, there would be no footage of my mother and father meeting and falling in love in a seaside resort town in 1962.

I was dismayed by how gaunt Anatoly was. The ragged lines in his face made him look much older than my father. I remembered Anatoly as such a happy, slender, funny man.

He was still funny — and slender. Withered maybe?

A few minutes later, Anatoly’s brother Viktor and his wife Luba arrived. Viktor was thin, bald and had a gray beard. Viktor and Anatoly were twins, and they had lived through the blockade of Leningrad when they were six years old. That meant that Anatoly was only a year older than my father. That was hard to believe. Viktor’s only son Paul had left Russia some years ago to study engineering in Princeton.

I had already met Paul as a grown man. When we were living in New York, he came to our house to celebrate New Year’s Eve 1995. He was a polite young man, very inquisitive. He walked around my entire house, looked at every book on my shelves, pressed every button on my VCR and laser disc player and TV, crashed my Macintosh computer, and got hold of my camera. When I developed the photos, I discovered that he took pictures not of my kids, or the Christmas tree, or the people at the party, but of an empty cake plate. A dirty fork. My cat sleeping under the table.

I shared this with his parents, Viktor and Luba. They laughed joyously and said, “Yes, Pasha is like that. He does the same at our house when he comes to visit. He is always adjusting the color temperature on the TV.”

I asked what he was doing nowadays besides adjusting the color on their TV. They told me Pasha had recently married a Russian girl and took her to Princeton with him.

I was waiting for my friend Alla to arrive. Finally she showed up, with her husband — another Viktor — and their two children, Marina and Andrew.

Alla and I had once been best friends. She looked remarkably lovely and remarkably as I remembered her. Her hair was short instead of long, but her freckles were the same, her upturned nose, her round eyes, and she was still taller than me. And still two years older. This pleased me: I wasn’t the oldest young person in the room. I had found myself less than pleased in recent years to know that I was the oldest in my circle of family and friends, as my husband, younger than me by six months, never ceases to remind me. I liked the grown up Alla immediately.

Alla’s husband Viktor was good-looking for a Russian man in a generic European sort of way; he didn’t look particularly Russian. I thought he was our age, but when I found out he was 44, I was shocked that someone who looked my age could be 44. There is just no kidding yourself with 44. It seemed so old to me. There is no kidding yourself with 34 either, because no matter how misspent and wasted the youth, there was no denying that whatever your life was now, it was no longer misspent, nor youthful.

I realized shamefully that I was underdressed and had no hope of ever becoming overdressed on this trip unless I went shopping. Alla and her husband wore suits, the kids were all neat, attired in Sunday clothes and church silent. Luba wore a dress with stockings and black high-heeled pumps. They got dressed up to meet me, to make a good impression on me.

I went out on the balcony for some fresh air. Papa was there smoking. We didn’t speak. I went back inside where smoking was not allowed.

In any case, the sight of rural Russia outside the balcony windows, with its declining grass and wooden huts and broken roads was a bit much for me on my first Russian evening. I needed to continue to believe that my father’s friends and my childhood friend were living well in Russia.

We began to squish around the dining room table, flanked on one side by three chairs and on the other side by a couch, on which three people would have to sit, and sit low. I did not want to be one of those people. With the table so high, I would have had to ask someone to pass the food down to me.

I didn’t like having just my head showing above the table. I sat in a chair.

The food, and there was plenty, was served on Ellie’s best china. We drank vodka out of crystal shot-glasses and wine out of elegant goblets. For appetizers or zakuski, we had herring, crab and rice salad, smoked salmon, tomato and cucumber salad, radish salad, and plenty of fresh white bread. I ate as much as I could, and had four shots of vodka, all with toasts, one to me, one to Papa, one to the hosts, one to the new generation. More than two hours had passed since we started dinner. Suddenly the plates and the zakuski disappeared, and were replaced by large dinner plates, on which we were served steamed turkey and boiled potatoes with dill. No one could eat one more bite, yet we all did, and drank more vodka to wash down our food.

“It’s very hard for us, Paullina,” Ellie was saying. “Very hard. I get a pension, and we have to live on that. I used to have a good salary when I was working. It’s hard to get by on just the pension.”

“What about Anatoly? He doesn’t work?”

“No, he works,” she said evasively. “He works writing scientific papers doing research for an engineering company.”

“Well! That sounds like a good job.”

“Mmm. So-so. He hasn’t gotten paid in four months.”

To punctuate that I had another shot of vodka. “Four months?”

“Hmm.”

“Why does he continue to go to work?”

Ellie shrugged. “As opposed to what? Anyway, sometimes he goes, sometimes he doesn’t.”

Ellie said she missed going to work.

“Oh, yeah?” I said. “What was your job?”

It’s not that she didn’t tell me. She did. Her work had something to do submarines and traveling all over the world. I realized I had too much vodka and the words she was saying to me in Russian weren’t part of my ten-year-old vocabulary. Sometimes I would ask her to repeat a word, but I found that didn’t make me understand her any better. If anything, it confused me.

Maybe splashing some cold water on my face would help. The whole vodka thing had to stop. How does my father do it?

Standing up shakily, I asked Ellie where the bathroom was.

She walked me to the bathroom. “Right in here,” she said, and sounded proud, much like she sounded about her wallpaper. “If you need to wash your hands, get out and go to the washroom, okay?”

I went inside a cubicle three feet by two feet and locked myself in, clipping the hook on the eye.

The toilet did not smell fresh, nor was it white. Or clean.

And the toilet paper was cheap and rough.

The flush was not intuitive. There was no flush handle, or a button, or a cord to pull. I doubted very much that there was an infra-red sensor system installed. I saw a series of metal wires. I pulled on something several times, and when that failed, I stuck my head outside and inquired further of Ellie. Eventually, I pulled the metal wires up. The toilet flushed.

The washroom had a bathtub with three two-gallon-size pans in it. Clothes were draped over the pans. A hand-held shower was attached to the tub faucet. The faucet in the sink was a thin metal pipe that ran off the bathtub faucet. The metal pipe had two levers on it, one for cold, one for hot, which in 24 hours was about to become non-functional for three weeks.

As I came out, I found Ellie in the kitchen cleaning up. While I helped her, she continued with her story. She told me she used to get paid a lot, but since she had retired, her pension was only 380 rubles a month.

Three hundred and eighty rubles a month. It sounded bigger if I didn’t translate it into dollars.

“But Ellie,” I finally said. “How can that be? That’s only about sixty four dollars.”

She shrugged, as if to agree. But then she said, “Don’t you remember how much your mother and father got paid when they lived here? Three hundred and eighty rubles is actually a very good pension. Your mother used to make a hundred rubles for a full month’s work.”

“Yes, yes, she did.” I wanted to ask how that translated into today’s rubles.

“Ellie, how do you pay for your apartment?”

“No-how,” she replied. “We don’t. We get vouchers. When they will pay Tolya, then we will pay rent. We haven’t paid in three months.”

Back at the table, Anatoly asked me questions about my first novel Tully and the only one of my books so far to have been translated into Russian, therefore the only one of my books Anatoly had read since he could not read or speak English. He wanted to know if the story of Tully was true or if it was made up, and if so, how could I make up all those details, as if I really knew her.

Anatoly was an aspiring writer himself, as almost everyone in Russia is — a writer or a poet. His brother Viktor — a poet — kept saying, “Give it to her, go on, give it to her. Why won’t you? You have to. Go on. She’d love to read it.” Anatoly would ignore his brother for a few seconds and then snap: “Why do you keep going at me? Give it to her, give it to her. She is too busy to read it. You think she has time to read it?”

“Read what?” I inquired politely.

Viktor said proudly, “Oh, Tolya wrote a book too. Just like you.”

“Hardly a book,” Anatoly chimed in.

“No a book, a book. All right, maybe smaller than Paullina’s book.”

“War and Peace is smaller than Paullina’s book,” said my fathers who had overheard.

“But bigger than a short story,” Viktor continued.

“A novella, maybe?” I offered helpfully.

“Yes, yes,” exclaimed both brothers. “A novella!”

Anatoly lowered his voice. “It’s about the time your father and I and Ellie met, it’s about a long time ago.”

“Oh,” I said. “Nostalgia?” As if I knew what it meant to have lived a life and now, at 60, to look back at yourself when you had been twenty, full of youth and sweet hope.

“Yes, nostalgia,” said Anatoly.

“It’s very well written,” said Viktor.

“Oh, Vitya,” said Anatoly. “It’s not up to us to say that. We have an author among us. Now her opinion is what’s important.”

“Give it to her, give it to her, go on.”

“She has no time to read it. She is too busy.”

“I am pretty busy, but do give it to me. I’ll be glad to read it.”

“See? What did I tell you, what did I tell you?” exclaimed Viktor. “I told you she’d read it.”

I went out on the balcony. There was only a little area where I could stand because the rest of it was covered with old chairs, large and small pieces of wood, and dirty white plastic chunks. My father came out to smoke. We stood without saying anything. I went back inside.

We had sat for many hours at the table, but I knew that couldn’t be because the sun hadn’t moved in the sky. Every time I looked outside, it remained directly above our fifth floor windows.

After the dinner plates were cleared, I breezily asked what time it was. I didn’t want to look at my own watch to give the impression I wanted to be going. Alla said, nine o’clock.

“No way,” I said, looking at my own watch. It was nine twenty. I looked outside. The sun was 60 degrees high in the sky. Didn’t Viktor tell me it was going to get dark around nine?

When he returned to drive me back to my hotel — around ten — I said, “Viktor, what do you see outside?”

“I know, I know,” he said. “What was I thinking? I got confused.”

Maybe a man living in Leningrad didn’t notice the sun up in the sky at ten in the evening anymore, much the same as a man driving through Connecticut in the fall didn’t notice the sugar maples, or a man living in Texas didn’t notice the hundred-degree heat. The East Coast man didn’t notice his ocean, the Arizona man his Grand Canyon.

I would notice.

Yet clearly Viktor, despite his whole life of living in Leningrad, had not internalized that white nights began on 20 May and ended on 16 July, year after year after year. For 50 days and nights, no streetlights were lit in the city so nothing could detract from the sky and the sun. How could someone who lived in Leningrad not know that? If someone asked me what the weather was like in Dallas in the summer, I would say without missing a beat that frequently we had daily temperatures of between 105-108° Fahrenheit, or 40-42° Celsius. If someone asked what was the temperature in Dallas at midnight in July, I would say without hesitation, 94°F. But then I hadn’t lived in Dallas my whole life the way Viktor had lived in Leningrad.

Maybe it required a lifetime residence in Texas to notice the heat no more than Viktor noticed the citrus sun at 11 p.m.

We ate dessert and drank tea out of china cups and saucers. Alla had made a 14-inch round cake from scratch with whipped cream, fresh fruit and rum. Though we had been eating since five in the evening, in a matter of twenty minutes all the cake was gone.

My father was busy telling everyone our plans for tomorrow. We were going to Shepelevo.

After Shepelevo, he started to schedule the rest of the week. Everyone at the table chimed in with a suggestion.

“You’re here to do research about the siege, Plinka,” said Anatoly. “You have to go to Piskarev Cemetery, the memorial to the dead.”

My father said, “We’re going there on Wednesday. Ladies and gentlemen, I have it all planned out. You’re not dealing with an infant. You’re dealing with a professional manager.”

“I really want to see your hotel room,” Ellie said. It’s not every day we get to go to Hotel Europe.”

Yes, of course, come.

Alla wanted to have the hotel breakfast buffet with blini and caviar I had told her about.

Yes, of course, come.

Viktor, Anatoly’s brother, wanted to show me where the music stores were. “I have a car, you know,” he said. “We could drive anywhere.”

Yes, of course.

Anatoly wanted to walk with me through the streets of Leningrad talk about the siege.

Yes, of course.

Ellie wanted to come, too.

Yes, of course, come. And how about if we go out to dinner, too?

Everybody wanted to know when I was going to call Yulia, my only cousin. Yulia’s father and my father are brothers.

I’ll call her soon.

“You want to use the phone?” asked Anatoly.

Maybe not that soon. I’ll call her from the hotel.

My father shook his head. “Paullina, it’s getting late. And we have a big day ahead of us tomorrow.”

We stood up. I got my camera and my purse to go.

“Paullina,” my father said, “don’t go walking the streets right now. All right? Go to your hotel room, relax, get some rest, and tomorrow we go to Shepelevo. All right? Shepelevo, Paullina.” And again looking into my face for a reaction.

I widened my eyes. “I know, Papa.”

Viktor went to use the water closet before we left, and I said to my father, “Papa,” I said, “does Viktor have to come with us to Shepelevo?”

“What do you mean?”

“I know he is going to drive us, but what is he going to do when we get there?”

“What do you mean?”

I didn’t know how to say what I meant. “Well, is there some place for him to go while we walk around, or is he going to walk around with us?”

Papa thought, smoked. “There is no place. He is going to have to come with us. Why?”

I didn’t know what to say to why.

“Papa, Viktor is very nice, I’m sure, but we don’t know him. I don’t know him.”

“So?”

“Well, what if I want to cry? What if we want to cry?”

Papa didn’t know what to say. “Me cry? What are you crazy? And how would we get there without Viktor?”

“Take public transportation.” I brightened, became positively lively. “Like we used to!” It was important to me to completely recreate my Shepelevo experience.

“Me, take public transportation in Leningrad?” said my father. “No, you are crazy.” He turned to Ellie. “Ellie, my daughter has gone completely mad.”

“Your Papa is right,” Ellie said brightly. Why do you have to go to Shepelevo? Stay in Leningrad.”

Besides me, Viktor also drove Alla, Viktor, and their children home. The tenement houses along the Prospekt of Bolsheviks that turned into Prospekt of Five-Year-Plans were notable not only for their striking contrast against the near-midnight sun but also for the satellite dishes that hung off the crumbling walls. The buildings looked like dark rectangular giants rising up along the wide boulevard as the sun set behind them and into our faces. With different buildings it would have been a spectacular view.

But you know … Boston has the buildings, but doesn’t have the midnight sun. At what price midnight sun? “Wait,” I said. “Let me get out. I have to take a picture.”

“What are you taking a picture of?” asked Alla. “That’s just our building.”

“I’m taking a picture of the satellite dishes.”

“Why?” asked Alla. “You don’t have them in America?”

I said goodbye to my friend, and Viktor and I cruised along the river Neva, as the sun set on it. We neared one of the most famous Leningrad landmarks — Peter and Paul’s Fortress and Cathedral.

The Imperial Russians used to put you in prison and when you rotted and died they buried you inside an gorgeous ancient tomb right on the premises. The service and burial all took place a hundred paces from where you lived out your miserable life behind bars. The Communists who didn’t believe in God turned the whole place into a museum. Only when Communism fell did Peter and Paul’s church become active again. So active in fact that Nicholas Romanov and his family’s remains were going to be interred in it come Friday and my father and I were going to watch.

The cathedral’s golden spire glowed in the sunshine and reflected into the Neva. The fortress was built on a tiny, artificially made island by Peter the Great just inside the Neva delta to defend the city against Northern invaders.

Across the narrow canal called the Kronverk Strait was the artillery museum, which is where we got out. I wanted to get a picture of the surface-to-air artillery tank that was aimed directly at Peter and Paul’s spire.

The picture looked unfocused through the viewfinder. Before I could utter a “huh,” I heard a ripping noise coming from inside my camera. I tried again. I heard the lens inside cracking. I tried to take another picture but was unable to. The camera had stopped working. What a shame. The midnight sun was extraordinary.

Viktor said, “We’ll just come back another night and drive along this route, so you can take another picture.”

“I’d have to get a camera first,” I said, fully dejected.

We drove along the river embankment, crossed the Palace Bridge, passed the Winter Palace, and went down Nevsky Prospekt. In two minutes we were at my hotel.

“Viktor,” I asked, “how serious was my father when he told me not to walk around by myself at night?”

Viktor by way of answer said he would park the car and go with me. I declined. I wanted to know if it was safe for me to be alone. I didn’t want to walk with Viktor. I wanted to walk alone through Leningrad.

I returned to my room instead, where I opened my blinds and looked out onto the Italian Gardens. The trees were covered in shadow. Inside the park was quite dusky, but all I had to do was look up at the violet sky to dispel the illusion of night.

I spent a long time in the bathroom, taking off my make-up and getting ready for bed.

Walking aimlessly around the room, I suddenly remembered my defunct camera.

I called Anatoly to talk to my dad but Ellie told me he’d already gone to bed. “Tell him,” I said, “that he’ll have to pick me up a half hour later because I have to go and buy myself a camera.”

There was a bit of general clucking about my camera. “Are you sure it’s broken?” “How do you know?” “Are you sure it’s not supposed to make a ripping grinding noise?” Finally Ellie promised to give my father the message but not before she added, “What do you need a camera for, anyway?”

I thought about calling Texas. By the time I figured out what time it was there — late afternoon — I was too tired to talk to anyone.

Still I could not sleep. Images of the day kept intruding, like late night TV, but I couldn’t turn them off. My first day in Russia here and gone. Turn it off, turn it off. It wasn’t like I had expected. I don’t know what I expected. Not this. Something else.

Also I hadn’t expected to feel about any of it. Not this. Something else.

To ease my mind I tried to look forward to Shepelevo. Was I happy to be going there? I had dreamt of going there for 25 years, my idealized childhood heaven. In adolescence I dreamt of Shepelevo, in puberty, maturity, womanhood, I dreamt of Shepelevo. Now we were going back. How did I feel?

Happier, I decided, than I felt about returning to Fifth Soviet.

But not by much.

This was not an academic exercise, I belatedly realized, like the brief research trip to Dartmouth College, the setting for Red Leaves. Leningrad meant something to me — to see the crumbled stucco, to look at the window frames as old as Communism, to see Ellie’s wallpaper. What did it mean to me? On this first day, it was just a thread of pain and I couldn’t grasp its meaning.

I sat at the edge of my bed and looked at the hardwood floor.

By the time I fell asleep it was after two, the sky a metallic blue, blinds, curtains, windows wide open.

THE SECOND DAY, TUESDAY

I slept restlessly. I kept waking up every hour or so, opening my eyes and seeing light outside. What time was it? It seemed perpetually dawn, or dusk.

The memory of Shepelevo was strikingly real like the yellow velvet lamp on the night table. Shepelevo was my hypnotic zone, it was where I went when I needed to remember where I was happiest.

There was a hammock and there were cucumbers and there was water. I rowed a boat, I tasted clover, and all the smells were right. I had an old bike I learned to ride in Shepelevo. I saw my first — and only — house on fire in Shepelevo. I tasted warm goat’s milk and warm cow’s milk. I caught my first fish. I tried to catch a fish with my bare hands in a brook by the gulf. I saw the sun rise and set in that village. I read The Three Musketeers, my favorite book, in Shepelevo. I broke my toe, my first toe-break, on the door frame between my and Yulia’s room. I picked blueberries and mushrooms. I killed a hamster — accidentally — by letting him eat coffee grinds in Shepelevo. I had a fish bone stuck in my throat that no one could get out except my grandfather with his surgeon-sure hands.

Shepelevo was my Land of Oz. Why did Dorothy go back in the subsequent books? She was so happy to be back home in Kansas. Yet something drew her back. Sentiment? Love? Pain for the past? A desire to relive some part of your life’s adventure, to see with grown-up eyes your childhood joys?

The Grand Hotel Europe may have been chosen as one of the “Leading Hotels of the World,” but whoever had been grading obviously didn’t need to wake up in the morning. There was no alarm clock in the room. There was no clock at all, not even on the tiny TV. I couldn’t read the fine gold lines on my analog wristwatch, not even in St. Petersburg white nights.

Kevin was my alarm clock. He called at 8:30 in the morning to wake me up. It was 11:30 in the evening his time. “Can I talk to the kids?”

“Well, it’s nearly midnight,” he said. “They’ve been sleeping for three hours.”

My father called half an hour later. “You are not buying a camera in Leningrad,” he said. “What are you, crazy? I loaded new film into my camera. I have a beautiful camera, a Pentax. It’s yours for the rest of the trip. You will take it, and you will give it back to me before you leave. Just don’t forget to give it back to me before you leave Russia.”

“But Papa—”

“That’s all. I will pick you up in a half hour. You will be ready, right? I don’t want to wait. You have to be ready. I’m not even going to come up.”

“Papa?”

“What?” he said gruffly, already done with the conversation.

“I thought you said not to call it Leningrad.”

I got ready in record time. What to wear? I didn’t know what to wear to Shepelevo. It could be cold. On my bed last night there was a note left by the people who performed the turn-down service. “Good evening. The temperature for tomorrow, Tuesday, July 14th, 1998: 67-73°F or 18-21°C. Good Night!”

I wore khaki shorts, a chenille short-sleeve mulberry top and over it a sleeveless white tunic. My feet I decided to place into my relaxed-fit keds that had been very uncomfortable on the plane, but perhaps they would do better in Shepelevo.

I had my buffet breakfast for 24 UNITS in exactly five minutes from 10:00-10:05 in the morning. My father did not like to be kept waiting. I had two blini with caviar, some fried potatoes with fried mushrooms, and some coffee.

My father came at 10:15. “Paullina,” he said, wearing a navy nylon jacket, “you’re not dressed for the weather.”

I shrugged. It was a crisp cool morning.

“Did you bring a bathing suit?” he asked me, completely straight-faced, as we walked to Viktor’s car. “To go swimming in the Gulf of Finland?”

“I didn’t bring a bathing suit at all to Russia,” I said. “Maybe we can buy one at Gostiny Dvor.”

Gostiny Dvor is the premier shopping mall of St. Petersburg. It is a two-story trapezoid yellow stucco building. It had been built in 1765.

And it looked it.

Papa shook his head as if I were crazy to be thinking of buying anything in Gostiny Dvor, but said nothing except, “Maybe I’ll go swimming in the lake instead.”

“Papa, you’re wearing a jacket,” I pointed out.

“So?”

“So, nothing.”

“And sarcasm does not get you my camera. If you’re so clever, where is your camera?”

“Broken.”

“Exactly.”

We walked across Nevsky Prospekt to Gostiny Dvor, which occupied a whole city block, to buy a camera battery, although what I really wanted to buy was a new camera. My father wouldn’t hear of it. “I’m giving you my camera. I already put film in it.” As if his putting film in the camera somehow put the issue to rest.

I was upset at myself. How many times does one return to the city of one’s birth? Once, you would think, and for that occasion, out of my three cameras — one of them a splendid Nikon SLR — I instead bring the tiniest and silliest.

I had a beautiful Nikon 6006, and I had an adequate automatic Pentax with a 38-165 zoom. I didn’t bring one of those. No, I brought my weatherproof Olympus, the camera we bought strictly to go on vacations with small children, because mom could not carry her Nikon and her two boys and two diaper bags and push the double stroller at the same time.

I was so conditioned to travel light because the children are heavy, that I came by myself to Russia and brought nothing. No clothes, no camera.

While my father bought a camera battery, I looked around at the automatic cameras. The lady kindly let me hold a Canon. Viktor stood quietly by me, and then whispered as we left, “That’s how you know there are changes in Russia. You think they’d ever let you touch a camera in a store in the Communist days?”

“Probably not,” I said.

“That’s right,” said my father. “Because they didn’t have any cameras.”

Reluctantly I took my father’s Pentax.

On the way to Shepelevo

We drove merrily. I say merrily, but Viktor seemed to be uncertain of the way, distrustful of the map and of my dad’s innate sense of direction. My father kept telling him, this way, this way, to the right. Viktor remained unconvinced.

We were headed for the south side of the Gulf of Finland. First Peterhof, then Oranienbaum, then Big Izhora, Little Izhora, Lebyazhye, then Gora-Volday, and then at the crest, right before the shore curved — Shepelevo.

Just past Shepelevo was a larger town of Sosnovy Bor, where the Soviets built a nuclear reactor in the early 1980s and restricted all access down the coast because of it.

That’s why my mother did not go to Shepelevo when she visited Russia in 1987.

In 1992 the reactor in Sosnovy Bor had a Chernobyl-like accident and was now in the process of being dismantled.

All I wanted to do was look out the window at the road in silence, but my father was telling Viktor and me how some Russians got rich when Communism fell, so I had to listen.

Apparently, through small bribes some enterprising Russians acquired Soviet buildings on the cheap when they saw what was about to become of Communism in the early 1990s.

Though the buildings were cheap, they were also falling apart. With a few connections and some foreign capital investment these Russians renovated the buildings, and then leased them out as the buildings of the new Russia. They made millions.

Most of this reconstruction was in Moscow but there was some in Leningrad too.

I listened carefully.

“Any questions?” my father asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Tell me again why we couldn’t go to Shepelevo by taking public transportation?”

I remembered fondly taking public transportation to Shepelevo. It would take us 15 minutes on the Metro, and then I would get a crème brulée ice cream, which for me as a child had to be one of the two best things in the world, the other being crème brulée gelatin. Sometimes I’d get disappointing vanilla. Then we would take the electrichka — the short-distance train — for 45 minutes to Lomonosov (now Oranienbaum), where we would wait for a bus that would take an hour to get to Shepelevo. I suspect all I wanted out of the public transportation experience was the crème brulée ice cream.

“I’m too old to take public transportation,” said my father.

But the Lomonosov train station, a big old yellow stucco building, struck chords in both of us. My father said, “Take a picture for your Mama. She’ll cry.”

Well, that was the point, I thought, of taking the bus and train. I remembered waiting at that bus stop with my mother.

A bus came. It didn’t so much ride in as hobble in, as if perhaps one of the tires was blown. The wine-color paint on its sides was peeling and the undercarriage was rusted out. The small shut windows looked not translucent but opaque. The bus made a reluctant-engine noise.

It looked like something out of a movie set in a South American location. Maybe Bolivia.

“Is that the kind of bus we used to take?” I asked.

“Worse,” said my father.

We bought some drinks in a little shop next to the station. Viktor bought a jar of pickles.

My father said that was all new. There had been nowhere to buy anything before, and the few stores that had existed certainly didn’t sell Coke and Sprite, and Perrier spring water.

“What did they sell?”

“Nothing.”

We drove on.

“Papa,” I asked him, “how am I going to write about Russia during WWII?”

“Write, write,” he said. “Everything is exactly the same.”

“Papa, did the Germans get to Shepelevo?”

He told me they didn’t. They trampled through Petergof — Peter the Great’s magnificent Palace — out of which they took rugs to line their miserable trenches with. Forty kilometers before Shepelevo, they were stopped at Lomonosov, which remained in Soviet hands.

“Were they stopped because of Kronstadt?”

“Exactly right,” replied my father, with slight surprise that I even knew what Kronstadt was.

Kronstadt was a tiny island in the middle of the narrow entrance to the Gulf of Finland that housed a naval base. This base bombarded the Germans with artillery fire on the southern coast of the Gulf and the Finns with artillery fire on the northern coast of the Gulf. Kronstadt saved Leningrad.

Right past Lomonosov, on the edge of the Gulf of Finland, Viktor stopped to ask for directions. Musing and looking out onto the Gulf, I said to Papa, “I wonder where Kronstadt is?”

He pointed to a bit of land about a kilometer away rising out of the water. “Right there.”

“Do they allow tourists there now? They didn’t before.”

“They do now.”

“They do?” I became excited. “I really want to go.”

Shaking his head, my father exclaimed, “Paullina, you should’ve come to Russia not for six days but sixty.”

Viktor in the meantime returned and told us that the two men he asked for directions told him that just a few kilometers up ahead on the highway, past a town called Big Izhora, was a border patrol point, and without special permission, no one was allowed through.

“Oh, koshmar! Koshmar!” Papa said. “That’s it. Everything fell through, Paullina. What a nightmare. What a horror. That’s it. Well it’s all over.”

We drove on anyway, but slower. For fifteen minutes as we drove, all I heard from the back seat of the car was, “I can’t believe it. I asked him if we needed permission, he said, no, go right ahead, they’ll let you through. I could have gotten permission so easily. No, he said, we don’t need it. Well, that’s it now. It’s all over. What a tragedy. Nothing to do. Ah, hell.”

Who this he was, I didn’t know and was afraid to ask.

I didn’t hear, let’s see what we can do. Let’s try. Maybe there is another way we can go.

No. Apparently it was all over, and he was to blame.

The border patrol booth looked similar to the booth on the road to Fort Wilderness in Walt Disney World. The highway, true, was much worse, but the pine trees were about the same. This was where the similarities ended because the Fort Wilderness gate had a modern, fully-air-conditioned brick and fiberglass booth, in which sat a comfortable, retirement-age man. He would glance at our Disney resort card and languidly press a round red button with his right hand. Pressing the button would automatically lift the gate arm under which we would pass, and then the arm would automatically lower. The guard would go back to reading his newspaper.

The Russian gate was manned by two young, extremely able-bodied soldiers in full uniform with guns strapped to their waists. One soldier manned the way in, one the way out. The soldiers came up to the cars, and checked the credentials of the drivers. But there was no red button to push. Instead, they walked to the gate arm and pushed it open with the force of their bodies. They walked it open. The gate arm didn’t go up or down. It swung out to let the cars through, and then swung back in to close. It was a manual gate.

This wasn’t Fort Wilderness.

The three of us sighed as we parked the car and got out. Slowly we walked over to one of the soldiers, who listened very carefully to our pleas to let us pass and then shook his head. My father handed the soldier his business card and said something about coming from America to see his grandmother’s grave in Shepelevo.

The soldier looked at my father’s passport and his business card, he looked at my passport, he studied all of us, then he shook his head again.

I wished we knew what this border post was for. We certainly weren’t on the border of anything. We were in the middle of a two lane highway, between nowhere and nothing, traveling alongside the Gulf of Finland.

The soldier went to make a phone call. My father shook his head and again mumbled something about a Viktor who should have told him about needing permission. I looked at our Viktor. “You?” I mouthed silently. He shook his head. Loudly he said, “Another Viktor who works at Radio Liberty.”

“Papa,” I asked, “isn’t this the road we used to take the bus on?”

“Of course it is.”

“Well, what is this for?”

“How do I know? Viktor, do you know?”

He said he didn’t.

“Nobody knows. Maybe it has something to do with the nuclear reactor in Sosnovy Bor, but probably not. The soldiers themselves probably don’t know. That’s Russia for you.”

As we waited for the soldier to come back, I saw through the pines the dark water of the Gulf of Finland.

It was on this highway 33 years ago that my mother and I took a taxi to Shepelevo because the bus hadn’t come in three hours. Being two, and talking little, I looked out the window and watched the water appear and disappear behind the trees, and I spoke only these words: “Yes Gulf. No Gulf. Yes Gulf. No Gulf. Yes Gulf. No Gulf.” My mother told me that my hypnotic repetition of those four words the entire hour had a soporific effect on our taxi driver who fell asleep behind the wheel. “Did we stop?” I asked my mother. “Did we stop to let him sleep?”

“No,” she said. “We continued driving.”

I heard the story many times. This was the very road they were not letting us on now.

It wasn’t that they weren’t letting anyone through. Villagers, yes. Summer residents, sure. Fishermen, of course. Drivers with permission, absolutely. Just not us.

Could it really be that our quest for Shepelevo was going to end in such failure? I couldn’t believe that I would come to Russia and not see my Shepelevo. I refused to believe it.

The soldier hung up the phone, came back and shook his head for the third and final time. “They won’t let you through. It is very strict,” he said. “I can’t disobey. But you can go the back way. You can go around. Go back to the Tallinn Shosse, then take the road that will connect you back with this road twelve kilometers further down. Near Lebyazhye.”

“Oh, so this road opens up?” Viktor asked with hope.

“Yes, twelve kilometers down.”

The soldier was serious and unsmiling. The other soldier in the meantime, a big bulky strapping guy, was pushing and pulling both sets of gate arms, earning his soldier’s pay. As he passed from one gate to the other, he stared at me. I stared back.

We turned the car around and drove back a few kilometers to the Tallinn Shossé. Before we could make a right, however, Viktor had to stop and ask the teenagers walking along the road if this was indeed the Tallinn Shossé. Like they knew. They shrugged and said, think so. Great, thanks. Since none of the roads, not even the major highways were marked in any way, Viktor had to stop again to ask if this was in fact the Tallinn Shossé.

We neared an army truck and a red Mercedes parked in the middle of the road at odd angles. The driver of the Mercedes and the driver of the truck were gesticulating to each other. Only when we passed did we see that the Mercedes was caved in all along the passenger side.

After driving for a few kilometers on the Tallinn Shossé, which I thought was one of the roads the Germans took when they marched north to Leningrad, we turned right onto a road that led into a forest of tall birches and reedy pines. It smelled good. Pinecones and wet moss and butterflies.

Viktor said, “No, this isn’t right.” I wondered how he knew.

He asked half a dozen people. They all told him to drive over there. Pointing to the tall birches and reedy pines.

Suddenly, there was no more paved road. We were driving on a dirt road, the likes of which I’d never seen. I’m not saying they don’t exist. I’m just saying I haven’t seen them. Once I was taken for a ride on a motorcycle on an unpaved road in Minnesota that seemed as unpaved as a road could get. However that road was the freshly-poured interstate compared to the crater-like moon surface we now found ourselves on.

This road had potholes every three yards, potholes about three yards in diameter, all filled with muddy water. The potholes alternated — one on one side of the road, one on the other. We had to zigzag between them.

I said, this cannot be right, Viktor. This can’t possibly be right. Turn back at once. He continued to drive.

For five kilometers.

After five kilometers I thought we must be going the wrong way. I could not believe the nice young soldier would have told us to take a road like this. Surely he meant a civilized road to Lebyazhye. He didn’t say, you need a four-wheel drive, he didn’t say, you might have to push your car through the bushes, and he didn’t say, you won’t know where the hell you’ll be going for 10 kilometers. He said a ‘road.’ All my definitions of the word ‘road’ involved asphalt or cement. We had to be going the wrong way.

“Give me the map,” I said.

Yet, there it was, beige on Viktor’s map — a 10-kilometer long road. On the map legend, the color beige stood for ‘dirt road.’

My father called it ‘forest’ road.

I studied the map in the back of the car as we shook. Beige lines criss-crossed all over the place.

Feeling dizzy, I put away the map and stared straight ahead to try to regain my equilibrium and not vomit. The dinosaur footprints filled with murky water were making it hard to stare straight ahead. Like a skier on a giant slalom course Viktor zigzagged from one side to the other to avoid the holes.

The unpaved road forked in quite a few places. We bore to the right. At one point, Viktor declared we were going the wrong way and turned around and came back to the fork and went left instead of right.

The process was a mystery to me.

After seven kilometers, we stopped for a woman. She and her two comrades had been picking mushrooms all night. “Why do we have to stop for her?” I asked a little petulantly.

“She’ll take us to the highway,” Viktor said. “She’ll tell us where to go. She looks like she knows where she is headed.” The woman was wearing orange knee-high rubber boots, light blue sweatpants, a dirty white long-sleeved shirt, and over it an old ski vest. Every inch of her body other than her face was covered by clothing.

We put her mushrooms in the trunk and her in the backseat with me.

When my father asked about giving the men a lift, too, Viktor said, “They’re men, they can walk three kilometers.” They were headed to the train station with their mushrooms.

As the woman got in, a swarm of mosquitoes, a liquid wave, got in with her. I saw her face had been bloodied by the mosquitoes in a few dozen places. And it was a small face.

“What’s your name?” I asked, being polite.

“Olya,” she said, and smiled, flashing all four of her teeth, yellow with black holes, as if the mosquitoes had drilled through them too. I spent the next three kilometers killing mosquitoes and trying not look inside Olya’s friendly smiling mouth.

We let her out near the train station. She said our highway was just half a kilometer down the road. My father shook her hand. When he got back into the car, he turned to me. I lifted my eyebrows and said nothing. “The teeth of poverty,” he said.

I still said nothing.

As soon as Viktor got back into the car, he drove five yards and stopped a group of people to ask them where the highway was. Half a kilometer down the road, they told him.

Finally we were back on A-121, and this time there was no border patrol, no gate, just the highway, the pines, and the Gulf of Finland peeking through them. Yes, Gulf.

Twenty kilometers later we passed a sign that said Shepelevo.

Shepelevo

“Papa,” I asked as we were driving, “what is the lake called in Shepelevo?”

“I don’t know,” he said, adding, “I don’t think it has a name. Even your Dedushka never called it anything but the lake. It doesn’t have a name, I’m sure.”

I looked at Viktor’s map. It was called Lake Gora-Valdaisko. Gora-Valday was the town just east of Shepelevo.

“Papa, the lake is called Gora-Valdaisko. It says so here on the map.”

“Oh, that’s right,” he said, as if it didn’t really matter to him.

I couldn’t wait to tell my grandparents when I got back home. It would matter to them.

We had left Leningrad around eleven in the morning and it was now about three in the afternoon. I hadn’t gone to the bathroom, nor had we eaten. My father and Viktor had twice availed themselves in the woods.

I said, “Papa, where can we get some lunch? Maybe a little Chinese take-out?”

He spun around to glare at me from the front seat. “What are you, kidding me?”

“Yes.”

He and Viktor were trying to work out where to park. I looked out the window trying to find the dirt road that led down to Shepelevo from the highway.

There was nowhere to park, though of course I was half-expecting a little paved lot somewhere, next to a convenience store, perhaps.

We parked right off the highway, on the grass, by the side of the cemetery where my great-grandmother was buried.

Looking for Babushka

I couldn’t wait to get out of the car. The first thing I did was smell the air. I closed my eyes and took a breath, the biggest breath of my life, knowing I was taking the biggest breath of my life. I was taking a breath to smell Shepelevo.

Breathing in Shepelevo was like hitting the right note on the piano. There was only one right note.

When I was young, Shepelevo was the smell of nettles, of salted smoked fish, of fresh water from the Gulf of Finland, and of burning firewood, all wrapped up in one Shepelevo.

As it had been, so it was.

Across two continents, a dozen countries, twenty cities, three colleges, two marriages, three children, three books, and twenty-five years of another life, I breathed it and smelled the air. Nowhere else in the world had it.

“Papa,” I said, my voice breaking. “Do you think we could photograph the smell?”

He gave me a look and then laughed.

I walked along the road, stepping carefully on the pine needles and dirt. I picked up a handful of both and smelled them. Papa and Viktor were already heading towards the gate in the cemetery, but I was in no rush. I was getting light-headed from breathing in so deeply.

The cemetery was old and fairly small, maybe 50 yards across, completely covered by a canopy of oaks and pines. Though it had been bitter bright sunshine on the road, the cemetery was dark and was ten degrees cooler.

My grandmother gave me very clear instructions regarding her mother’s grave. We had to find it. We could not fail.

The problem was, the cemetery had expanded in the twenty-two years since Babushka Dusia’s death. What once had been the ‘end’ of the cemetery was now the middle. We could tell it had been expanded because the old crumbling fence ended and a new slightly less crumbling fence began. We didn’t give up; we walked up and down the right side of the cemetery looking for the end, or the middle, or the beginning. We could not find a gravestone marked with my great-grandmother’s name. Every once in a while, my father would exclaim, “I think this is it!” But it never was.

When we walked through all the gravestones on the right side of the cemetery, we started with the gravestones in the middle.

There were three of us, but we didn’t trust each other; we kept walking and re-checking all the graves. I know Papa wanted to be the one to find the grave. I wanted to find it too. I wanted to be the hero.

It was definitely not going to be easy. First of all, the majority of the graves had wrought iron fences around them. We had to open the gate and walk inside to see the name on each grave, and then leave, closing the gate behind us. Second of all, about a quarter of the graves were unmarked. That was discouraging.

And third, as I walked through the ragged rows of graves, I became eight again, and stopped looking for a name. I was eight, and Yulia was by my side. We went inside the cemetery to look for candy. Where could two poor village kids get candy in Communist Russia? Graves, of course. There was no candy for the living, but along with flowers, mourners put candy on the graves of their loved ones. So Yulia and I would walk through the graves, take the candy and eat it. We couldn’t bring it back home, because our grandmother would kill us. We ate it right at the cemetery, and dropped the candy wrappers back on hallowed ground.

Now as I walked I looked for candy on the graves, to see if the old tradition still stood. It didn’t. Only flowers remained at the grave sites.

My ankles and calves started to itch uncontrollably. That was distracting. I was scratching instead of searching.

The large Russian village mosquitoes were having a field day with me. My father and Viktor were covered by clothing; not so I. Looking at the back of my calves, I saw big red welts.

I wouldn’t last another five minutes in the cemetery. I had no blood left.

Blood.

I looked at the fleshy space between my right thumb and forefinger. In the folds of the skin the scar was still visible. In this cemetery, Yulia and I had found a piece of broken window pane glass. Yulia wanted it, I wanted it. She grabbed one side, I grabbed the other. She pulled. I pulled.

I won.

She let go of the glass, involuntarily, I might add. I was 18 months older and considerably stronger. The glass slipped from her hands and ripped the meaty flesh in mine. My grandmother was not happy with me. Somehow it was all my fault. Because I was older and should have known better. My great-grandmother who was very much alive then, sided, of course, against me. Bloody hand and all, I was punished and had to stay inside the rest of the day.

After we walked through the left side of the cemetery, closest to the road, my father said, “We can’t find it. It’s just impossible.”

“But Papa!” I said, uncontrollably itching my legs.

“I know! What can I tell you? We can’t find it. There are so many unmarked ones. And maybe your grandmother made a mistake, maybe she is buried on the left side not the right.”

“We are at the left side.”

We walked back to the right side, looking at the tombstones as we passed.

“We’ve looked at every grave. We can’t find it.”

“Papa, we can’t tell Babushka that.”

He looked around. “I have a terrible feeling that her tombstone because it was unmarked was torn down and another built in its place.”

“You mean somebody is buried on top of Babushka Dusia?”

“It’s possible. It was unmarked. And they’re running out of space.”

Hunched over, my hand never leaving my calf, I said, “Papa, it’s not possible. What would they do with Babushka’s casket? It’s only six feet in the ground.”

“I’m not saying they took it out, But look at the ground right here.” He pointed under the trees. “It’s all messed up. Maybe that’s where it was. You can see they’re running out of space.”

Viktor and Papa stood and looked at the disturbed earth. I couldn’t believe that any cemetery would be doubling up, even a village cemetery. Especially not a village cemetery. The Russian villagers have nothing but their faith. They wouldn’t put a body on top of another body.

These weren’t mass graves. All the graves in this cemetery were moderately well kept, with iron fences around them, with little gates and benches where visitors could sit. Many tombstones had crosses and photos of the loved ones. Fresh flowers were everywhere. Yes, there was no caretaker’s building; yes, the grass and nettles were four feet high, but no one would tear down my great-grandmother’s grave to bury their own dead on top of her.

All three of us sighing, we looked again. My search was hampered by my bare legs. Papa and Viktor were both in long pants. Papa wore a jacket. I was just lunch for mosquitoes, big, black, ravenous mosquitoes. As I walked through the graves, I hopped and itched, and flailed my arms, to no avail. Now I knew why Olya, the toofless mushroom picker, was covered from head to toe.

My father left the cemetery for a smoke, and as he smoked, he kept yelling to us, “Forget it. It’s no use.”

I could not leave. Finding Babushka Dusia’s grave was the only thing my grandmother had asked me to do. I was not going to be the one to tell my 87-year old grandmother that her mother was not found, and her mother’s grave not brought to order. The sun fought its way through the leafy pines; it was shadowy and dark in the cemetery and smelled of sap and pine cones. It smelled of earth and flowers and mosquitoes. I wasn’t leaving.

My father came back, took one look at me, and said, “Paullina, get out of here. You will be eaten by the mosquitoes. Go now, or you will ruin the rest of your day. Go into the sunshine.”

I went out to the highway. I saw him outside the cemetery, smoking again, and probably thinking what he would tell his mother. Maybe we could lie? We could say we found the grave, gave Likhobabins money to take care of it. My grandmother would never know.

But she would know. She had a sense. She knew everything.

Viktor yelled something. I saw my father go inside the cemetery, walk over to Viktor, bend over, and then yell to me. “Paullina, come, come. Viktor found it. He found it.”

He had. Viktor found it because he would not give up. He found it because he, literally, would leave no stone unturned. We had passed the grave that turned out to be my great-grandmother’s three or four times. It was poor, neat, and unmarked. But Viktor stepped inside the little iron fence and rummaged on the ground. Who knows why? But he rummaged and found a stone plaque that read, “EUDOKIA IVANOVNA PAVLOVA. 1894–1977.”

Papa and I stared dumbly at it. “Paullina was right,” Papa said. Now I do want to cry.”

What did it mean for Viktor to find this grave? Nothing. He would never have to call my grandmother. We would probably never see him again. Yet, he would not give up. Suddenly I didn’t feel bad anymore about sharing Shepelevo with him.

We took pictures of the grave, commented on how well-kept it was despite nearly 20 years of no visitors, wondered if it was Yulia who took care of it. My father dismissed the idea and went to put Babushka’s plaque back.

“What do you want to do now?” he asked. “I suppose you want to go find our house?” He said that, but what I read in his body language was, “Are we done? Would you like to leave? Because I would.”

“I want to see our house,” I said. “Don’t you?”

“Okay,” he said in a tired voice. “Let’s go.”

We walked down the hill on a dirt path that was maybe a car length wide. Wide enough for Viktor to drive his car down, which is what he did. I don’t know if I expected anything to be paved. I think I hadn’t expected. I didn’t think about it.

It wasn’t.

The narrow dirt road that ran past our summer house started at the woods and continued into the village. On the left side of the path were small wooden houses — one of them ours — and on the other side was a hill on which villagers planted their vegetables.

The cherry tree at the bottom of the cemetery hill was a lot smaller than I remembered. Every summer that cherry tree would blossom and its aromatic white flowers would exude a smell through our entire house just across the road. And then the flowers would fly off the tree like birds. It was such a giant tree in my memory. Now as I looked at it, I could take a six-foot ladder, climb up and touch the top branches.

We walked down the road a few yards and stopped at a faded blue house.

“This is it,” I said.

“No,” Papa said. “This isn’t it.”

There was a number on the house. It said 32. “This isn’t it,” he repeated.

“It is, Papa,” I said, looking at it, filled with heartache. “This is it.”

I knew why he didn’t want it to be it.

It looked so abandoned. It didn’t look like my memory, or like his, I was sure. I knew his memory was at least as sentimental as mine.

The little yard around the blue house was grass and weeds, five feet tall. Where there once was a hammock, there now wasn’t. Where there once was a garden, there now wasn’t. It was just a shabby summer dacha, and it looked like no one had been in it in years.

How could I explain what I felt looking at house number 32 in Shepelevo, the house where I spent by far the happiest months of my childhood?

“This isn’t it,” Papa said in a reasoned voice covering his sadness. “I know, because look, there is a window on the second floor, and I know we didn’t have a second floor.”

We stared for a long time at the blue house.

“This isn’t the house,” he repeated. “Let’s go and find the Likhobabins. I hope they’re still alive. They’ll tell us which house it really was.”

Viktor stood beside us not understanding. Okay, we said, we don’t have to explain why our hearts were heavy. I walked ahead down the dirt road. This road had been wider when I was a child. It had been like a thoroughfare to me. Now a car could barely drive through without hitting the wooden fences on both sides.

As I looked around, I saw the wooden fences, falling down, held up by rusty nails, all older than I. Broken fence rails and posts lay strewn about by the side of the road. The grass and the nettles grew tall to my shoulder. There were no planted flowers, no lawns. There was no cut grass anywhere. What was cut grass? What was a lawn mower? The villagers couldn’t afford a lawn mower. Before they bought a lawn mower they would buy meat and eat for a year.

I lowered my gaze to the dirt under my shoes until we got to the corner house. I looked up. In the yard stood a tall Russian man, naked except for a bathing suit that looked like skimpy underwear, watching his naked-to-the-waist son play on a garbage heap out front.

We asked him if he knew where the Likhobabins were, or even if they were still alive.

“Maria and Vasily?” he said gruffly, as if there wasn’t much love lost between him and the Likhobabins. “Right there.” He pointed to the two-story unkempt building across the road.

“Still?” said my father, as if stunned that twenty five years the Likhobabins they could still be living not just in the same village, but the same apartment building.

“Still, as ever,” said the naked man, going back to watching his naked son play with the trash.

We crossed over to the building. After trying for two minutes to find their apartment number, we gave up. There were no names on the bells. There were no bells either. Or mailboxes. There was just a door that led to the stairs that led to the apartments. No one rang for anyone. They just walked up.

“I don’t know how we’re going to find them.”

I vaguely remembered where they lived. They were on the first floor, but my father didn’t trust me. We asked two old ladies sitting on the bench in the little clearance area under the trees. They said, “Oh, the Likhobabins. They’re probably by the Gulf.” And they waved their arms. Over there. So we went over there. I walked a hundred paces behind my father and Viktor.

Why was this more difficult for me than for my father? I didn’t know for certain that it was. But where I wanted to linger, he wanted to speed up. He wanted to rush through his Shepelevo, so he could again leave it behind and forget. With our American eyes we saw our past life. There was so much that needed to be forgotten.

I was crushed by the relentless poverty of it. But the smell, the heady, intoxicating smell, more powerful even than the sight of Shepelevo. The sight of Shepelevo tore us up inside. Yet the smell was nothing but bliss.

On the way to the Gulf to find the Likhobabins we stopped at the public bath house. It was a tiny brick bungalow house, closed up because it wasn’t Friday or Saturday when it was open. The inscription plaque on the door — same inscription plaque I remembered from childhood — said, “MEN — FRIDAYS. WOMEN — SATURDAYS.” My mother, my grandmother, my cousin, my aunt and I would all go have a communal bath, every other Saturday, whether we needed it or not.

We had a half-hearted laugh about that plaque, my father and I.

He and Viktor sped up, and I lagged behind. My father turned around, waving me to come on.

The smell of smoked fish was very strong. We could also smell fresh water. The factory that made the smoked fish was just to the left, and the Gulf of Finland full of fresh water was just ahead. I already saw the bullrushes and the seagull-stained rocks.

Everywhere I looked I saw unwashed peeling paint, rotted wood, in fences and houses, broken glass, doors hanging on just one hinge, mysterious concrete blocks, rust.

Rust anywhere there was metal.

Shepelevo wasn’t littered. I guessed because there wasn’t much to throwaway. There weren’t any trash cans either.

But there was rust and rotted wood, and peeking out from beyond the pines was the Gulf of Finland.

Vasily Ilyich Likhobabin was by the Gulf with his wife Maria. He was surprised to see us, though not exceedingly so.

His sons, Yuri and Alyosha were both engineers living in Sosnovy Bor, 20 kilometers down the highway, toward Tallinn. I had had the biggest crush on Alyosha when I was young. Maria didn’t look too happy when her sons were mentioned, particularly Yuri. Likhobabin whispered to my father, “Yura is not making his mother happy.” He didn’t give any specifics.

Maria was short and heavy-set. She wore a peasant print dress, an apron, and a narrow-rimmed hat. Alexei wore glasses that made his eyes as large as two moons. His vision looked to be pretty bad, but otherwise he and Maria seemed in good shape. They looked older than my father but younger than my grandparents.

“So what are you doing?” my father asked Vasily.

“The same, the same,” he said. “Fishing.”

Vasily told us he would show us our house and we walked there together. Vasily kept telling my father in minute detail about his cataracts, his cataract surgery, his recovery, and his health at present. I saw my father’s pained expression and became amused for a few moments. My father is stultified by talk of other people’s medical history. He certainly never talks about his own health. He had been barely able to tell his immediate family he had kidney stones and had to be hospitalized.

I straggled behind, as the four of them strolled forward in front of me. Maria had her arm through Vasily’s. I found that endearing.

Likhobabin stopped at the blue house, number 32, and said, “This was yours.”

I looked at my father and said nothing. He looked at me and said nothing. We both stared at the house.

The grass was high, the paint was fading and peeling, and some of the windows were boarded up with rusty nails.

My father said, “Okay, well, you want to take a picture?” Reluctantly we stood in front of our dacha, to show our Babushka and Dedushka their beloved summer home. Viktor snapped the photo.

I turned to the house and said to my father, “See that big window? That’s the window to Yulia’s bedroom. I ran to that window in 1971 after having seen you only once in three years, and watched you come down the cemetery hill with Mama on your arm.”

“That Mama was on my arm,” my father said, “I have no doubt She loved to touch me. But we did not come down that hill. We came down that hill.” He pointed to the one farther away. “You couldn’t have possibly seen us.”

“But I did,” I said. “And Babushka, your mother, said, ‘Here comes my son.”

My father said nothing for a moment. “I know who Babushka is. Well, do you want to see up close? Or do you want to go?”

We looked through the fence at the house. My father clucked with the Likhobabins about the house being in such disarray. “Who does it belong to now?” he asked.

“Papa, what are you talking about?” I said. “It belongs to Yulia.”

“Well, look at it. It can’t. No one’s been here in years. Maybe she sold it.”

“Babushka and Dedushka gave the dacha to her when they left. She wouldn’t have sold it without telling them.”

My father shrugged. Vasily said he didn’t think it belonged to someone else.

I was sure the house was still Yulia’s. When my grandparents left Russia in 1979, they left the house to her, and she abandoned it; that much was obvious.

We pushed the gate open, nearly breaking it as the rotted wood buckled under pressure. The nettles stung my legs. First the mosquitoes, then the nettles. Just like when I was young.

My dad picked some cherries off the cherry tree and ate them. He gave me five. That was my lunch. Gratefully I ate the cherries. “A little sour,” I told my father. He glared at me, as if I had just insulted his cooking.

My father, Viktor and the Likhobabins walked around the house. They fought their way through the grass, and after them I trudged, as the nettles continued to sting my legs. I stopped at the front door of the dacha. It was locked and wouldn’t open despite my pulling on it. A wooden clock hung over the door mantle. The clock had been made by my grandfather. It wasn’t a real clock; he had painted the face on with black ink. The hands perpetually said 1:20. I showed it to my father, as if it was the final proof that this house still belonged to some member of our family. My father nodded, which I took to mean, yes. Or it could have meant, let’s go.

As we walked around, he told me to take pictures of Dedushka’s dilapidated garden in the middle of which still stood the wooden cucumber supports he had built back in the seventies. If any garden deserved high praise, it was my grandfather’s; after all, it fed a family of 10 every summer for ten years. The garden and the fish he caught. We caught. And the blueberries and the mushrooms we picked. That’s all we ate. There was no meat, there was no chicken. Well, that’s not true. There was meat; there were cows. And there were chickens. But to eat the cow meant no more milk ever, and to eat the chicken meant no more eggs. So there was no meat, there was no chicken.

Our dacha was a little box with four equal sides. Breaking through the bushes and the branches, we walked all the way around. They came out to the front yard. Lagging behind, I stopped at a small window with shattered glass.

I don’t know what I was hoping for. At that moment, all I really wanted was not to be there, standing next to a window under which I had slept for 900 summer nights.

I needed a stick to pry the window open; I found one, pried it open, looked inside. Maria Likhobabina returned to stand by me, glacing in.

“What are you doing?” she asked, suspiciously.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Just looking.”

We stood and looked. She said, “This must be the kitchen.”

What was she talking about?

“This isn’t the kitchen,” I said. I wanted to point to the bed. How can this be a kitchen? There is a bed in here. My bed.

It wasn’t just the same bed, but the same yellow-brown print dirty bedspread casually covering the bed. The wallpaper was the same. All ripped, stained, dirty. Through the torn paper, I saw the wall. The bare plaster had holes in it.

The room where I had slept to my adult eyes looked no wider than five feet. It wasn’t a bedroom—

“It is the kitchen,” said Maria. “There is the stove.”

I saw the stove. I had slept right across from the stove and never knew it was the kitchen. Didn’t even see it now until Maria pointed it out.

“I slept in this bed,” I said unhappily, “Why was I telling her this? Like she cared. All she wanted to know was why I was breaking open a window to the house. I wanted to call my father back. Papa, look. Did you see this? Can you imagine I slept here? How can that be, Papa? How can I have slept here, it’s all disintegrating right before my eyes, and I never saw that when I was growing up, reading about D’Artagnan’s Paris, and Oliver Twist’s London. I read those books lying on this bed looking out this window. I didn’t see the stove, I didn’t see the wallpaper, or the window frame which could be pulled out of the wall with my bare hands.

“Papa?” I called. “Where is he?”

“Oh, he’s already out front,” said Maria. “They’re waiting for you. I think they want to go back up to the cemetery to your grandmother’s grave.”

I wanted him to see this. But I had a feeling he didn’t really want to.

I stuck my head in and took a deep breath. The inside of the house did not smell like Shepelevo. It smelled like no one had been in the house for years. I would have preferred not to have to have a memory of this smell, of the dust and dirt and old papers. On the wall was a painting my grandfather had made of the cat I used to torture when I was 18 months old. I wanted to take the picture off the wall and bring it back to America with me and give it to my grandparents, but the painting was a 16 by 20 and I only had garment bag with me. I had no room for Dedushka’s cat.

What I felt when I stared through my window, with its rotted window frames, its misty, dusty glass, at my bed and the stove a foot away, I cannot adequately express.

Maria Likhobabina stood sullenly next to me, and our only connection was that she was the mother of a boy I once liked. I wasn’t going to cry in front of her. I grit my teeth and shook my head slightly to clear my eyes. Then I put my camera on the bed, and said I was climbing in.

“Why?” Maria said.

“I want to see.”

“See what?”

“The rest of the house.”

“It’s just like this.”

“I want to see. I’ll only be a minute. You can go if you want.”

She didn’t move from the window. She must have been thinking: they come all the way from America to break into our houses. What does she want to do in there, anyway? Maria was too old to crawl in herself, so she remained at the window and watched me take pictures. When I disappeared into the front bedroom, I kept hearing her voice, saying, “Where are you? Are you coming?”

“In a minute,” I said.

Pictures weren’t the only things I took. I took my grandfather’s garden and weather journals, and some small pictures I thought might be of sentimental value to him.

In the front room I found a letter that Yulia had written to her small son. The letter read, “Our dear bunny rabbit, Mommy wants to say sorry to her little bunny for last night. Daddy and I were tired and tense and we yelled a little bit and scared you, and we’re sorry. We both love you so much, little bunny, and Daddy isn’t going to leave us ever.”

Daddy never did leave them, but Yulia later left him, and left her little “bunny rabbit,” too.

It is hard to leave your spouse in Russia. There is nowhere to go. You lived in a communal apartment, and if you were lucky you were sharing the room only with your husband and child. If you were unlucky, you were sharing a room with your brother and his family. Or your parents. And your great-grandmother, too.

If you were fortunate enough to work at a good job that let you put your name on a waiting list for a separate, non-communal apartment, and then waited for years, if you had connections and somebody died, you could get a tiny non-communal apartment for you, your mother, your husband, and your child. But you had better not grow disenchanted with life. Because there was nowhere to go. You couldn’t move to another city, because you didn’t have a job to go to. You couldn’t go to a realtor and get a new apartment. There were no realtors. You couldn’t even fall in love and go to a hotel room, because you could not get a hotel room if you were Russian, only if you were a foreigner with a passport and visa.

So when Yulia got disenchanted, and fell in love with another man, there was nowhere for her to go from her tiny non-communal apartment on the outskirts of Leningrad on the Prospekt of Veterans. She left her husband and son, and her ill mother, too, and went to live with her new lover and his family in his communal apartment.

She returned home two years later to find her mother dying of kidney disease and her former husband ready to go to Canada on a business assignment with his new wife.

He left, Yulia’s mother died, and she remained in the old apartment with her son, the bunny rabbit. That was in the early nineties.

Yulia obviously had come back to Shepelevo once or twice. The last time was probably around the time of the bunny rabbit letter. Was that ten years ago?

Why hadn’t she come back since?

Maybe her memories were not as sentimental as mine. After all, she still lived this life. She could smell Shepelevo any time she wanted to. Maybe the smell of Shepelevo didn’t mean as much to her.

I would have sat down and cried, but there was nowhere to sit. Clothes, books, papers, garbage were all over the floor and over all flat surfaces, beds and tables and chairs. Everything was covered with dust.

I looked outside the front window, the same window through which I saw my father in 1971, strolling down the cemetery hill partially obscured by the cherry tree. Today he was standing on the road, talking to Vasily Likhobabin, eating cherries. Viktor was standing next to him. My father had no interest in getting inside this house.

I took Yulia’s letter, and made my way to the porch where we once ate our family meals. I walked into my grandparents’ room that was just storage for old trash now, though it still had a bed and a dresser. I even stuck my head inside the lavatory, a small room off the kitchen/porch. The house didn’t have running water in the days when I lived in it, and it didn’t have any now. The toilet consisted of a wooden bench with a hole in it. The hole went ten feet into the ground.

We were considered blessed by the other villages because ours was one of the few houses that had the toilet inside.

I heard Maria’s voice from the open window. “Are you coming? Is everything all right?”

I went back. “Everything is fine,” I said, climbing out. She held my camera for me.

“What are these?” she asked pointing to the pictures and the notebooks, in a tone that suggested I was taking off with the contents of her safe deposit box.

“Just some stuff for my grandfather,” I said, as the nettles stung my legs.

My father was waiting for me on the road outside the gate. He hadn’t gone to the cemetery yet.

“Well?” he said. “Finished?”

“Yes.”

We closed the gate behind us.

“I’m going to go show Vasily Ilyich Babushka’s grave,” my father said. “Are you coming?”

“No,” I said. “The mosquitoes will eat me. I’m going to go for a walk.”

My father must have had his instructions too from my grandmother. He was going to give Likhobabin a hundred dollars to take care of the grave. A hundred American dollars was probably twice what Likhobabin earned all year.

While they went back to the cemetery, I left Maria and walked alone to the outskirts of the village. I wanted to find the field where I used to go and eat clover.

I felt a little lost. Both literally and figuratively, for I could not find that field.

The distances all shrank and my pungent cherry tree was smaller, but everything else was overgrown.

Long grass, sloppy bushes, large branches lying on the road, concrete blocks, tall nettles, rusted pipes, all spread out on the narrow dirt roads. No lawns, no patios, no wicker chairs, plastic chairs, outdoor chairs, no barbecues.

I turned around and saw Maria, some distance behind me, but doggedly following me.

Why is she following me? I thought. But I didn’t care.

I walked past one tiny wood house that was missing a wall. Maybe the wall was burned in a fire, maybe the wood had rotted out. I didn’t know and it was impossible to tell what had happened, but the missing wall had been replaced by cardboard. There were two 6 by 8 sheets of cardboard, nailed to each other and then nailed to the rotting wood of the rest of the house. Where the cardboard was wet, it was mushy and crumbling. The cardboard house didn’t have a fence around it, not even a broken fence, but it had tomatoes growing in the side yard, and a chicken wire cage inside which clucked some chickens.

I wondered how good of an insulator cardboard was in the brutal Russian winters when the temperatures dipped to zero Fahrenheit and dipped there till April. The cardboard didn’t look like a temporary solution to a permanent problem. I doubted that the people who lived in the paper house left at the end of summer to return to their warm communal apartment in Leningrad. Once you had chickens in your yard you were there to stay.

The Likhobabins didn’t have chickens. They weren’t going anywhere. Shepelevo was their life until the day they died. I glanced back. Maria was still behind me.

I walked past another house that was burned from ground to roof on the right side. The black charred wood stuck out and part of the wall crumbled down in ashes. On the left side of the house was a small window with floral curtains. The curtains parted and a woman’s face stared at me.

I wondered why the iron fences around the graves in the cemetery were clean and not rusted, and if there was money to put nice fences around dead people, why couldn’t the fences around the living be repaired. I wanted to ask Maria, but I doubted she knew. My father would just shrug. “Paullina, this is Russia. You want logic, you go back to America.”

But the greatest contradiction was this: as I saw the Shepelevo of adulthood — the Shepelevo I was not prepared for, each breath I took reminded me of the Shepelevo of childhood. Unchanged, unchanging, communism-defying smell.

The smell reminded me of being eight years old, on my rusted bike trying to outrun a truck — and failing. I walked to the place in the road where I had deliberately wiped out, because it was either wipe out or collide with a Soviet truck.

I smelled going to the library and borrowing the same books week in and week out.

What was interesting in a clinical way about the new, adult Shepelevo was how small it was. I walked past the cardboard house, past the black ash house, past the spot in the dirt where the truck ran me off the road; I was looking for the house that belonged to Yulia’s mother’s side of the family, and suddenly there was a field and beyond it trees. Shepelevo was over. Before I could say huh and turn around, Maria came up behind me.

“You’re looking for something, yes?”

I would have liked to tell her what it was, had I known it myself.

“Yes.”

“Come. I’ll show you Yulia’s grandmother’s house.”

We walked past a rock. I stopped and stared at this rock.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing.” I remembered that rock. We used to climb on top and then fight about whose turn it was to sit on it. The whole summer would pass with us fighting for sitting-on-the-rock rights.

“Here’s their house,” Maria said.

I looked. It was a proper two-storey house. It still had curtains hanging in the windows. It had no fence, just the grass and bushes.

“No one lives there,” she said. “They’re all dead now.” I wondered why the house was better kept than our blue house. Maria couldn’t say.

We walked back to find my father. He was waiting for us on the corner. He looked done. Like me.

“Ready, Paullina?”

“Wait,” said Vasily Ilyich. “Don’t you want to come in for a minute?”

“Papa,” I whispered. “I really need to use the bathroom.”

He sighed.

We walked to the Likhobabins’ apartment.

The apartment was small, but extremely clean. Everything looked pre-20th century but it was all in its place. The floor was swept, the table empty of debris. There were no dishes in the sink or smoky ash trays. No old food. And it smelled okay.

As I walked into their small living room that had a couch, a gramophone, and some shelves with books, I stared at the couch. “I remember the couch.”

“Yes,” Maria said, “it’s the same couch.”

“It’s very nice.”

Pointing to the gramophone, I asked if it worked.

“We think so,” said Vasili Ilyich. “We got it as a gift many years ago. We just don’t have any records.”

I had drunk too much water and Coke purchased in Lomonosov.

I asked the Likhobabins if I could use their bathroom. Of course, said Maria, pointing me to a door. There was no bathtub in her apartment, only the toilet and the sink in a tiny space, barely enough to turn around in. There were no bathtubs in Russian villages. The bathhouse every other Saturday had hot water enough for everyone.

Though the apartment smelled okay, the toilet did not. I tried to breathe through my mouth. Didn’t help. I held my breath. No use. I tried not to touch anything. I started to retch. I saw they had an overhead flush. I used it. It worked. But why the stench? The toilet smelled like it hadn’t been cleaned in …

I left the bathroom, closing the door not very gently behind me and then smiled my best smile at Maria.

“Well, thank you so much,” I said. “Ready, Papa?”

I was glad when we left.

“We will go down to the Gulf now, all right, Paullina?”

“Of course,” I said. “I want to see our beach.”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “All right. We’ll go there. Viktor, how are you holding up?”

“Fine.” He shrugged. “I’m fine.”

On the way to the beach, we passed a garbage dump that hadn’t been there twenty-five years ago. Actually, we were stopped by the garbage dump. It was blocking our path. We stared at it with dumb disbelief.

The pine smell was spoiled by the rancid smell of garbage. It made my father feel so bad he didn’t want to go any further.

“Papa,” I said consolingly. “Where else are the villagers going to throw out their garbage?”

He waved at me. “Where did we?” he said. “Forget it. Let’s not go.”

“Papa, we have to go to our beach. Let’s go another way.”

“Oh, fine.” He turned away, walking on without another word.

I studied the fences as we walked past the unpainted, unstained village houses. Where the fence had fallen apart in places or rotted, instead of whole sections being replaced, new pieces of wood were nailed to the old, giving the entire fence and everything contained therein the appearance of poverty. I mentioned that to my father.

He said, “No, it’s actual poverty.”

The Russian villagers grew their vegetables and caught their perch; they cleaned and cooked their fish with potatoes, but they didn’t tend their gardens or paint their wooden houses to protect them from the elements, or pick up the rusted pipes lying outside their yard.

Through the back way in the woods, my father, Viktor and I walked to the beach area where Yulia and I used to swim. As we came to one clearing, Papa showed me where we kept our Gulf rowboat.

Another rowboat was there now.

When I was a little girl, my Deda would take me fishing on the Gulf of Finland. I would row the boat out to sea, and we would hook our worms and maybe catch some perch. We would talk, I don’t remember what about, but the worms I remember.

After a few hours, I would row us back to shore. Deda would pull our rowboat back onto the sand. He wore knee high rubber boots. I don’t remember what I wore on my feet and don’t know why I don’t remember. We would walk through the woods to our blue house number 32 and it was still light. My grandmother would be waiting up for us and yelling at my grandfather for bringing me back so late. He and I would be laughing and we’d be hungry. My grandmother would make us delicious fried potatoes with onions. And outside it was light.

In 1973, a few weeks before we were leaving Russia, I came to visit my grandparents, having just found out that we were not moving to Moscow as I had been told initially, but to America. My grandfather touched my face and said, “Ah, Plinochka, we’re never again going to go fishing in Shepelevo, you and I.”

I was excited about America, but sad for him, and trying to find a comforting thing to say, I blurted happily, “Yes, but you still have Yulia. You can always go with Yulia.”

He nodded. “Yes. But it won’t be the same.”

“You remember the rowboat, Paullina?” my father asked. “You used to go fishing in a rowboat just like this one.”

“I remember,” I said.

At another small, pine-needle covered clearing, my father stopped and said this was where he and his friends met and drank and smoked and talked. Papa has his memories too.

Then the mosquitoes started feasting on me again.

We walked out onto the Gulf where my grandmother used to take Yulia and me to swim, three times a week, every week for three months for ten summers.

The childhood memory was one thing; what I saw was something else. The sand was sparse and mostly covered by long water grass and bulrushes.

The water looked muddy and dark. The brook where Yulia and I tried to catch fish, where we waded up to our knees in muck and weeds and fish that got away was maybe three feet wide and only a foot or so deep. I remembered it as a rapidly burbling stream.

Was it better to see that it was calm and narrow? Was it better to see that it was shallow, that the rocks were small? I preferred my memories.

“What a nice gulf,” Viktor said. “How lucky you were to have this.”

Ten seconds later, already done with the beach and the gulf, my father said, “I’m going back,” as he and Viktor disappeared into the woods. Five seconds later, I heard him calling me, “Paullina, Paullina.”

I didn’t want to come yet. I stared at the water. A young mother and her daughter stood in the sea about a quarter mile in. The water came up to the woman’s knees. It had always been shallow. The girl though was diving and splashing about. The echo of her laughter blew like a breeze on the sea.

And through it, I heard, “Paullina …. Paullina ….”

Then more insistently: “PAULLINA.”

I stared at the peaceful water, the cattails, the lily pads. “Paullina … Paullina …”

“I’m coming!” I yelled.

And through it all, the smell of Shepelevo.

I caught up to my father, who said, “Why are you lagging behind? We have to go.”

We came out of the woods, and crossing the A-121 highway, we walked past the railroad tracks down a half-person-wide path to Lake Gora-Voldaisko, where my father went swimming. He took off his nylon jacket, his long-sleeve shirt, his undershirt, his trousers, his socks, his shoes, and dove in the water.

I perched on top of an overturned rowboat, and Viktor gave me a pickle from his pickle jar. Papa swam. Viktor kept talking about something.

The lake was peaceful.

As my father was drying himself off, he said, “Oh, to swim, Paullina! You should have brought a bathing suit.”

“What was I thinking?” I shivered in all my clothes. It was about 55°F.

To Viktor I said, “I used to row right across this lake when we lived here. We rowed across to the other side to pick blueberries.”

Viktor looked at the distance between this shore and the other. “That’s far.”

Yes, it seemed far, even then. This time, the distance didn’t deceive me. It was about a mile across. It was far.

We left.

We walked back to Viktor’s car parked by the side of the highway, and drove away.

I turned back to look at the road one more time. I saw the white smoke stack of the fishing factory. Rolling down my window I smelled the air.

“Roll up the window, Paullina,” Viktor said. “They’re promising rain.”

I rolled up the window.

Just as we entered the next village after Shepelevo, Gora-Valday, we saw a woman by the side of the road selling blueberries. She didn’t have a sign or a stand. She was just sitting by the side of the road and next to her was a ceramic jug. Had we been going faster, we would have missed her. Viktor said, “Want some blueberries?”

“No,” I said.

“No,” my father said.

But then I remembered the five cherries I had for lunch and the pickle by the lake, and I remembered rowing my whole family across the lake to go blueberry picking. “Yes.”

Viktor stopped the car and we walked back to the old woman. My father remained in the car.

“How much for the blueberries?” I asked.

“Thirty rubles.” (About five dollars.)

“With the jug?”

“No, the jug is mine,” said the woman.

I exchanged a glance with Viktor. “So how am I supposed to take the blueberries home?” Where were the little baskets to take the blueberries home, the ones you saw in every farm stand in America? “I’ll give you thirty more for the jug,” I said.

The old lady shook her head. She wore a kerchief over her gray hair. “I can’t.”

“Fifty more,” I said.

Sadly she shook her head. “Don’t you have a plastic bag in the car?”

“Blueberries in a plastic bag? They’ll get all mushed.” “We’ll have blueberry jam by the time we get to Leningrad.”

“I think they’ll be all right,” Viktor said quietly,

I turned to the old lady. “A hundred rubles for the jug.”

She looked at her jug, looked at me and said, “Darling, don’t you think I want to sell you the jug? I do, I’d sell it to you. But where am I going to get another one? I won’t be able to pick any more blueberries. I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” I said. “I understand. I’m sorry.”

We brought a plastic bag from the car and bought the blueberries, putting most of them in the trunk. I took a bit in a plastic cup.

My father from the front seat said, “Well, how are they?”

I tasted them. “They’re okay,” I said. “They’re a little under-ripe.”

“They’re not under-ripe,” he said. “That’s what they are like.”

“But they’re sour,” I said. “Why can’t they taste like nice American blueberries?” I remembered the Shepelevo blueberries as juicy and very sweet.

Viktor and my father laughed. “Because those are grown on a farm, not in the woods,” my father said. “Or they’re grown in Chile.”

We drove back down the highway to Lebyazhye, where we turned off the main road and went up past the train station where we had dropped off the mosquito-eaten, mushroom-picking Olya, and then quaked through the pot holes again.

Viktor commented that we were lucky it hadn’t rained, because then these holes would be filled to the brim with water, and passage would be really impossible.

It occurred to me that Viktor thought we were generally quite lucky. “You mean filled with more water?” I looked out on the sloshing liquid mud inside the holes. I closed my eyes to rid myself of the holes. I wanted to see what image would rise up.

My bed rose up. The bed near the wall with the ripped wallpaper. The little bed with a pillow and a blanket. Me lying in bed and looking out the window and seeing the sunrise. The window was open. And I smelled Shepelevo.

Washing the Car with the Gulf of Finland

I sat in the backseat. Viktor had suddenly stopped the car off the highway before we got to Lomonosov. While my father vigorously slept, Viktor got out a white bucket and a brush he must have carried for just such emergencies. Maybe he didn’t want his young vacationing wife to know where he had been.

I rolled down the window. “Viktor, what are you doing?”

“I’m just going to clean the car a little,” he replied. “It will only take fifteen minutes.”

I rolled the window back up and watched him jump over a short stone wall and walk down the rocks to the Gulf. Beyond him I saw the Kronstadt naval base. I tried to imagine the sound of artillery as the Soviets bombed their own coast for three years to prevent the Germans from taking it. I was sitting right in the line of fire.

When Viktor returned with his bucket filled with gulf water, I rolled my window back down. “Viktor, but didn’t you tell me it was going to rain?”

“Yeah,” he drew out. “What do they know?”

I rolled the window back up.

To pass the time I wrote in my journal about nonsense and then stared out onto the road. Once in a while a bus would pass. No bus looked younger than 40 or 50 years.

I never noticed buses when I was a girl in Russia. Clearly I hadn’t noticed many things when I was a girl in Russia.

Buses or trams or trolleys. Our communal apartment on Fifth Soviet or our house in Shepelevo, or Nevsky Prospekt. All I did was smell things.

I had pictured the Soviet bus all wrong, that somehow it looked like the Q60 — a modern clean big green bus in Queens, New York with a little destination sign at the front.

This bus at Lomonosov came in three colors: burnt yellow, dreary olive or faded maroon. The hubcap-free wheels rattled, not having been aligned in decades. The bus itself lurched. Where the paint had peeled off, it was rusty. The windows were small, rectangular and numbered, 13 in all, seven on one side, six on the other, plus the front door. What destination sign?

Viktor continued doggedly to wash the windows of his vehicle. After he got back in, he said, “I just couldn’t drive a car that looked like that in the city.”

I became certain he didn’t want his wife to know what he had been up to.

My father woke up. It was 6:40 in the evening.

We passed a green electrichka. Rather it passed us. It was army green and looked brand new as it sped by.

“Papa, so how come that train is new and green?”

“What do you mean how come? The Russians built a new train.”

“Huh. No new buses, though.”

“They can’t do everything at once, Paullina,” he said.

We passed a graffiti sign in English that read, “Punk’s not dead.” It was scrawled on a deep yellow stucco building in Lomonosov, next to a sign, “Magazin.” Magazin meant store. What kind of store, the sign did not specify. Just store. The building looked abandoned, yet the “Magazin” was open.

We stopped by an ornate Russian Orthodox Church in Lomonosov. As I got out to take a picture, rain began to stream down from the dark skies. I quickly got back inside the car.

Pulling away from the curb, Viktor said, “See how lucky we were that the rain held off long enough for us to get off that dirt road.”

“Yes,” I said. “But not lucky enough for it to rain before you washed your car.”

“When did you wash your car?” my father asked.

“When you were sleeping, Yuri Lvovich,” replied Viktor.

In the rain we drove past a tall obelisk. The sign announced: “This is the furthest point of the front in defense of Leningrad during WWII, 1941-45.” In the rain, I got out and walked to the stone pillar, taking a picture of this furthest point of defense of Leningrad during World War II. The Gulf of Finland was across the highway. If the sheet of rain wasn’t coming down like a curtain over the gulf, I was sure I’d still be able to see Kronstadt.

We continued on. A bleak treeless boulevard.

“This is the Prospekt of Veterans,” said my father.

“Uh-huh.”

“Don’t you remember? Yulia used to live here with her mother.”

“Shall we go and visit her?”

My father shook his head and said nothing.

With tired fascination I stared at the famed Kirov Wall that surrounded the Kirov Works on the southern outskirts of Leningrad. Despite war, despite siege, despite hunger, despite all the odds, the Kirov Works for four years produced tanks for the war effort. Production slowed down when the factory was bombed to smithereens by the Germans, whose bombers were stationed a kilometer or two away at Pulkovo Heights, but it did not stop. The Soviets built a new factory under the camouflage of the ravaged old, and churned out 200 KV-60 tanks a month.

Before WWII, Kirov used to be called Putilov Works, but then Sergei Kirov, Stalin’s right-hand man, was assassinated in 1934 — under Stalin’s direct orders — and the Soviets renamed half the city. Everything now was Kirov this, Kirov that.

As we drove past the Kirov Wall, my father told me the story of how the Soviets took a really big beautiful wrought-iron gilded fence from the Hermitage Museum and transported it to the Kirov Works. The Communists wanted to set the fence into the ground so the workers could marvel at it and be inspired by it, but it was much too heavy. So they abandoned the project, and the poor fence has not been put up to this day.

“Why didn’t the fence get transported back to the Hermitage?” I asked.

“Too heavy to move.”

“But they moved it once,” I said.

“That’s how they found out it was too heavy to move. Gilded iron, Paullina. Iron overlaid with gold. Too heavy.”

“So where is it now?”

“Lying on its side somewhere,” he replied. “Rusting.”

It was still raining when Viktor dropped us off at Grand Hotel Europe. My father told Viktor to go home, though Viktor didn’t want to leave us. I think he wanted to make sure Papa got back to Ulitsa Dybenko safely. We made plans to meet at ten the next morning.

Papa came to my room. “Nice room,” he said, walking around. “Is there a bathroom?”

I showed him the bathroom. “This is not a bathroom,” he said. “This is Ellie’s whole apartment.”

While he was in the bathroom, I checked my messages. I had one from my three-year-old son. “Mommy … Mommy … just calling to see how you were …”

I sat on the bed and looked at my hands and my feet and the hardwood floor, thinking, do I have time to call home? What time is it there? I tried to figure out the time difference, but all that kept popping into my head was Yulia and me walking on tiptoes on the railroad ties in Shepelevo, careful not to step in between on the pebbles because then we would lose. Lose what? Lose, that was all.

My father, meanwhile, was appraising my shoe collection arranged in pairs on the carpet. “Paullina! You said you had no room in your suitcase for T-shirts for my friends, but look at all the shoes you brought!”

I looked. “It’s not that many,” I said. “One pair of shoes for each day I’m here.”

He shook his head disbelievingly. Damn. Now my stupid shoes would end up as a story around the dinner table.

For dinner we went to the dimly-lit Caviar Bar. I didn’t want my father to be worried about money, so I told him dinner was on me, a sort of belated birthday present.

Approvingly, he took out his pack of Marlboros. “Papa, what are you doing?”

“What?” he exclaimed. “There is no smoking here?”

“Papa,” I said to him in condescending dulcet tones. “It’s a restaurant.”

When the waitress came, he asked if he could smoke here. She looked at him as if he had just asked if he could eat here. “But of course,” she said in condescending dulcet tones.

All I wanted for dinner was black caviar and pelmeni. So that’s what I ordered. My father ordered seafood roulettes and sturgeon with onions and mushrooms.

As we were ordering, my father said, “We’ll share, all right? You get the caviar and pelmeni, and I’ll have the salmon roulettes and the sturgeon, and we’ll split it.”

I agreed.

His roulettes, with smoked salmon, dill sauce, shrimp and red caviar, were to die for. I know. He allowed me one tiny bite. He didn’t even taste my poor man’s caviar. The sturgeon came served with mushrooms, potatoes, eggs, and cheese. My father obviously thought his food was much better than mine.

And it was — better than my overcooked undertasty pelmeni, anyway.

During dinner my father talked, and I sat and listened. I’ve had plenty of practice. Both my parents are similar in this way; only the subject matter is different. They talk and I listen. You wouldn’t think this from meeting me, because I know I seem like a talker, but it’s only because I was trained by the best. My whole young life I sat and listened. Tonight I was glad to let my father do the talking. It allowed me to concentrate on my inadequate pelmeni. Also it allowed me to not think about Shepelevo. Also, I was tired.

We did not talk about Shepelevo.

Occasionally when my father would take a breath or light a smoke, I took it as an opening and breathed out a word. Sometimes he heard.

He must have been tired too.

In between a double vodka and a beer chaser, my father told me stories about WWII. He tells very good stories.

He talked about Stalin’s 194 unheeded warnings to his Communist colleagues about Hitler’s planned invasion of Russia.

He talked about Hitler’s passionate speech in response to Roosevelt’s diplomatic one that made my father realize Roosevelt was a politician while Hitler was a madman, a creative genius who would never compromise. A genius who sent ten million German boys to their deaths so he could stand on his principle.

“What was that principle, Papa?”

“Principle?” he asked, as if surprised by the question. “Why, that German supremacy was all, of course. That the Aryan supremacy had to be achieved at all cost. At whatever the cost.”

Then he started talking about the final solution, how it undermined Hitler’s war effort and in the end cost him the war, because so many of his resources were fed into the extermination machine.

“Instead of transporting arms and weapons and soldiers to the Eastern front, he transported Jews to Poland. How many millions of men did that cost him? He didn’t care. It cost him the war. In the end, he didn’t care about that either.”

“I’m surprised,” I said, “that he didn’t build more concentration camps in Germany.”

“He built them,” my father said, “where there was the least resistance.” He paused. “Also the largest number of Jews.”

He spoke at length about the madness of World War I, fought over a misunderstanding over nothing, a war that was continued twenty-one years later to the cost of half of the world’s young men.

As soon as I started to talk about the U.S. Civil War and the casualties America too had suffered, he lit a cigarette and changed the subject: to his impending retirement to Hawaii.

“Does it scare you, Papa?” I asked. “You’ve worked now for how many years?”

“In America, Munich and Prague? Altogether twenty-five. I will have worked two months short of twenty-five years for Radio Liberty. My whole American life. Does it scare me? Well, what do you think? But—” and here he shook his head, and lit another cigarette after a long pause. “There is no other way. I have to go. Your mother won’t have it any other way.”

“She says work, make more money,” I said, jokingly. Actually, my mother really did say that. She said, “I tell him to keep on working, but all he wants is to leave. His sanity is at stake, Paullina.”

“Her sanity is at stake, Paullina,” my father said. “She needs me. So I’m going.”

We were all meeting in New York for a couple of weeks before they flew out to Hawaii, and tonight I tried to convince him to drive cross country and stop over at Texas to visit me.

He declined — not for the first time. His health wasn’t good, he said. There were a million other reasons why he wanted to go straight to Maui and get himself in order. And then with renewed vigor, he and my mother would start traveling around the mainland. “There is so much of our beautiful country we have never seen. I can’t wait. All those western states. Your mother of course wants Las Vegas.” He rolled his eyes. “I’ll get fly fishing in Montana, she’ll get Las Vegas. Everybody wins.”

Remembering what my mother had told me the day before I left for Russia about Mauian red dust, I tried to prep him. “Maybe Hawaii is not the paradise everyone thinks it is,” I said cryptically. “Maybe there are problems you just can’t see.”

“What kind of problems?” he asked incredulously, suspiciously. Another beer, another cigarette.

“You’ll be all alone with Mama. That’s one. When was the last time you did that?”

“Never.”

“Exactly. Also wind. Have you considered that it might be windy?”

He waved his cigarette in my face. “I’m going to make Maui my permanent home. Your mama and I are going to have a wonderful time. We don’t need anybody else.”

“I see. What about fishing?”

“There is plenty of fish in the ocean, Paullina.”

“What about your garden?” Gardening and fishing were what my father loved best.

“I won’t garden. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not a young man anymore.”

“Yes,” I said. “Your own father, who does garden, is not a young man either. He just turned 91.”

“Yes, well. Maybe when I turn 91, I’ll garden too.”

He then proceeded to tell me, aside from ocean fishing and not gardening, what he was going to do every day in Maui. I found this to be the most amusing part of our evening discussion. But Papa, I wanted to tell him, nowhere in this daily schedule do you mention wiping red dust off the furniture.

He must have smoked fifteen cigarettes.

For dessert I drank too-sweet tea (my fault) and ate passable Tiramisu (Russian dessert?). My father had another cigarette.

I thought dinner went quite well, considering.

Considering it was our first dinner together just the two of us.

Ever.

One Saturday when my father was home on weekend leave from exile, he and I went out, just the two of us. It took us a long time to get where we were going. He took me by bus and by tram to the remotest part of Leningrad, to the borough of Kirov, past the Kirov Wall, not far from the soccer stadium where his favorite team, Zenith, played.

In the borough of Kirov there was a movie theatre, and every once in a while, usually on Saturdays, this movie theatre showed American movies. What a treat! That Saturday they were showing The Wizard of Oz.

We got to the theatre at noon.

The movie wasn’t starting until four.

There had been no way to check the movie times. Russian newspapers did not carry that kind of information; certainly there was no one to call.

My father said, “I’m sorry. Let’s go home.”

“Papa, please!”

“Plinka,” he said. “What are we going to do here for FOUR hours?”

I shrugged my shoulders. Like that was my problem.

He looked around. “There is nothing for us to do.” There truly wasn’t. The theatre was in the middle of a concrete industrial park. There were no gardens, no trees, no playgrounds, no bars, no stores — naturally.

The sun was shining.

“Plinka!”

“Papa.”

We stayed.

For four hours.

Finally we were inside and the movie started. Imagine my rank disappointment when it was in black and white. I was crushed. Can’t believe an American movie is in black and white, I thought. If I wanted to see a black and white movie, we could have stayed home and seen something on television about war, or gone to the theatre on Sixth Soviet. I folded my arms.

Then Dorothy landed in Oz.

She opened the door of her fallen house, and through the narrow opening I saw joyous vibrant color. I still viscerally remember my unrestrained elation.

I glanced at my dad and he was smiling. As if he had known.

“Paullina, you want to go for a walk?” It had stopped raining, was cool. I did not have a coat. I knew just what my husband would say to that. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Because I never bring a coat, even when he suggests I do.

“Sure, Papa.” It was 11:20 at night.

Wearing his nylon navy jacket, he glanced at my short-sleeved shirt. “Are you going to be cold?”

“Absolutely not,” I said, hoping it was too gray out for him to see the goose-bumps on my arms.

We strolled in the wet dusk down Nevsky Prospekt toward the river.

I was not terribly impressed by Nevsky Prospekt. I knew that the famous Russian writer Nikolai Gogol wrote in 1836 that there was “nothing finer than Nevsky Prospekt,” but I wondered if he had been abroad. Gogol continued on to say, “at least nothing like it in St. Petersburg.” Even then I had to disagree, having seen the Nevá embankment with its glorious bridges in the burnt twilight hour of midnight. When Gogol finally got down to the details of what it was precisely that made Nevsky “resplendent” for him, he mentioned “how spotlessly clean its pavements were swept.”

I’ll give him that, it was swept pretty clean.

But there was something a bit utilitarian about it; wide, treeless, it had little of that atmospheric-adorable quality I liked in my other big cities like Paris, Amsterdam and London. Paris built boulevards like no other city in the world. Amsterdam was lousy with trees and canals. London stucco gleamed wet white when you could glimpse it through thousand-year-old oaks. Why didn’t Hitler bomb all the London trees during the blitz? Why did he bomb only Leningrad’s? Or did we burn ours for fuel and that’s why we hardly had any now, fifty years later? Leningrad has not been around as long as London. The trees — well, there weren’t any. Rodeo Drive had palm trees. Fifth Avenue had the promise of Central Park just up on 59th Street. What did Nevsky Prospekt have to offer?

Well, for one, it offered me a walk with my father on a summer evening in Leningrad.

A young woman, looking like a longhaired, distraught Jennifer Mandolini, approached my father, sticking a rose in his face and asking him if he would like to buy it for his young woman. My father said, “This is not my young woman. This is my daughter.” He thought that would end it. Such was not the case. The girl stared at me, then at my father, as if she couldn’t comprehend what he had just told her. Maybe she was trying to find a family resemblance. Maybe she thought he was lying. Slowly she offered the rose to him again. I kept walking, as I heard my father repeat, “This is my daughter. One does not buy roses for his daughter.” The girl insisted. I looked at my dad and saw he was at a loss for words and about to lose his temper. He thought the matter should have ended five minutes ago, and here, at the outset, our lovely long-awaited first walk down Nevsky Prospekt was being ruined by a dimwitted flower girl. I ran around my dad, stuck myself brusquely between him and the girl, nearly pushing her away and said firmly, “No! But thank you.” Getting hold of his arm, I walked faster. She still meandered behind us for half a block until we crossed the Moika canal and lost her.

Leningrad had as many canals as Amsterdam, a city also built out of the swamp. The biggest and most famous of the canals are the Moika, the Griboyedov and the Fontanka. The difference was in the greenery. Leningrad had none.

Nevsky Prospekt buckled into the Neva and Palace Bridge. On the left of the bridge stood the golden, slender-spired Admiralty building. I saw something that looked like trees by the side of the Admiralty. To the left of Palace Bridge on the river embankment lay the green stucco Russian Baroque Winter Palace. Behind the Winter Palace was Palace Square — the Palace’s backyard, so to speak.

“Paullina, you’ve seen this, right? You remember this? This is one of the best city views,” my father said. I was certain of it, but I was so exhausted.

Before reaching the river, we turned right on a short, narrow street called Bolshaya Konyushennaya. We were the only ones walking. Ahead of us I saw Arc of the General Staff Building, and through it Alexander’s Column in the middle of Palace Square. Beyond it glowed the Winter Palace.

“Well, what do you think? What do you think?”

I thought it was dark. The sky was cloudy. There was no sun. I could barely place one foot in front of the other.

“It’s incredible,” I said.

Crossing the Palace Square as if we were in Doctor Zhivago, or as if Warren Beatty was about to storm the Winter Palace to help the Bolsheviks take power in Reds, we came out on the Neva embankment.

“Look at this river,” said my father, in a voice full of yearning. He lit a cigarette.

What was he yearning for? I didn’t want to ask him and ruin his moment. He was feeling things; I just wished I knew what they were.

After we passed the palace, my father stopped on a bridge over a small canal. “This is the Winter Canal Bridge. The canal separates the old Palace from the new Palace. Here, Pushkin’s Liza fell to her death, in his story, Queen of Spades. You remember that story?”

“Of course,” I said. “You named both your daughters right out of that story.”

He laughed. “That’s right. Liza and Paullina.”

We stood and stared at the rippling water. “Well, let’s walk along the Moika,” my father said. “Then we better head back. It’s late and it’s a long way.”

“Okay. If you say so.” How many more times in my life would I have a walk like this with my dad?

“Look at the Neva, Paullina,” my father repeated. “Isn’t it so beautiful?”

The night bleached out what the eyes did not want to see. The night was God’s denial. So when he asked, “Isn’t this so beautiful?” there was nothing to stop me from saying, “Yes.” And I meant it with all my heart.

It was after midnight and there was no one on the streets. On the Moika canal we passed Pushkin’s house. Alexander Pushkin was the greatest of all Russian poets; his poetry is the embodiment of the soul of the Russian people. Pushkin wrote the poem The Bronze Horseman, having been inspired by the monument to Peter the Great that Catherine the Great commissioned as a tribute to the tsar in 1792.

I stopped and touched the door to Pushkin’s house. I said, “Papa, I really want to come back here another day.”

“Yes, because we have infinite time,” my father said, without stopping.

After Pushkin’s house, we crossed Griboyedov canal and came to stand in front of the place Tsar Alexander II was slain. In his memory, a glorious cathedral was built called Spas Na Krovi — Savior of Spilt Blood or Church of the Resurrection.

The church was closed.

“I really would like to come back here another day.”

“Paullina, you cannot do everything.”

“I don’t want to do everything,” I said. “I just want to come back here.”

After the earlier downpour, the sky was darker than yesterday and offered no view of the setting sun. Still it looked like the end of dusk in New York on a summer night.

We were walking slower and slower. By the time we got to my hotel, we were barely inching forward.

I attempted to get my father a taxi in front of Grand Hotel Europe, but the bell captain talked me out of it, saying it would cost us a prohibitive amount, so much that he didn’t want to tell me for fear of frightening me. “I don’t want to frighten you,” he said.

“Frighten me, frighten me.”

Shaking his head, he told us to go to the corner of Mikhailovskaya and Nevsky and hail a cab from there. “Be sure to negotiate before getting in,” he added.

My father walked up to the taxi driver. “How much to Ulitsa Dybenko?”

The cab driver appraised my father. “A hundred rubles.”

“Done.”

“Nice negotiating,” I said to my father.

Before he got in the cab, he asked me to call Anatoly and Ellie and tell them he would be arriving in twenty minutes and have one of them come downstairs and wait for him, because he did not want to be dialing their apartment number in the dark and then waiting in the dark for the door to open.

Not to mention fighting with the elevator, I thought.

“Sure, I’ll call them,” I said, but forgot as soon as I got back to my room.

I remembered after I ran my bath. When I called, Ellie answered. “He’s already here.”

My father was going to be pleased with me.

Before I got in the bath, I called my grandparents in New York. Babushka picked up the phone. “Babushka,” I said, “you can’t talk, you can’t say a word, because it’s costing me five dollars a minute to call you, but I just wanted to tell you, we found Babushka Dusia’s grave. We found it.”

My grandmother started to cry.

“You think it was Yulia? You think Yulia is taking care of it?” she asked with hope.

I thought of our decrepit blue dacha.

“Not sure, Babushka. Maybe someone else?”

My great grandmother’s grave would have been abandoned too, if not for some kind soul still living in Shepelevo who weeded the grass and put fresh flowers by the gravestone. It wasn’t the Likhobabins.

The bath was too hot. I think I fell asleep in it. At one point I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again I was still in the bath. I had made it too hot, to soothe my aching joints. When I crawled out, something was hurting, breaking me in two.

I slept with the windows open and the light from the dawning sky streaming in.

THE THIRD DAY, WEDNESDAY

I hadn’t talked to my children since I left New York. I missed them. It seemed hard to believe it had only been three days, and not three years.

There was a time zone issue that was more difficult to get around than when I was in England. Nine hours meant that when I woke up at eight in the morning, it was eleven in the evening in Dallas, and the kids were sleeping. When I came home at one in the morning, it was four in the afternoon Dallas time, and the kids were napping.

In England I had bought a phone card and periodically during my day I would stop at any old phone booth and call the kids.

Good luck with that in Leningrad.

Yesterday, when I told my grandmother that it was costing me five dollars a minute, I had just been saying that. I didn’t really know, I had said it for emphasis. This morning I looked at the phone rate card.

It had cost me 8 UNITS A MINUTE to call her.

Once I got over the initial shock, I didn’t mind the phone call to her; it was worth it. What I did mind was talking to my babysitter Monday afternoon for ten minutes as she informed me that she was changing apartments for the third time in six months. Somehow $80 didn’t seem worth that.

I called Kevin and told him that from now on he had to call me, because otherwise the phone calls were going to put us out of our new house.

It then took me an hour to get ready. I was achy and slow.

For breakfast, I had my usual buffet of blini with red caviar.

Before I met my father, I went to a room off the glass mezzanine, labeled Business Services, and inquired about the use of a computer.

The helpful blonde behind the desk told me it would cost me 15 UNITS per hour. “Would you like to book the computer now?” she asked. They only had the one.

I looked around. There was no one in the room. “Is there a need … to book?” I inquired.

“Oh, yes, we get quite busy. Especially if you want two hours. We can book now if you want.”

I booked for the following day at 8 o’clock in the morning. When else could I sit down and write? But I felt I needed to. The few scribbled pages at the end of the night just weren’t enough. Too many things were filling up my day and my head. I didn’t want to forget any of it.

My father must have struggled with getting up himself, because he was quite late, picking me up at quarter past eleven. I waited a long time for him on the street.

He met me with our driver Viktor and another man, whose name was also Viktor. He was Viktor Ryazunkov, a dark, bearded, neatly-dressed colleague of my father’s from the Radio Liberty bureau in Leningrad.

When my father introduced us, he said, “Paullina, this is the Viktor who forgot to tell me about the guard post on highway A-121.”

Viktor R. looked sheepish. Then he kissed my hand.

I smiled. “Viktor, do you think it could have anything to do with that accidental nuclear reactor spill in Sosnovy Bor in 1992?”

Raising his voice, my father exclaimed, “This is six years later! Why are they letting people go the back way if they’re trying to keep out outsiders from Sosnovy Bor?”

“You tell me, Papa,” I said. “I’m just an observer.”

No one had an answer. I asked what we were doing today. We were supposed to go to the Siege of Leningrad museum. My father said, “The first thing we have to do is go to the Marble Palace with Viktor and Viktor to get accredited for the Romanov funeral on Friday. It won’t take but a minute.”

Marble Palace

The words Marble Palace meant nothing to me until I walked inside and saw the wide gray marble stairs leading up to a hall on the third floor. When I saw the marble stairs an image rose up in my head, a feeling in my heart, a hazy recollection of something that had happened on these stairs. Wait, I said. That’s impossible. I’ve never been here before. But that thought was pushed away, and the emotion returned, a vague discomfort, a disturbance; I poked around for it and saw that it resembled fear.

Fear?

I couldn’t move. I heard my father’s voice, “Paullina, let’s go, why are you always lagging behind?”

How could I be feeling fear by looking at marble? What was going on?

Dimly an old memory relit: my young teacher fainting here. I saw her fall down, saw her young body on the marble stairs. I was so small, I didn’t understand what fainting was. I had never seen anyone faint before. I thought she had died.

That was the fear.

I looked at the stairs again, up and down. I saw the cracked marble under my old brown shoes as I walked up in my brown uniform and white apron.

Every 21 January, my school would go to the Marble Palace to commemorate the death of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin.

In twenty five years I had never thought about the Marble Palace. It had fallen off my memory radar. As I walked through the courtyard, I didn’t know I had ever been there.

If someone had said to me, you had been there, I would have denied it. I would have denied it with all my heart, denied it to my death. But something got stirred up — either because of the grayness of the marble, or the span of the staircase.

I was small and I would walk up in line with the rest of my class in kindergarten to stand in the great big marble hall on the third floor and listen to songs and speeches about Lenin.

Once housing the Lenin Museum, after the Great Thaw of 1991, it was renamed back to the Marble Palace and now contains the permanent exhibition on the Romanovs. The museum is, I think, in the process of being restored. Either that or the palace is in chaotic disarray. Restoration and disarray look remarkably the same in Russia. The same peeling paint, the same chipped stucco, the same dirt and dust and rotted out window frames. And outside in the courtyards the same haphazard mess.

On the third floor I caught up with my father, and we went inside a large rectangular room with 40 foot ceilings, 30 foot windows, marble floors and marble columns. It seemed right but it was all shabby. It was called the Marble Room.

In one corner, a table and bulletin board were set up, and about a hundred people milled around, standing dumbly in two confused clusters.

For the lack of any information, we went to the right. After standing on the right for five minutes, we moved over to the left and stood there for five minutes. Finally we asked the person ahead of us what we were waiting for. He shrugged.

We asked another man, a Russian-speaker. He didn’t know either. We were all there supposedly to get an accreditation for the funeral, but no one knew the procedure and we couldn’t get close enough to the table to ask anyone who actually knew.

Viktor R. went off and came back five minutes later with some information.

“We have to stand here, until we reach those people over there, and then we give them our name and they take our photo over here.”

“And then?” Papa asked.

“Then we wait in the line to the left to get our accreditation pin.”

“Oh.”

We waited for ten minutes, until we got to the front. The girl behind the desk, giddy with knowledge and self-satisfaction told us we had been standing in the wrong line. “Before we take your photo, you need to give your name to the girl over here,” she said pointing to the girl next to her.

“Well, can we just give her our name?” I said. “She is sitting right next to you.”

“No!” she said. “You have to stand on her line. In the middle. You give her your name, and she will look it up in her log book to verify that you actually filled out an accreditation application.”

Oh.

So we went to stand in the middle line. Viktor R. said apologetically, “I already got mine done yesterday. There was nobody here. I did it in fifteen minutes. Today is the deadline for getting the press card. That’s why everyone is here.”

My father nodded. “So why are you here if you already did it yesterday?”

“Why, to help you out, Yuri Lvovich,” Viktor R. said.

For the lack of anything else to do, I read the notices on the bulletin board next to us.

“Now why,” I asked, “couldn’t we have a small, no, tiny, notice regarding the procedure for accreditation? I’m not saying anyone should remove these long letters from members of the Romanov family to the media that no one besides the really bored is tempted to read. God forbid. I’m saying, right alongside the Romanov letters, couldn’t we have had even a handwritten note about what to do when we got here?”

Viktor R. shrugged. My father didn’t answer, preferring to wait with the dogged look of someone who had waited in Soviet lines all his life and was quite prepared to do so again.

Finally we were at the front of the desk again. After giving our names, we shifted over to the line on the right, to get our picture taken. In the forty minutes we had been there, the crowd had swelled appreciably. Many more people now tried to muscle their way to the line on the right, without realizing they had to give their name first to the invisible line in the middle..

After we got our pictures taken, we moved all the way over to the cluster on the left.

I say cluster because line is too orderly a term. Line would imply a sense of purpose — that we were all waiting for something.

We noticed several people handing over fifty rubles at a time to the teenage-looking clerks giving out accreditation cards. Wondering if we could just buy an accreditation and get out of there, Viktor R. asked what the money was for.

Apparently it was a form of a bribe called a fine. It worked like this: Yes, today is the absolute deadline, but if you want to come and get your accreditation tomorrow, it will cost you 50 rubles payable now and in cash please. Then you can come back any time you want.

We got our photo IDs and left quickly, taking the wide gray marble stairs two at a time. On the landing, an enterprising woman had a table full of books about the tsar. I bought a Nicholas II book and some St. Petersburg postcards. A man appeared and loudly informed the seller she couldn’t sell merchandise on the marble stairs. “I don’t know who told you you could but you can’t. You have to move right now.”

When we walked outside, we stood in the courtyard for a few minutes, as my father smoked.

“Paullina, pay attention,” Viktor the driver said. “See this statue? It’s a very famous equestrian statue of Alexander III.”

“Oh?”

“Paullina, do you remember?” my father asked. “It was built on Insurrection Square?”

“Insurrection Square?”

“Yes,” he said impatiently. “Where we used to catch the metro.”

“Oh, that Insurrection Square.”

I looked at the statue again, trying to jog my memory. I did faintly recall the square where we used to catch the metro but not the statue.

“What was here in the courtyard before?”

“Lenin’s armored car.”

“Where is that now?”

“In the scrap yard,” replied my father, smoking.

Changing the subject, I asked, “So what do we wear to the funeral?”

“I don’t know,” my father said. “Viktor, can you get us inside the church?” He turned to me. “Because otherwise, I will guarantee, we will see nothing. Mark my words.”

“No, no, Yuri Lvovich. That’s not so,” said Viktor R., promising nonetheless he would make a couple of calls and try to get my father and me in.

“Forget me,” my father said. “Just get Paullina in. She has to see it. She is the writer.”

“I don’t want to go without you, Papa.”

“Forget me. You have a black dress at least?”

I looked at him dumbly. “Didn’t I tell you to bring a suit?” said my father. “What do you think that meant?”

“I thought it meant bring a suit. So I brought my best suit. My best, taupe-colored suit.”

Papa waved his hand at me. “What can I tell you. I brought a black suit—”

“You told me it was blue.”

“It’s dark blue. So dark it can pass for black. Can your taupe suit pass for black?”

“No.”

“No. Of course not. That’s why I’m going to be inside the church and you will be out on the cobblestones. You’ll look good though.”

“I will go and buy a black dress,” I said. “My hotel has a boutique. I’m sure they sell a black dress.”

Viktor R. told me not to buy anything until tomorrow — the day before the funeral — when he would find out if we could get inside the church. “I don’t know if I can do it. It’s only big enough for 300 people and political leaders are coming from all over the world. I’ll try.”

“Oh,” I said. “Political leaders from all over the world. It’s a big deal then. Is Yeltsin coming?”

Viktor R. shook his head. “No. Yeltsin is not coming. There is a bit of controversy over this whole funeral thing. You know.”

“Yeltsin is not coming? What controversy?”

“Well …” Viktor R. looked at my father, who took a deep puff of his cigarette and shrugged as if to say, I’m tired of talking about it.

“The controversy is — well, the communists did kill the Romanovs.”

“Yes, but Yeltsin didn’t personally kill them,”

But I knew this: he might not have killed them but he did burn down the house in which they had been murdered.

“So let me ask you, are any Russian political leaders going to be at the funeral to greet the arriving world political leaders?”

“Yes,” said my father. “Yeltsin is sending Lebed.”

Alexander Lebed was the governor of Krasnoyarsk, a region of Siberia.

“The Archbishop of the Russian Orthodox Church is very upset at Yeltsin,” said Viktor R.

“He is? Why? Because he wants him to go to the funeral?”

“Well … it’s more complicated than that.”

I glanced at my father who was just wilting. Turning back to Viktor R., I asked, “What’s complicated? Yeltsin is not going. The Archbishop is angry.”

“No, the Archbishop is angry because Yeltsin is permitting the Romanovs to be buried in a non-religious, devoid-of-sacred-meaning place like Peter and Paul’s. It was a museum for 70 years, you know.”

“How can a church be non-religious?” I said.

“The communists have made it secular. The archbishop wants the Romanovs to be buried in a church in Ekaterinburg.”

“That’s why he is upset at Yeltsin?”

“No,” Viktor R. said patiently. “He is upset with Yeltsin for not going to the service. He figures if the Romanovs are going to be buried in a godless place like Peter and Paul’s, the least Yeltsin can do is pay his respects.”

“Oh, dear,” I said. “That’s why the Archbishop is not going to the funeral?”

“No,” Viktor R. said patiently. “He is not going because he doesn’t think the Romanovs should be buried in any church at all.”

“But didn’t you just say …?”

“If they are going to be buried anywhere, they should be buried in Ekaterinburg where they were murdered. But he thinks they shouldn’t be buried at all.”

“They shouldn’t be buried?”

“No,” said Viktor. “The Archbishop wants them to be canonized, as do many people. If sainthood is bestowed upon them, they can’t be buried.”

“Why not?”

“Relics aren’t buried. They’re displayed in churches across Russia.”

“But what if they’re not canonized?”

“Then they can be buried.”

“How long will the canonization process take?”

“I don’t know,” said Viktor. “Ten, twenty years.”

“Ladies and gentlemen!” my father exclaimed impatiently. “Can we please go?”

We walked out of the courtyard and got into Viktor’s car.

My father who said he was hungry invited the two Viktors to come have lunch with us. “My treat,” he said. “It’s not every day your boss buys you lunch.”

The two Viktors heartily agreed.

The Marble Palace sits on the north side of the Field of Mars, named no doubt for its Parisian peer, the Champs du Mars. The Field of Mars is a park about thirty acres in size, used as a training and parade ground for the Soviet military. In the middle of it burns an eternal flame in memory of the heroes of first 1917 Russian Revolution that deposed Nicholas II, now at the center of the uproar over the disposition of his remains.

As we drove past the Field of Mars, my father said to me, “See this Field of Mars? If you only knew how much of my youth I spent here with my friends. What great times we had. Yes, it holds many memories for me. See the eternal flame in the middle of the field?”

“Yes, it’s beautiful.”

“Late at night, my buddies and I used to cook a shish-ke-bob over that flame,” he said. “And wash it down with vodka. Those were the days.”

We went to a café called Laima for lunch. I came to Russia to have some of my favorite Russian food — salad Olivier, mushroom barley soup, pelmeni, caviar. At Laima they sold hamburgers, hot dogs, chicken. If I wanted a burger I could have gone to a Wendy’s back home. They offered a bit of Russian food. I ordered Brussels mushroom soup and salad Olivier.

The Brussels in the title meant my mushroom soup was cream of mushroom, which was so not what I wanted, while my salad Olivier was just ordinary potato salad. I glanced longingly over at Viktor’s potato salad, which for some reason looked better. “Take it,” he said. “No, really. Go right ahead.”

“I couldn’t,” I said. “I really couldn’t.”

I took it. It was better. Viktor ate mine.

At Laima we planned the rest of our day. Rather, my father planned the rest of our day, and we just ate and listened. He told us the first thing we would do is let Viktor R. go back to work.

“Very kind of you,” Viktor R. said.

Then we would let our driver Viktor drive us to Piskarev Cemetery, where victims of the Leningrad blockade were buried in civilian and military graves.

“Then—” he said and broke off. “Well, what do you want to do then? Do you want to go to the Hermitage Museum and to the Siege of Leningrad Museum? We can go to the Hermitage for an hour, but then Viktor will drive us to your old school and then, he will drive us—”

“Whoa, whoa, Papa,” I said, stopping him right there. “What do you mean, ‘drive?’ I thought we were going to walk?”

He paused. “Walk from where? From Piskarev? Are you crazy? Do you know how far it is?” The other two men smiled at this. “It’s on the other side of the city.”

“No,” I patiently went on. “I thought we agreed that Viktor was going to drop us off at the record store, and then we would walk to my school and to Fifth Soviet?”

Silence at the table. Finally my father sighed. “All right, Viktor. You will take us to Piskarev, and then you will drive us to the record store and there we will say good-bye. We will walk to Paullina’s school and then to Fifth Soviet. Afterward we will take the metro to Anatoly’s place and have dinner—”

“Whoa, whoa,” I said. “I didn’t know we were going to Anatoly’s place for dinner. Didn’t we just have dinner there?” I said that, but I really couldn’t recall when exactly we had dinner at Anatoly’s. It seemed a long time ago. I just didn’t want to have dinner there again so soon. There was too much to do.

Papa shook his head. Everyone ate their food. “We have to go to Anatoly’s,” he said. “You don’t know the pressure I’m under. They want you to come and stay in their apartment. We have to go.” By way of enticing me, he added, “Ellie made blueberry pie with the blueberries you bought yesterday.”

“She did?”

“Yes. And borscht.”

“Also with my blueberries?”

“Don’t be fresh. She thought borscht was your favorite soup.”

“Did you tell her I prefer mushroom barley?” I said, finishing up my inadequate cream of mushroom.

“You’re lucky you’re being fed at all,” my father snapped. “Do you eat anything at all in Texas? Can you even afford to eat?”

The Viktors chuckled. There is nothing my father likes more than an appreciative audience.

“We have to go, Paullina,” he said. “They made us borsht. Ellie has been cooking all day. Also they’re going to show films of you when you were a baby, and of your mother when I first met her. Don’t you want to see them?”

“All right,” I said.

“They really want to do this for us.”

“I said, all right.”

Viktor and Viktor just sat and smiled.

After lunch, Viktor R. went back to work, and our driver Viktor drove us north to Piskarev Cemetery.

The Oak Leaves of Mother Russia

Piskarev Memorial Cemetery is located on the Prospekt of the Nepokorennykh. Avenue of the Unconquered.

The Russians may have remained the unconquered, but there was still nowhere to park. Apparently the only way to come to the cemetery was by public transportation, though we didn’t see much of it as we parked by the curb. The wide prospekt was empty — of people and of public transportation. It was Wednesday, the middle of the week. People were working, I guessed, not visiting cemeteries. I just expected to see more life, I came to see more of it. What about the people who didn’t work? Mothers with babies? Old people?

The cemetery was surrounded by a five foot tall stone wall. Over the wall lay a pleasant-looking green pond, with an island in the middle and benches all around. It was subdued and tranquil. A few people sat on the benches. A few others walked through the tree-covered paths.

Once we walked through the gates I instantly saw that this was not the Arlington Cemetery in Washington D.C. or the St. Laurent Cemetery of Omaha beach.

No white crosses here. No separate graves here.

The cemetery was laid out in a large rectangle about the size of a football field. We stood on a hill at one short end. In front of us burned another eternal flame.

“Did you cook shish-ke-bob here too?” I asked my father jokingly and then saw by his horrified face that he had not.

It was one thing to cook meat on the memory of the communist revolution, it was another to burn it on the flame of the dead of The War.

Across the length of the cemetery on the other end rose the statue of Mother Russia holding oak leaves in her hands. Before her, rectangular grass-covered mounds spread out, thirty feet wide by a hundred feet long.

This was a mass grave cemetery.

Five hundred thousand people were buried here, civilian and military casualties of the blockade, twenty five thousand per mound.

To distinguish between civilian and military victims, the graves were labeled with a red hammer and sickle for the civilian or with a red star for the military.

The bodies were brought here for burial starting in 1942. The War ended in 1945, but the cemetery didn’t open to the public until 1960.

I motioned for my father to come with me down to the grave sites, but he showed no inclination to do so. He continued to mill around the two square white concrete buildings at the gate the cemetery. I walked back to him.

“I’m looking for the Siege of Leningrad museum,” he explained.

I told him that according to my map, the Defense of Leningrad museum was located elsewhere. Viktor disagreed. “I came here with my school,” he said. “It’s here.”

“Okay,” I said. “Papa, why don’t you come down to the graves with me?”

“No,” he said. “You go. I’ll wait for you here.”

I stood near the eternal flame. It was a beautiful day. It was breezy, about 60°F and brightly sunny.

I slowly walked down the 40 steps and through the graves, keeping my eye on the statue of mother Russia, holding out her hands to me in mercy and judgment.

I walked very slowly because, the air, the very atmosphere was charged differently than it was anywhere I had been to so far. Besides oxygen and nitrogen and carbon dioxide there was something else here. It felt heavier, quieter, more ominous.

There were few places where I have felt the same numinous spirituality. History, death, the angels, the war, suffering, all mingling with the graves and the red tulips in the flower beds. The air wasn’t light, it wasn’t diaphanous. No, it was thick with death, and in the quiet stillness of the paralysis of this cemetery with its languid Mother Russia and its perfectly formed mounds, and simple military stars and hammer and sickles, what cried out was the violence of death by starvation, by utter indifference. We died and we didn’t want to die, the voices from the graves whispered, we wanted to live like you and someday walk through a pretty park, we wanted to feel the July Leningrad sun on our faces but we weren’t as lucky and we died a pitiful death, and we’re still here.

That’s what I walked through: anguish and desperation and a desire for life. No wonder I was walking slowly. I stopped before I got to the end. I couldn’t be here anymore. It was too much.

As I turned back something clicked inside me: I have been here once before, with my grandmother. She took me one afternoon when I had been staying with her. My mother was visiting my father in labor camp. I remembered it had been far to walk from the bus; we walked anyway. My grandmother played a word game with me, and that made the time pass. I was maybe six.

Here the past remained present amid the graves, all laid out like hills. Too many souls inside this cemetery, too many unfinished lives. This was different than a walk in the park. The spirit world was too close to the physical world here. No peace was to be found among these righteous dead. All five hundred thousand ceaselessly walked the promenade keeping the past with them, and I must have stumbled upon it like the blind into a wall. I could hear them screaming … I didn’t want to die, I was young like you, and I loved, like you, but love and youth weren’t enough to keep me alive.

Here you are six years old, walking with your Babushka among us. You’re playing a game and you are hungry, and a little tired. We surround you with our suffering that you can’t ease.

I looked around for a bench to sit on. I lowered myself, and immediately saw my father at the top of the forty stairs, He was motioning to me; faintly I heard his voice. He didn’t come down to get me. He called for me through five hundred thousand dead souls. “Paullina, Paullina …”

I got up and walked to him.

“We found the museum,” he said, looking at me. “Are you all right?” but he didn’t wait for my reply, having already turned, he was walking ahead to the square white building.

He and Viktor found a way into the museum, housed in two concrete structures, Part One and Part Two. Inside Part One a 30 by 30 foot room, all gray concrete and darkly lit. Barely lit, I should say, to convey the mood of doom.

It took my eyes a few minutes to adjust to the darkness.

The only light in the room came from the poorly lit photographs and words telling the story of the siege of Leningrad.

I stood sickly fascinated by the size of the bread ration given to the Leningraders during the first terrible winter of the siege, 1941-42.

Now I knew what 125 grams of bread looked like, even if it was behind glass and I couldn’t touch it. It wasn’t 125 grams of a crusty loaf. It wasn’t 125 grams of a bagel. It was 125 grams of a dark, porous, unhealthy substance, and I knew why. The flour was cut with glue and paper and wood shavings before it was baked. There wasn’t enough flour in Leningrad to give to two million people 125 grams of rye or pumpernickel each.

3.8 ounces a day. Military personnel got 8 ounces of bread a day. They were defending the country. They needed more.

Manual laborers 6 ounces of bread a day. Children and old people 3 ounces. I looked closer. My son Misha drops more than that on the floor every breakfast as he sucks the cream cheese off the bagel. Kevie rejoices in feeding twice that to the dogs every meal.

I couldn’t move away from the bread. My father tugged at my sleeve. “I can’t go yet, Papa,” I whispered.

He pulled me away to read Hitler’s instructions to his Group Army Nord on the demolishing of Leningrad by hunger. Quickly he pulled me away from that to read a brief diary of a young girl named Tanya Savicheva, whose entire family had died in Leningrad leaving only her alive. “Only Tanya left …” she wrote in her last entry.

She died too in 1942. Now my father was the one who had to look away from me.

We moved away from Tanya Savicheva, from Hitler, from bread and began studying a mercifully abstract map of the siege when a tall thin old man slowly came to stand next to me. He was silent for a moment. He started explaining the map to me.

The man’s name was Yuliy Yulievich Gneze. He was 76-years old. At 19 he had been a Red Army soldier fighting to defend Leningrad. When Stalin finally decided to open a second front in Volkhov, in December, 1941, Gneze was transferred there to attack the Germans from the rear. On the map he showed me the places where fighting had been the most severe. He showed me why and how the Germans always sought out the topographically highest positions from which to systematically mow down the Soviets. There were two such places around Leningrad. One was the Pulkovo Heights, from where the German artillery bombed Leningrad streets for three years. The other was a place near the Volkhov front called Sinyavino Heights.

“Have you ever heard of a place called Nevsky Patch?” Gneze asked me.

I shook my head. Viktor who had been standing nearby grunted knowingly. My father, who knew everything, had long moved away from us.

“The Nevsky Patch was the slaughterhouse of Leningrad,” Gneze said. “I was nearly sent there. But I was lucky, they sent me to Volkhov instead. No one who went to Nevsky Patch came back. No one.”

“But finally …” I said.

“Finally, we pushed the Nazis out of Russia.”

Gneze was of German descent himself. He wore a little cap and in his hands he carried a loaf of bread. He told me that all his life after the war he lived close to this cemetery, and whenever he went out to run errands for his wife, he came here just to walk through the museum and around the graves.

Having been through those graves, I stood as if stunned to hear that someone willingly and daily would walk through half a million dead souls. He must be looking for someone — brother, father, mother.

“I don’t have nobody,” he said. “They’re all dead. Except my wife. I just come here to walk through the graves. To remember.”

Gneze was touched to learn that I came to Leningrad all the way from Texas to research a book about the blockade. “I wish I had known you were here,” he said. “Are you going to be here again? Because I have so much material at home about the blockade.” He looked around to find my father, and then looked at his watch, as if he were about to invite us over his apartment to split the loaf of bread with him.

As we left the museum, Gneze walked out with us, following us to the second building. He asked if I could wait, and he would run home and get me the books he had on the blockade. “I have been saving them for years and never knew why. Maybe this is just the occasion,” he said.

“Keep your books, Yuliy Yulievich,” I told him. “You should not part with your memories.”

“My memories I will not part with,” he replied. “But if the books can help you, it’s worth it.”

The second building was better lit; also the subject matter was less about death and more about vanquishing the enemy.

I asked Gneze about the Russians and Germans exchanging the wounded and the dead for medical treatment or burial. He snorted at my suggestion that the Russians and the Germans actually practiced laws of the Geneva Convention regarding prisoners of war and exchange of soldiers. “Maybe in Europe they exchanged prisoners or the dead, yes, I’m sure they did,” he said. “But not in Russia. No. It was not that kind of war.”

My father came up to me. “Okay, Paullina? Done?”

“Yes,” I said, and reluctantly walked out into blinding sunshine. We walked to our car, with Gneze walking by our side.

“See this pond over the cemetery wall? I’ll tell you something about the pond.”

I waited.

“When the Russian army collected the dead bodies for burial, they didn’t know what to do with the German corpses,” Gneze said. “At first they were going to burn them or let them rot where they fell, but in the end they couldn’t. They took pity. The Russians dumped all the Germans in one spot and covered them with the earth. Later, the city decided to fill the space with water, and it became a pond. That’s the pond you see here.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Is that funny?” Gneze said. “Benches all around, pedestrians stroll by softly, speaking in hushed tones so as not to disturb the dead.” He laughed.

“Paullina, ready to go?” my father said.

“Where are you going?” Gneze said, as if he wanted to ask to come with us.

“Today to the place we used to live,” I replied. I could see he lost interest. “But tomorrow,” I said, “we were thinking of going to Lake Ladoga. The Road of Life, you know?”

“Of course I know,” he said. “I recommend Kobona on the other side of the lake.”

“Yeah, you said. I think it might be too far for us.”

“It’s far, but it’s worth it. It’s got a great museum.”

“Oh, yeah?” I said, watching my father slowly walking away. “Is Schlisselburg worth it?”

“Schlisselburg is a must. You cannot go to Lake Ladoga without seeing Schlisselburg. It’s incredible there. And it’s got the fortress island, Oreshek, that stood against the attacking Nazis for a year and a half. You must go to the island no matter what.”

“We’ll definitely go,” I assured him.

“There is a wonderful museum in Schlisselburg, not a museum really, a Diorama, opened recently, about the breaking of the blockade. If you’re on that side, it’s not far to Nevsky Patch. Or to Kobona.”

“We’ll try,” I said, knowing full well what my father would say.

“Well, good-bye,” said Gneze, shaking my hand. He had a firm, hard handshake, like my Dedushka.

This time I followed him. He was already down the forty steps, walking through the graves, with the loaf of bread and his hat in his hands, half a cemetery in front of me. As I focused my camera on him, he turned around and stared at me. I took a picture, but I didn’t want to come any closer. I waved. Without waving back, he turned around and proceeded down the path.

The spirit of the dead began to descend on me again. I quickly needed to get back up the stairs — stairs that the dead would not ascend.

As we climbed into Viktor’s car, I looked around for some public transportation. There wasn’t any.

“Viktor, where are the buses?”

“Oh, they stop at the Square of Courage,” he said.

“Where is that?”

“About a forty minute walk from here.”

I remembered the walk being a long one by my six-year-old standards. But it turned out to be a long walk, period. You would think a bus could be re-routed to the gates of the cemetery, so that the veterans could come and pay their respects, but no, nearly sixty years later, the old soldiers, the tourists and the six-year-old girls still had to walk forty minutes.

“Where do you want to go now?” my father asked.

I was raw from Piskarev but my father was already on to the next thing. He knew there was plenty more ahead. We hadn’t even been to our old apartment on Fifth Soviet. He was saving his emotional strength.

I looked at the map. “See here,” I said, to no one in particular. “My map says the Defense of Leningrad Museum is off the Field of Mars, not far from the Marble Palace.”

“Oh, Defense of Leningrad,” said Viktor. “You should have said what you meant. Defense is different from Siege. We can go there another day.”

“That man also mentioned there was a nice museum in Kobona.”

“Paullina!” exclaimed my father. “Be serious. What do you think? How much are you prepared to do?”

“Everything.”

“That’s what I am afraid of.”

“Viktor, let’s drive past Smolny Sobor. It’s quite beautiful, and plus I used to work there,” said my father.

“Okay,” I said. “What is it?”

“It’s a church.”

“You worked in a church?”

“Well, it wasn’t a church under the Bolsheviks.” My father chuckled. “The Bolsheviks loved all the religious buildings. But the Smolny was the headquarters of the Communist Party in Leningrad before and after the government operations were relocated to Moscow.”

“So what did you do there?” I asked. “I know you didn’t work for the Communist Party.”

“No. But when I was a lawyer I came there to present my legal briefs.”

“Right inside the church?”

“No, in one of the adjacent buildings. I’ll show you. The church was used as a paper storage warehouse.”

“Paper?”

“Yes. Old documents.”

“Oh.”

We parked in front of Smolny and walked to the front to get a better look. Smolny was once a brilliant (now a faded) blue-and-white Baroque convent, designed by the ubiquitous architect Rastrelli who seemed to have designed most of Leningrad.

We stood in the open square as tourists filtered in and out. My father said said, “Isn’t it something? Ey? Isn’t it?”

It was certainly something. Would the camera hide the peeling paint? Yes, if the picture was softly focused and we stood far away. We did.

“This is one of the most beautiful churches in Leningrad,” Viktor told me. “It’s a major tourist attraction.”

That made it all the more unseemly. Couldn’t the city paint the dang thing? No, of course. That might diminish some of its degraded splendor. I nodded, wondering why my father saw the beauty, why Viktor saw the splendor, and why I saw only the shabbiness of it all.

I wasn’t more critical nor less sentimental than my father. I wanted it all to take my breath away too, I came here wanting nothing less. But I was getting things I had not bargained for and had not wanted. I was getting spirits in a cemetery, and no toilet paper in the toilets, and no toilets, and rusted fences and cardboard walls and sofas that had not been replaced in thirty years. Papa was getting Smolny.

“Did you like being a lawyer, Papa?” I asked as we stood behind the tulips, behind the cars.

“It was certainly ironic,” he replied. “Me defending the factory from worker’s complaints.” I agreed that indeed it was pretty ironic, my dad, the most ardent anti-communist around working for the government since all factories were government-owned.

“Do you see the street leading away from Smolny? At the end of that street was my jail.”

Something stirred inside me. “Your jail? What’s the name of the street?”.

“Shpalernaya. We called the jail Shpalerka. Take a picture for Mama of me with the street in the background. It’ll just kill her.”

I pointed my camera at my father and Shpalernaya Ulitsa, but childhood got in the way of the viewfinder. I couldn’t see clearly. “Was this where I came to visit you that one time?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “This was where you came with Mama.”

The Blue Sky

“Daddy, why is the sky blue?”

“Because God made it that way.”

“Why did God make it that way?”

“Because he liked the color blue for the sky.”

“Daddy?”

“Hmm?”

“Why is the grass green?”

“Because God liked the color green for the grass.”

“Daddy, why didn’t God make the sky green and the grass blue?”

“Because a green sky would look stupid.”

“Why didn’t God think a blue sky would look stupid?”

“Why don’t we ask mommy when we get home?”

“Why would mommy know something you wouldn’t?”

“Because mommy knows everything daddy doesn’t.”

“Like what?”

“Like why you are the most curious little girl in the world, and now I know why mommy doesn’t go for walks with you.”

“Are you the most curious daddy?”

“No, why?”

“Because mommy doesn’t go for walks with you either.”

I was a little girl then. Cheerful and curious. I had a mommy who loved me and a daddy to whom I was everything. And he was everything to me. He played wild games with me. He threw me up in the air so high I thought I might never come down. Mommy always used to yell at him for throwing me up high like that, but he did it anyway. Behind her back, he did it, and then we would laugh because it was our secret, our world. He was the one who took me to kindergarten and for walks. He was the one who bought me ice cream and took me to see funny cartoons at the movies. I went everywhere with him, and I waited outside while he went into a pub to get himself a beer. Mommy stayed home and cooked dinner.

Suddenly daddy disappeared. Mommy started taking me to kindergarten. She brought me home. We ate dinner alone and went to sleep alone. There were no more walks. Mommy sent me out to play by myself.

This went on for nearly a year until one day in April, mommy and I took a walk. On a misty and miserable Leningrad afternoon, she held me by the hand. She didn’t talk, and I didn’t talk.

We walked for a long time and came to a big gate, the kind that fortresses have when they don’t want anybody coming in. Mommy rang the bell and a man opened the gate for us. We walked in. She squeezed my hand, but I had no feeling. I wasn’t nervous or scared or shocked. I was a little numb.

Mommy held my hand tight and then a man in uniform led us somewhere and followed him through a dark, smelly yard and then we came to a dark hallway with gray walls. It didn’t look like anything I had seen before. I didn’t care. I knew I wouldn’t see it again.

Finally we stopped walking after the man unlocked a door and showed us into a room. It was a tiny cubicle of a room with dirty, beige walls and a naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. The man told my mother to wait and left. The room was empty except for a chair, my mother, and me.

After a while we heard footsteps and the door opened. A guard came in. He was big and not friendly. Then another guard came in, with my father.

Daddy didn’t look like I remembered him. He looked tired and unshaven. He came to me and hugged me very tight. Then he sat down on the chair and put me on his lap and told me not to be scared. I wish I could have told him that I wasn’t scared, that mommy was scared and he should be telling this to her not me, but he kept on. He told me he would be home soon and that we would go for walks again. He kept telling me not to be scared. He talked to my mother a little bit. Soon the guard who was watching us all the while said time was almost up. Mommy hugged me because she thought I was going to cry. But I wasn’t thinking of crying. I was thinking of nothing. My daddy had tears in his eyes, and when they took him away, he looked back at us, and then the guard closed the door. In a few minutes a man came to show us the way out, and my mother again took my hand.

I am five years old.

My mother and my grandparents told me daddy was on a business trip. They all told me he would be coming back soon. My mother went to visit him two times and didn’t take me. I stayed with my grandmother. On one of those stays with her, she took me for a walk to Piskarev Cemetery. I turned six and then seven.

I never asked about this business trip. Was his business so important to him that I had to be walked to kindergarten by my silent mother every day? I stopped listening to adult conversation. God forbid I should overhear anything. God forbid I should overhear he wasn’t coming back.

He did come back though, when I was nearly eight. I was in Shepelevo, and it was nap time, around four in the afternoon. I was lying on my bed reading when I heard my grandmother exclaim from the kitchen, “There comes my son.” I ran to Yulia’s room and looked out of her window and saw my father and mother walking arm in arm down the hill near the cemetery.

He came back just the way I remembered him.

Not in that room with the chair and the naked bulb, but in the days before he left, clean-shaven and smiling.

I never cried for my father, I never shed a tear for his absence, but I had tears in my eyes in Shepelevo. I was so happy he came back. I jumped up and down on my bed, and then he came to me, and I still remember hugging him tight enough to break his neck, and my mother standing next to us, patting me gently on the back.

Shpalerka

My mother did tell me once when I was 20, “Yes, when we left Papa’s prison, you held my hand very tight. We walked all the way home, and you didn’t say a word. Usually we can’t shut you up, but that time you walked silently. It rained all the way home.”

My father spent a year in the Shpalerka jail. Then he was tried and convicted and sentenced to two years hard labor in Mordovia labor camp, south of Moscow.

Once when I expressed regret at my father’s suffering, my mother sent me a poem by a Russian poetess, Anna Akhmatova that elevates the abandoned woman’s suffering to a high art as she waits near the prison gates to give a package to her lover, who’s in jail. “That is me, Paullina,” she wrote. “And whatever your father might say about it, it was I not he who stood at those prison gates, while he sat happily in jail. It was I, not he, who stood near the iron gates to give him a package. He quickly forgot that.”

We looked at this jail now, at the gate that was still there, and my father said, “Yes, this is where you came to visit me with your mother and your grandmother.”

That stunned me. Babushka came too? I have no memory of her on that day, none.

“She was not in the room with us, was she?” I asked my father.

“Yes, she was,” he replied. Go figure. I couldn’t find her in my five year old soul.

At the rear of the jail were the KGB headquarters. The jail itself looked like a typical four-storey Leningrad building.

“They thought they were so clever,” my father said. “See the building? It’s nothing but a façade. There is no building. It’s just pretend windows and pretend doors, as ramshackle as everything else on the street. Behind the fake windows was the prison yard and the cells. Amazing isn’t it? Right in the middle of town, next to Smolny Sobor, not far from Neva. Nothing is as it seems.”

The KGB headquarters were in a Bolshevik-era building, a concrete atrocity of no redeeming cultural or architectural value. But then what did I expect of the KGB headquarters? A Byzantine sensibility? Perhaps the statue of David at the front?

“So how long did it take them to try and convict you, Papa?” I asked as we reluctantly moved away from the jail and back to the car.

“Three days,” he said.

In labor camp he told me he didn’t have any sugar for two years and he hoarded the tea my mother would bring him during her visits so he could give all his friends tea on his last day in camp.

“No sugar, huh?” I said, glib, tired, in need of some facilities.

My father glanced at me meaningfully. “You understand nothing,” he said. “That was nearly the worst thing.”

Was that the worst thing, I wanted to say to him. No sugar?

I understood nothing. I lived without him for five years. But I had sugar.

During the war they didn’t have sugar.

No bread, no potatoes, no meat, no milk, no sugar. When the food storage warehouses burned near Leningrad in September of 1941, and the 10 tons of sugar blackened and melted into the earth, the city people panicked, but they could not foresee the dread to come. They could not foresee that two months later in December, 1941, one cup of that black earth would be selling on the black market for a hundred rubles.

Was not having sugar the worst thing during the siege of Leningrad too? What would my mother say, she who quoted Anna Akhmatova’s poetry every time someone would mention how much my father had suffered. “What about me?” she would say. “Did I not suffer?” Was she talking about the sugar?

I remembered Shpalerka in the same faint way I remembered Piskarev. The empty street with wide sidewalks and tall — uncommon for Leningrad — simple concrete buildings, complex only in their multi-layered unattractiveness.

Silently we got back in the car and drove past Tauride Gardens.

While we were driving, still driving, eternally driving, I saw that Viktor seemed to have no intention of ever letting us out of his car.

“Papa,” I said, “I thought you were going to have Viktor drop us off at the record store and we would walk to my school and to Fifth Soviet by ourselves?”

Silence.

“Paullina,” said my father, “you don’t understand what big distances there are between those places.”

“Papa, you told me earlier that all three places — my school, the record store, and Fifth Soviet — were really close to one another?”

He sighed. I took that to mean—

Lack of agreement. My father thought that if he just kept quiet, I wouldn’t notice we were still in the car. I kept quiet. I had too many things to think about. I asked Viktor to stop the car at one point and let me out so I could take a picture of a run-down store I could perhaps use in my Bronze Horseman story.

We drove to my school, number 169. My father didn’t want to get out of the car. But he did.

Take a snap shot of this, take a snap shot of that, he directed me. “Why are you so far away. What are you taking a picture of? Take a picture of this.”

And I will put the snapshots in the family album, of my school with broken windows and a dirty empty yard, and the peeling paint, and the sign out in front, “No walking your dogs here.”

“Take the picture of the no walking your dog sign,” he said. “Why are you so far from it? Take it up close. Take a close-up of it.”

I did as was told.

“Is this how you remember it?” he asked me.

“No,” I said. “Yes.”

But the answer was no. I remembered it full of kids, climbing trees, yelling at each other, even running. Did I remember the bars on the windows? No. Did I remember the broken windows? No. The yard was large and empty, so forlorn, so sad, so long ago. I spent only two years going to that school, less time than I spent in my kindergarten where I was from the time I was 4 until I was 7. But it was in school number 169 where I learned my first English phrase: “Take a pen.”

Appropriate, come to think of it.

In the yard there stood a slide, covered with tarp for the summer vacation. I didn’t know for certain if that was still a slide under the covers, but that’s where it had been when I was in school, and in the wintertime it wasn’t covered. During recess, we used to climb up and down, up and down. I climbed up one afternoon and fell two meters down, straight onto my back.

My mother had to leave work early and take me to the medi-clinic in the red brick hospital building near Fifth Soviet. The doctors took an x-ray of my head because after I fell I pressed my head in the white hat against the dirty wall, and the nurses thought I had hit my head.

The x-ray of my head showed, unsurprisingly, that the head was fine.

The back really hurt though. When we got home, we ate dinner, and then I sat at my desk and read, and my father lay on my bed and watched me. Every time he saw me slouch, he said, “Sit up straight. Haven’t you played enough games? Sit up straight.”

I sat up straight. My back really hurt though.

It still hurts.

“I fell off that slide,” I said to my father as we stood in the empty yard.

“What slide?”

“Remember I fell and hurt my back?”

“Not your back. You don’t remember anything, do you? It was your head.”

Shaking his head, he turned to Viktor and said, “Now I understand why she doesn’t remember anything.”

Shaking my head, I said to him, “Papa, go and stand over there and let me take a picture of you looking at the front doors of the school.”

“Why?”

“Can you do it, and then I’ll tell you?”

Reluctantly he went to stand under the shade of the trees as he looked onto the double doors. He lit a cigarette. “What was that all about?”

One morning my father, who would take me to school the few Mondays he was home, was mean and I was mad at him. So as we were walking to school, I told him that we had a new rule: parents were not allowed inside. They had to leave their children at the front door and go. They could not come inside the school like they always did. “Really?” asked my father. “Absolutely,” I said, so when we got to the school yard, I said a quick good-bye and ran up the steps, leaving him outside in the courtyard. I knew he stood and watched me go in. What I didn’t know was that he stood and watched all the other parents go up the stairs and in with their kids.

That evening, my mother said, “Why did you tell Papa parents weren’t allowed inside the school? He stood there, the poor thing, and wondered why you said that to him.”

“I was mad,” I said, my spirits much deflated.

I was eight.

“What did you do that for? Why a picture here?” he said.

“Don’t you remember?”

“Remember what?”

I told him.

He didn’t remember.

I remembered though. Nights I can’t sleep I lie in the dark and think of all the people I haven’t called and all the people I haven’t written, the image of my father springs up, fresh and raw, standing in the school yard watching all the other dads go in with their kids.

“Will you forgive me?” I said.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said. “Have you seen enough? Can we go?”

Afterward, Viktor drove us to the record store.

I was becoming pretty frustrated. “Papa,” I said, “I need to get out of the car. I need to walk and see these places.”

My father sounded exhausted, “Why can’t you see them from the car window?”

“You mean from this backseat car window?” I asked. “Because Papa, I’m writing a book about World War II. There were very few cars in Leningrad then. Maybe I should just have my heroine spend the entire siege driving around Leningrad? Could she fall in love in the backseat too?”

“But Paullina, you’re writing fiction,” Viktor said. “Can’t you imagine getting out of the car and walking?”

“Yes, Viktor, but I need to see what I’m going to be imagining slowly. Slower than thirty miles an hour.”

“Viktor can slow down,” said Papa.

“Papa!” I said. “We have to walk to Fifth Soviet.”

My father shook his head. “But we already went there on Monday. What more do you want to see?”

I threw up my hands.

My father turned to a smiling Viktor. “What can I do, Viktor? She wants to walk everywhere.”

Shine Shine My Star

Papa let Viktor go home, and we went into the record store and argued without much conviction about who was going to buy the Vysotsky CD. There was only one, and we both wanted it. My dad let me have it. I think he was just too tired to argue.

We slowly made our way through the dusty streets. It was around 4:30 in the afternoon, sunny, warm, and other people were out too, just like us. Well, maybe not quite like us. Less tired, less cranky, less hungry.

No, just like us.

We crossed the tram tracks on Liteiny Prospekt. My father said, “You know this Liteiny Prospekt?” my father asked. “If you continue walking and make a right, it turns into Shpalerka.”

“Really?” Shpalerka seemed like a different city. “So we could have walked to the record store from there?”

Irritated at me, he tried to speed up but was too spent frankly to even be sincerely offended.

We walked past the October Concert Hall. My father was right. It was called October Hall. Now that we were walking, I could read the signs.

On the far side of October Hall was the red brick hospital where I was born, where I had gone for aspirin poisoning, and where I had x-rays taken of my head.

My father was a reluctant raconteur and pedestrian. We barely spoke and he walked slowly.

When we came to the front doors of our green stucco building on Fifth Soviet, he mumbled that didn’t want to go inside. He again repeated that last time he came to St. Petersburg and tried to go in, the doors were closed because they had been renovating, and now he didn’t know what was inside; thus his current reluctance. “It could be offices, it could be condos, I don’t know,” he said, lighting a cigarette. Like me, he also had not been back since we left in 1973.

I looked at the double front doors, hanging unevenly on their hinges. The building didn’t look renovated to me. Leaving him to smoke I walked through the passageway to the courtyard inside.

Many Leningrad buildings were built in a rectangular or square shape, as homages to Bart Rastrelli, the most famous architect in Leningrad of the 18th Century. The buildings were miniature ignoble imitations of the Winter Palace with their interior courtyards. Some courtyards had gardens, most were just garbage dumps.

Our courtyard on Fifth Soviet did not have a garden.

In its favor the surrounding walls were of deep yellow stucco and the sunshine hit them in just the right way for me to recall playing in the yard as my mother cooked dinner upstairs. I looked up, counting three stories and saw our kitchen window. It was open. A man, working on his overturned car in the yard next to the garbage, looked up from his work for a moment and stared at me indifferently.

Back on the street, my father was still standing in front of the front door, smoking.

“Papa, I want to go in.”

“Go ahead.”

“Come with me.”

He shook his head. “You just don’t understand, Paullina. All the things you want to remember, I want desperately to forget.”

He lit another cigarette. I went inside.

I don’t know what he was talking about, renovation. There was no renovation. It was the same concrete stairs, torn by time; the same dark green peeling paint on the walls. There was even a dank urine smell, at once familiar and repugnant. The impression was of a building that had been touched by nothing but time since the time it was built.

The faded black and white details turned to color as I stood at the foot of the stairs. Shepelevo had been a myth to me, but Fifth Soviet had been reality, then, as now. For a quarter of a century I recalled Shepelevo only through the scents of white cherry and pine and burning wood and fresh water.

But about Fifth Soviet I remembered the odor of old urine.

I trudged up the stairs, and became 7 years old again, there was no Papa, just me and Mama, she lets go my hand, I walk up the stairs holding the railing. I see the window in front of me on the first floor, my mother ahead of me, I see the dinner she is about to cook for us, behind me three years my mother and I were alone, in front of me silence for two more years. It’s almost too much for me to walk up to the third floor, slowly as my mother had carrying the weight of her desperate life, single motherhood, loneliness, as she climbed to floor 3, apartment 4, me behind her.

I stopped on the landing in front of our apartment and stared at the old brown door. It was remarkably similar to the door in my memory. My childhood eyes were deceiving me. How could that be? It was twenty-five years ago. It couldn’t be the same.

Once, when my father had already come back from prison and was living in exile in Tolmachevo, my mother picked me up from school. We came back to our communal apartment, and standing at the brown door my mother couldn’t find her keys. Someone could have let her in, but she still wouldn’t have any keys for our rooms. She said we had to go and get the keys from Papa. We didn’t eat dinner and instead traveled a hundred and twenty kilometers that evening, spending a long time waiting for the train. But we saw Papa for just a few minutes, got the keys from him, and left. It must have taken us five hours to go to Tolmachevo. Even then I was suspicious of the key story. Papa wasn’t coming home for his weekend furlough for two more weeks, and I had a feeling my mother missed him. But what did I know. I was only seven.

I pulled out my camera and focused on the door, but the flash on the Pentax wasn’t working properly. I changed the f-stop on the lens to allow more light and pressed the shutter release button.

Just then the glossy brown door opened and a man walked out onto the landing. He eyeballed me perplexed and silent but finally said in measured tones, “Why take a picture of the door?”

I told him I used to live in this apartment long ago.

“Good,” he said, locking the door behind him.

I told him I came to Leningrad from America. “Good,” he said again, as he started to walk down the stairs.

I continued to stand on the landing with the camera in my hands, looking at the door and at him. He walked down only a few steps before he turned to me with a sigh. “Would you like to see?”

“Yes, please,” I said, my shoulders hunched in miserable reluctance. Please don’t let me see. All I had wanted to remember I now wanted to forget. But I knew, knew I could not come to Russia, to the Leningrad of my childhood and not see the inside of the communal apartment where I was raised.

As he was opening the door, I remarked, “Looks like the same door.”

“It is the same door,” he said. “Same lock too. Do you still have your key?”

I laughed half-heartedly. “No,” I said. “I do not have my key. I don’t think I ever had a key.”

“That’s too bad,” he said. “You could’ve walked right in.”

In the sunny kitchen to the left of the door stood a woman by the sink drying a mixing bowl with a raggy dishtowel.

“Svetlana,” the man said, “I brought a young woman from America who wants to see the apartment.”

Svetlana immediately stopped drying the bowl and came to me. “Plinka!” she exclaimed. Her hands still wet, she took my hands into hers and told me how good it was to see me. Of course, I had never met her before. An attractive heavy-set woman in her forties, she had been living in the apartment for only five years with her husband Volodia.

“What rooms did you live in?” she asked me.

I told her the rooms all the way at the end of the corridor.

“Oh, you must be the Gendler girl.”

“Yes.”

“Of course. Ina has your rooms now.”

Svetlana turned to her husband. “Where are you going, Volodia?” she said tearfully. “Stay — please.”

He shook his head. “Have to go to the store,” he said, and left.

A minute later a dogged Volodia returned with my father trailing behind him. My father looked like I felt coming inside the apartment, miserably reluctant. We were rubber necking, that’s what we were doing. We were in our Mercedes, flying by on the Interstate, and there was a wreck on the road, with three ambulances. We were ashamed for slowing down, but couldn’t help ourselves.

Our communal apartment was built in a style reminiscent of railroad apartments in Queens, New York, built in the early fifties.

It consisted of a long straight narrow corridor with rooms to the left and right. It had nine rooms altogether, along with two kitchens, one in the front, one in the back, two toilets and two baths.

During the heyday of communal living, before the start of The War, forty people lived in these nine rooms and shared these two toilets. When we lived here in the sixties, the number of people had been reduced substantially by death, imprisonment or, in some unfortunate cases, both. About twenty other people had lived in the apartment besides us. Our rooms were at the very end of the corridor. We were lucky. We had two rooms joined by a narrow hallway in which we could sit and have dinner.

I realized this building must have been older than fifty years because my great-grandmother Anna received the rooms at the end of the first World War from the borough residential agency amid mass confusion following the Revolution of 1917. My great-grandmother was so crafty, she somehow received the whole apartment, nine rooms, two kitchens and two toilets.

Clearly it was too much, and soon other people started moving in. My family managed to hold on to the two rooms at the end. My paternal great-grandparents lived in one room, my grandparents in the other with my father and uncle.

During The War, my paternal great-grandfather died in evacuation, and my grandmother’s mother, my Babushka Dusia was homeless, having had her whole house burned down for firewood by the Germans. She came to live on Fifth Soviet too with her son-in-law, my dedushka. In the early 1950s my great-grandmother Anna died so there was a little more space for the remaining five people.

In 1962 when my parents married they lived separately, he on Fifth Soviet, she with her father across town. If you ask my mother about the short-lived time in her marriage before I was born, she’ll say, “Yes …” in a voice filled with nostalgia. “That was the happiest year of my life.” Just to reiterate: the year she lived married but without my father was the happiest year of her life. In 1962 she became pregnant with me (don’t ask how), and my grandparents applied for their own private apartment. They were given one in September, and I was born in November.

After my birth my parents and I lived in one room, my aunt and uncle in the other, first alone, then with their baby, Yulia.

Four years later, my uncle got an apartment of his own and suddenly I had my own room, and my parents had their own room. But then my dad started having secret meetings with his anti-communist friends in my room while I was away in Shepelevo. Not so secret as it turned out because the KGB knew about them, having followed my father for years. He was arrested, and my mother got a room to herself, I’m sure for the first time in her life.

I said to Svetlana, “We would love to see our rooms. Do you think that’s possible?”

A slender fifty-ish woman with bobbed black hair tinged with gray came toward me, and took me by both hands, “Plinochka, oh my God, look at you, I can’t believe I’m seeing you. Remember me? I’m Ina.”

I didn’t remember her. “Ina!” I said. “Of course. Did you live here with us?”

“Of course! Don’t you remember? I lived with my mother and my daughter in this room next to the front door.” She pointed.

“Of course,” I said, recalling nothing. She was still holding on to my hands. “And where are you living now?”

“We live in your old rooms!” She exclaimed smiling. “We were sad to see you go, but when you left we applied to the regional committee and got your rooms.”

“Really?”

“Yes! We all envied you so much for having two rooms. We were so happy we got them.”

“Have you been living in them ever since?”

“Yes!” she said beaming. “Come meet my daughter. Surely you remember my daughter. She is your age. Yulia. She has a daughter herself now. Meet Sophia. She is four. They are living with me at the moment,” She glanced at her daughter and granddaughter so lovingly as if she hoped that the moment might last the rest of her life.

I turned to my father who was standing nearby, looking profoundly ashamed.

“Do you think we can see the rooms?” I asked.

“Yes, of course! Oh I wish I knew you were coming, I would have cleaned up. You will pardon the mess.”

My father started to apologize for the inconvenience we were causing.

“What are you talking about, Yuri Lvovich? We are so happy you came! Is this your first time in Leningrad?”

When my father said it was his third time, Ina tutted. “And you never came to visit? Tsk. Tsk.”

As we walked through the hallway, we had to hold on to the walls. The corridor was poorly lit and the floor was uneven, as if it had buckled during an earthquake and had never been repaired. The two bare light bulbs burning dully in the hallway hung by electrical wires straight from the ceiling. Just like before. The winter coats were piled by the dozens on hooks in the wall, even though it was July. Where else were the residents going to hang their winter coats? There were no closets.

The wall in the corridor had developed substantial holes in a number of places, probably caused by the same earthquake called Communism that warped the floor. The dirty wallpaper hung torn off the wall. My father and I were quiet, aside from his intermittent apologies for our intrusion.

We stopped at the gray door that led to our rooms.

I said quietly to my dad, “I don’t remember the doors being gray.”

“There’s a lot you don’t remember,” he said quietly.

“Gray?” said Ina, chortling a bit. “They’re not gray. They’re white. They just haven’t been washed in a while. I never even noticed. Come in, come in. Please excuse the mess.”

I couldn’t walk in right away.

My father is coming home from an afternoon in the park, walking through the Fifth Soviet corridor, is almost at our door. He is reading the newspaper. “Yura, where is Paullina?” our neighbor Tonia Morzhakova asks.

“Right here,” replies Papa.

He looks for me. I am swinging upside down. He is holding me absentmindedly by the legs, in the crook of his arm under the newspaper he is reading.

“Plinochka, are you coming in?”

First thing I noticed was the tall ceilings that with their height managed to diminish the narrowness and shortness of the hallway itself. As I looked up I noticed the old water damage stains.

Leaning over to me, my father whispered, “I used to sleep in this hallway, when I would come back too drunk and didn’t want to disturb your babushka and dedushka.”

“What do you mean sleep?” I whispered back. “We always had a table here.” Like the one that was there now.

“Shows you what you know,” he said. “There used to be a couch here. No table.”

“Excuse us, excuse our mess,” Ina kept saying.

My father apologized again for intruding.

The little hallway that connected the two rooms was tiny. All the furniture was different. I didn’t like that. The wallpaper was different too, but the water stain on the ceiling that had resulted in the plaster breaking and falling down — now that was the same.

I stared at the hallway table long enough to remember sitting down and eating dinner there alone, while my mother was in the kitchen.

I’m eating my macaroni with butter, and I start to cry. Mama runs in from the kitchen, what what.

I don’t want to die, I say.

Oh, honey, you won’t die, you’re so young, you have your whole life, you’re not going to die.

She pats me on the back and leaves.

I eat my macaroni with butter. A few seconds go by. I start to weep and yell, Mama, Mama. She runs in. What, what?

I’m going to die, I say. I don’t want to die.

You won’t die, she says, less patiently. You’re going to live a long, long life. You won’t die. You’re a baby. Now eat your food.

She leaves.

I eat my macaroni and butter. A few seconds go by. I cry again. Mama Mama.

She runs back in.

I don’t want to die, I yell.

She wallops me on the head. Stop your nonsense, she yells. Eat your food. You’re not going to die, I told you.

She leaves.

I’m five.

Papa’s gone.

“Which room was yours, Paullina?” Ina asked.

“It was this room,” I replied, pointing to the door. We walked in.

It took my breath away to see how narrow the room was. The walls were covered in red wallpaper and the big wood furniture made the room seem even smaller.

Everything was immaculate aside from the bed, which was not made. Ina apologized profusely as she rolled up the bedclothes and stuffed them under the bed.

My father had already left and gone into the kitchen but I stood dumbly by the door, trying to see how we could have fit a double bed next to the wall when the room was clearly only seven feet wide.

The window had a deep sill and no shutters.

While Ina rushed around, her daughter Yulia who absolutely had nothing to say to me stood and brushed her daughter Sophia’s hair so I could take a picture. What I wanted to do was look away. Look away, look at something else, as I have done for a quarter century, what relief, what joy in oblivion, not to think, not to remember, not to stand and pretend it was all all right. I smiled at Ina who was looking into my face, for what, I don’t even know. For sentiment, for happiness?

“You like the wallpaper? It’s new.”

“I like it very much.”

We went into my parents’ old room and I stood by the same door handle I grabbed as a young girl of two, when I could barely reach it.

My father, who had come back, obligingly took the picture of me all grown up by the door, my hand on the handle. I think he came back to get me to leave the apartment.

He couldn’t get his Pentax to work either. “Maybe the battery is dead,” he said.

“Papa, I just put in a new battery, remember? Shepelevo?”

“Well, you’ve done something with it, then.” He pushed the flash down and took the picture without it. The shutter snapped.

“Oh, so it works without the flash,” I said.

“Yes,” he said impatiently. “Paullina, you have to know how to use the camera. The flash won’t work without sufficient light.”

Ina and her daughter stood politely to the side.

“Wait, so let me understand. The flash needs light in order to go off?”

“Yes.”

“So in darkened conditions such as this room, the flash won’t work at all?”

“It’s a very sensitive camera,” he said.

“I see that.” I turned to Ina. “Ina,” I said, “The rooms have been redecorated.”

“Yes, you like it?”

“Very much. But the furniture is all different.”

“Yes!” she said proudly. “It’s from Europe.”

“Ah. So what did you do with our old furniture?” I asked.

“Sold some,” she said. “Gave the rest to my parents. They still use it.”

“Let’s go into the kitchen,” my father said. “Please.”

The kitchen was right outside the gray door.

It had warped linoleum and bare dirty walls and bare bulbs, and an open window with a rotting brown frame. I went to the window and looked down into the courtyard. I saw myself, five years old, playing. Now my mother called for me. Often there were no other kids there and I played alone.

I turned away.

The kitchen had no cabinets so all the aluminum pots and pans were piled on a few shelves. Where did they keep their dry goods? Where was the refrigerator? There wasn’t one.

There was an old stove.

“Papa, is this the same stove we had?” I asked my father.

He shrugged. “The same, the same!” said Ina.

I leaned closer to him. “You think the pots and pans are ours too?”

He looked down at the floor coming apart at the linoleum seams. “You remember the pots and pans?” said Ina

I just stared at my father. He walked away from me, looked outside the open window, came to touch the stove, and then said, “Well, we really have to go.”

“You sure?” asked Ina.

“Papa,” I said. “Do you remember the carp?”

He laughed lightly, pointing to the middle of the kitchen. “Yes,” he said. “He was right here. Remember him? He was in your bath.”

My father says to me, “Come here, Plinka. Come, I want to show you something.” He is smiling. I smile too.

“What?” I say, already excited. His enthusiasm guarantees my own.

He leads me from our room into the kitchen, on the floor of which stands a small bathtub, for a toddler, for me. In this small white cast iron tub I see a fish, large and alive. It fills up nearly the entire four foot tub. It is swimming. It is trying to swim away. The fish is black and shiny, and very distressed.

“What is that?” I ask my smiling father.

“Carp,” he says proudly. “Carp.”

We eat the carp for dinner. It is very delicious.

As we stood in the middle of the kitchen, so uncomfortable — with our stupid memories, with the sight of Ina’s life, with Ina, I noticed a peculiar smell, that at first I tried to ignore, but finally was forced to attribute to the half-open door of the lavatory. If we were to eat dinner in this kitchen, this would have been the place we would have sat down and ate — twenty feet away from the back door and the toilet. Despite the wide open window, despite the warm breeze, the odor was excruciating. You could not take a deep breath because you would retch.

“Okay, Papa,” I said. “Let’s go.”

He said he had to make a stop. I looked at him with sympathy.

I had thought I desperately needed to make a stop, but I didn’t know the meaning of the word desperately. What I did was so-so need to make a stop. Big difference between desperately and so-so.

When my father came out, I saw by his face that he wished he had waited.

I did want to peek inside the washroom, in which I took a bath every week. I didn’t.

Once I washed my hair with Johnson’s Baby Shampoo. One of the stores in Gostiny Dvor received a small shipment, and my mother waited in line a long time to buy one bottle. Tear-free shampoo. It was yellow, it smelled nice, and made a nice change from the bar soap I usually used. My mother left me in tub while she went about her business in the kitchen. I washed my hair with the shampoo and then decided to go ahead and wash the rest of my body with it too.

My mother came in the bathroom, saw me, and went, “UHH!!” As if she had seen me bleeding from the head. Her shock scared me so much, I slipped in the bath and went under water. “What? What?” I blubbered as I came back up.

“What did you do??” she screamed.

“What did I do?”

Half the bottle of the shampoo was gone. Maybe more than half. My mother was very upset. I went back to using bar soap until we came to America.

With Ina talking to our backs we walked down the hallway to the front door.

In her own kitchen, Svetlana stood by the table, her hands up to her wrists in a mixing bowl full of ground beef. “Stay, please, please,” she said. “I will make you stuffed cabbage.”

“You have pelmeni?” I asked. It was hunger talking. My father gave me a little shove.

“You like pelmeni?” said Svetlana, quickly washing her hands in the sink. “I will make you pelmeni.”

Papa glared at me, apologizing again. “No, we can’t, we really can’t, we have dinner plans.”

“Please,” she said.

“We really can’t,” said my father. “You are all too kind.”

Not giving up, Svetlana poured us each a shot of cognac and we drank it on empty stomachs. We hadn’t eaten since Laima cafe. Was that even the same day, the mushroom soup from Brussels and Viktor’s salad Olivier? It couldn’t have been.

“Then come back,” Svetlana said as she poured my father a second glass while I politely declined. “Come back and have dinner with us. I’ll make you anything you want. When are you leaving Russia?”

“This Saturday,” my father lied. We were actually leaving on Sunday. Somehow it seemed like too much time at that moment.

“It’s only Wednesday. Come back tomorrow, or Friday,” she said pleadingly.

“We’ll try,” my father said.

Svetlana wrote down her name and phone number.

Holding my hands, she talked passionately into my face. “Oh, my poor life, my poor life. I lived in St. Petersburg, Florida. I sang there, I lived there for five years, I have many friends there.”

“Why didn’t you stay?” I asked.

“Why didn’t I stay?” She rolled her eyes and clucked her tongue. “Because. You know. Husband here.” She said the word husband, as if she were saying the word prison, or rats.

“I would love for you to get something to my friends in St. Petersburg, a letter, a little package. If you come back, I will get it all together. Please.”

Squeezing her hands, I asked, “You can’t mail them the letter?”

She shrugged. “I could, but it would be so much better being delivered by you.”

People in Russia, even those who have been to America, even those who have lived in America, have only the vaguest notion of distance. To them, the sixteen hundred miles between New York and Dallas, or the eleven hundred miles between Dallas and St. Petersburg, Florida was just a drive away, a day trip. We were all in America, and that was the only thing that mattered. That was the only temporal measure. We were all in one place.

“So what kind of an artist are you?” I asked.

“I’m a singer,” she replied and couldn’t hide the pride from her face.

I thought of a song I would have liked to hear, the song in the soul of every Russian. “Do you know, ‘Shine, Shine, My Star?’

Svetlana, standing barely a foot away from me, put her hands on her heart, opened her mouth and in a gorgeous operatic voice began to sing “Shine, Shine, My Star.”

“Shine on, shine on, my only star

My star of love eternally

You are my sole and chosen one

There’ll be no other one for me …”

After the first verse, she broke down and cried.

My father stood by my side, composing his ashen face.

I hugged her, he shook her hand, and we let ourselves out the brown door.

Trudging down the three flights of stairs was harder than the climb up which was full of youthful anticipation, at least on my part. Having seen was more terrible than having remembered. Now there could be no more facile forgetting.

When my mother went to Russia in 1987, she also saw our Fifth Soviet apartment. She spent a long time telling me all about it, yet now after being inside, it was as if she hadn’t told me a thing.

My father did not go in during his visit in 1992. All he said to me was, “I went to Fifth Soviet.” And stared at me pointedly, as if I would be the one to supply him with the meaning behind those words. I had asked him if he went inside, and he said no. I wanted to ask him why, but I didn’t.

Now I knew why. Why I hadn’t asked, and why he didn’t.

My mother didn’t tell me about the floor or the walls, about the size of the rooms and the heart-rending decay of it all. She didn’t tell me about the stench from the toilet.

She told me she sat down and had tea with the Morzhakovs who lived in the room adjacent to ours and who had since died. Morzhakov had turned informant for the KGB, my father told me (“Don’t you remember how the year before I was arrested he took to his bed with a cold that lasted a year?”). He lay there with his ear next to the wall and listened in on all of my father’s secret meetings. Because of Morzhakov, the KGB got enough evidence to send Papa away to Shpalerka for a year, Mordovia for two years and then exile in Tolmachevo for another two.

That’s what my mother told me about in glorious detail — having tea with the man who had spied on my father.

We walked in silence down Fifth Soviet, and then turned left on Suvorovsky Prospekt. I wanted to walk past my old kindergarten on Sixth Soviet, but I saw my father was close to collapse, so I didn’t ask him. A beautiful sunny evening. Around six, the sun was just past zenith in the sky. Both of us writers, speakers, my father and I were out of words.

After we bought some film, we started to talk a bit. The proliferation of stores and how hard the Russians tried to be like westerners and how much more there was now than had been when I was young, and how you could buy film anywhere, even on Suvorovsky, just like in the west. I listened but I was thinking about our apartment.

“Papa, was our building built before the war?” I asked him as we made our way to the metro. “I guess it had to have been built before the war, because Dedushka lived here.”

“And his mother when she was a young woman,” said my father. “It was built in 1857.”

“No, stop it.”

“It was meant to last a hundred years.”

“Stop it.”

“Now you know.”

“What about the toilets?”

“Same,” said my father.

“What about the kitchens?”

“Same,” he said. “Floor, same. Walls, same. Maybe the wallpaper was changed before the war. I don’t know.”

I was afraid to ask. “Which war?”

“Could’ve been the war of 1905.”

We walked down Suvorovsky.

“It’s the same toilet we had when you were little,” he said. “Forget you. It’s the same toilet I had when I was little. The same overhead chain that barely works. It barely worked when I was growing up. It barely works now.”

“But, Papa,” I asked quietly. “Why the smell?”

“Why the smell,” he said, exasperated. “It’s the smell of communism. It belongs to everybody so nobody cleans it.”

We couldn’t talk about it anymore. I couldn’t think about it anymore. The northern sun shined bright on the gray and cream daub of the Suvorovsky buildings.

I was doing the New York City thing: looking for a yellow cab. I would have gladly paid two hundred rubles to have a man, any man, take us to Anatoly’s. What I wanted was to find a park, a bench, sit, and not move and not speak for three hours. Then I wanted to get up and walk past my Fifth Soviet building again, and touch it. And then I wanted to go back to Grand Hotel Europe and use the toilet in my Art Nouveau room and go downstairs to the glass mezzanine and have a sandwich and a cup of tea. I wanted not to speak to anybody for the rest of the evening.

But human nature is such that even when everything hurts, we find ways to cheer ourselves up. I started goading my dad into going into one of the resaturants and having some pelmeni. The cafeterias all said, “WELCOME! PLEASE COME IN! HOT DELICIOUS PELMENI, AND CHEAP!”

“Papa,” I said, “Come on. We’ll go in and have some. They’re hot and delicious. And cheap too. Then we’ll go to Anatoly’s and pretend we’re hungry.” I was half-kidding but my father said, “I can’t pretend like that. I won’t be able to eat a bite.”

But he brightened, and right before we got to the metro station, he himself pointed at a cafeteria advertising HOT DELICIOUS PIROZHKI and smiled.

We took the metro at Insurrection Square, where once stood a statue of Alexander III. Now the tsar was in the courtyard of the Marble Palace. There was nothing in the middle of Insurrection Square.

As we were going down the escalator — and going down and going down and going down — my father said, “This is why Russians will never be number one in anything.”

I was confused.

“Look how deep they built the subway. Do you know how much money it cost them to build it this deep in the ground?”

“Probably less than what it cost them to make it all out of marble,” I replied.

“Nonsense. Marble was child’s play compared to how much it cost to make it this far down. And they only did it to make to make it into a potential bomb shelter. They thought for sure someone was going to attack them.”

“Well someone did, didn’t they? Hitler attacked them.”

“Yeah? And how many Leningraders did this subway save?”

“It wasn’t running yet, during the war, was it?”

“No. It was being built. It was a bomb shelter, I’m telling you. They came all the way down here and starved to death.”

The escalator was taking us quite deep, it was like going down into Hades, 600 feet into the ground. It was three times as long as the Central Line escalator Holborn Station on the London Tube, and the Holborn escalator is notorious in London for being the absolute longest in the city.

It took us eight minutes to snail to the bottom. I wanted to take a picture to show Kevin, but my father said no! because he was afraid I was going to be arrested.

Arrested?

“Stop it,” he said. “Come, and stop it.”

I didn’t take the picture.

We had no idea where to go on the metro, not he, and certainly not me. Dumbly and without purpose we stood, while I inhaled the fantastic familiar smell of the Leningrad subway, a warm tunnel wind mixed with marble and metal, blowing in a cavernous space. Exactly as I remembered, only more so. The New York subways or the London Underground did not smell this way. The DC metro did a bit — it had the cavernousness and the tunnel wind, but not the marble.

Yet every time I ride down the New York City subway escalator, I inhale deeply, hoping for the smell of Leningrad.

Tentatively we approached a broad, harsh, Soviet-looking woman who told us which two trains to take to get to Ulitsa Dybenko.

Aside from the fact that we could barely keep upright, yet there was nowhere to sit on the train, it being rush hour, the trip to Ulitsa Dybenko was marred by the oppressive body odor coming from the blank-faced, bleak-faced Russian commuters.

I had enough time to strap-hang and marvel at how much of Russia for me was defined by smells. Good smells, bad smells, of spring, of water, of jasmine and lilac, of metro and toilets, human sweat, the odor of old alcohol. Why couldn’t Russia be instead defined by the poetry of Russian writers? Or by food like herring and smoked fish? Or by the Russian language heard everywhere. Or by the strings of a plaintive guitar. But no.

Russian people returning home from work didn’t look any happier than New Yorkers returning home from work. Across the continents, the weary people looked the same. In Russia, they got paid less and smelled worse.

As we got out, my father said, “We should buy Ellie some roses,” and walked over to the old woman by the side of the road. The roses were $3 each. They were without any baby’s breath and came wrapped in newspaper.

Most of the paper’s black newsprint found its way to my father’s hands in the twenty minutes it took us to walk the mile to Ellie’s apartment.

We didn’t forget which floor she lived on this time, and without heavy bags in our hands, the crushing elevator door didn’t seem nearly so menacing.

The first thing my father did was wash his blackened hands but under cold water because the hot water had been turned off. I ran to use the facilities, for the first time since morning. It was 7:30 at night.

Suddenly, having gained much needed wisdom through a little perspective, Ellie’s toilet seemed nicer than any I’ve been to so far. It seemed clean to me. The water flushed. It didn’t smell so bad.

My entire childhood I had been raised in an apartment where the toilet was so terrible that twenty-five years later I couldn’t go in it.

I was sure that eventually, I would go. Eventually I would stop smelling the stench as I cooked dinner just feet away on the kitchen stove. Human beings can, and do, get used to worse than that. But thinking of all that Soviet human beings had to get used to the last seventy years filled me with sorrow like grief I could not endure in the confined space of Ellie’s bathroom.

I obsessively scrubbed my hands with soap under cold water. Someone should shout from the rooftops, we are still living. We have such little time on this earth, we are not going to get any brownie points for suffering. Couldn’t we have just a little comfort?

With clean hands and an empty bladder, I looked around Ellie’s apartment and realized that their home was nice! There were fresh flowers in a vase, the wooden floor was polished and not at all uneven. They had comfort.

Dinner tonight was quieter than the first night. It was only my father and me, Ellie and Anatoly. It was lovely. We had some of the same food from two days ago.

“Is it still good?” I whispered to my father, but he shushed me, so I ate. The two-day-old food was room temperature. I didn’t eat much of it. The leftovers were served, as on Monday, on Ellie’s best china.

She also made delicious borsht, and with the blueberries we had brought back from Shepelevo, an extraordinary blueberry compote and a graham and meringue blueberry pie. My father and I ate non-stop until nine.

He also smoked, and in between cigarettes kept trying to plan what we were going to do for the next three days. “Comrades,” he said, standing before us at the head of the table, as if we were having a managers meeting. “We have to very seriously think about what we are going to do tomorrow, Friday, and Saturday.”

Stuffed and tired, I said, “I thought tomorrow we were driving up to Lake Ladoga to see the Road of Life?”

Anatoly said, “You should see Schlisselburg too, it has a fascinating island fortress.”

“She wants to do everything,” my father said with a great sigh.

I nodded. “The man we met today at Piskarevka, Yuliy Gneze, told us we must go to Schlisselburg. He also told us we must go to Kobona, the town across the shore of Lake Ladoga. Apparently it has a great Defense of Leningrad museum.”

“Paullina!” my father exclaimed. “Maybe you’d like to also go to Stalingrad, to see their museums?”

“No,” I said. “But I would like to see the Nevsky Patch.”

“What about Crimea by the Black Sea?”

“Seriously, Papa.”

“Paullina! You seriously. We have no time for this. Friday, as you know is the Romanov funeral. That’s a whole day.”

“Yes, but we have all Saturday.”

“No, we don’t have all Saturday,” my father said, quite agitated. “Saturday we must go to Karelian Isthmus to visit my friends.”

“No! What friends?”

“Radik,” my father replied. “And his wife Lida. You remember Radik?”

I shrugged. “Vaguely. Doesn’t mean I want to see him.”

“They want to see you.”

“Why?”

“Why, why. They do.”

“We have no time. Is it going to take the whole day?”

“Yes.”

“Papa! No. We can’t spend a whole day with someone named Radik.”

“There is more. Your Dedushka wants us to go visit his friends at their summer dacha.”

“What friends? What dacha?”

“The Ivanchenkos. Nikolai Nikolayevich and his wife Valya. You probably don’t remember them.”

“You’re right about that. I don’t. Why do we have to go see them?”

“Because they remember you.”

“Papa, we don’t have time.”

“Paullina, Dedushka will never forgive us if we don’t go and see his friends.”

“Oh my God. Okay, fine, we’ll go see them, but forget Radik.”

“I can’t. Radik will never forgive me. It’s completely impossible. Paullina, you don’t understand—”

He broke off. Still standing at the head of the table, he lit a cigarette. “You remember Radik’s son, Korney?”

“Yes, he was my age. There is a picture of us standing by the doors of some museum.”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t remember Radik, though. Was he the one who was in labor camp for eight years?”

“No, that was someone else.”

“Great. Is Korney going to be there?”

“No,” Papa said. “Korney is dead.”

Silence.

“Great,” I said.

“Died at twenty-two of acute alcoholism. Don’t say anything to Lida or Radik when you see them. It may be difficult for them.”

“Was he their only child?”

“Yes.”

“May be difficult?”

My father continued. “We have to think about what we want to do very carefully. We have a lot to accomplish and only a few days to do it. Let me ask you in all seriousness, do you really want to go to Schlisselburg and Lake Ladoga?”

“Where some of the greatest battles for the defense of Leningrad were fought? Where the Road of Life began and ended? Papa, yes. That’s why I came here. To search for a story. Remember?”

“Okay, okay,” he said, then adding, “But you did see a lot in the Piskarev museum.”

“It’s not the same.”

“I was afraid of that. Fine, we’ll go. But we have to go to Karelian Isthmus on Saturday. We have no choice. No one will ever talk to me again, do you understand, if I don’t bring you to them.”

“I understand.”

“Paullina, have some more pie,” Ellie said.

“Paullina, tell me about Tully,” Anatoly said. “When you wrote about her, did you write her from life, or did you make up the things that happened? Because it read very true, and I can’t imagine, I don’t know, maybe I don’t know you very well, but I’ve known you since the day you were born, and I can’t imagine your imagination is that vivid. Is it, Paullina? Did you make it all up? I can’t believe that.”

“Oh believe it,” said my father. “Of course she made the whole thing up. Tolya, she is the best liar we know. You should have heard her excuses for cutting school half of her senior year.”

Ellie said, “Plinka, do you want some more pie? How about some tea?”

“Papa,” I asked, “Who is this Radik, and why does he care if he sees me or not?”

Ellie leaned over to me and whispered, “I’ll tell you about Radik later,” with a meaningful emotional arch of her painted eyebrows.

Alla arrived with her husband Viktor to watch the ancient home videos of our vacation in Red Schel, in the Caucasus Mountains in 1967, the year before my father was arrested.

We were all eager to watch the films, but the problem was that although it was nine in the evening, there was too much light. We couldn’t see the projection screen. We decided to draw the red curtains and close all the doors. That helped some. The sun was very bright. We waited an hour and at ten began.

Here I am, a four-year-old child on a mute, slightly-speeded up film reel. Swimming in the Black Sea. Imitating my best friend Alla.

Tonight Alla and I sat next to each other on the couch and laughed. “Plinka, look how funny you were,” she said. Casually dressed, she seemed a lot more comfortable with me than she was on Monday night, as if she now knew she didn’t have to put on airs.

I said, “What I want to know is, why did my hair look like a boy’s? Why couldn’t my mother let my hair grow out, like your mother let you grow yours out? Yours was so long and pretty. And look at me.”

“Oh, no, Plinka! You were so cute.”

Here I am eating watermelon, sandwiched between Alla and a boy. That boy looks like Korney, Radik’s son. I glance over at my father. He watches the screen, blinks, and says nothing. I am crying on mute because a bee tried to lick the watermelon juice off my chest and stung me. My mother stands near a water well. She wears two little girlish braids, no make up. She looks younger than I am now. I try to calculate. My God, she I younger than I am now. I stare. Much younger. She is twenty-seven. My father stands smoking, fixing something to eat, talking. He is only 31. He is also younger than me. I can’t watch them.

That was all there was of me. Thirty three seconds of me as a child on film — a celluloid child to prove I once existed in this other world — a world that was more than just smells.

Finally, the film reel we’ve been waiting for. My even younger father on holiday in Dzhubga, a resort near the Black Sea in July 1962, with eight of his best friends. Anatoly brought the film camera. My father is twenty-six. Nine of them play volleyball and practical jokes. Anatoly sleeps on the beach. Tonight we all laugh as we tease Tolya about his capacity to sleep anywhere, even when he was a young man.

“Were you already married then?” I ask.

“Yes,” Ellie snaps.

“Why didn’t you go to Dzhubga?”

“Because,” she says. “I was home with Alla. She was just a baby.”

“So Anatoly went without you on vacation?”

“Yes.” She squints her eyes with bitterness. “He did that all the time. All the men did that.”

Seeing that I touched a nerve, I turned back to the screen, surprised that the nerve could be still so raw thirty six years later.

She was upset with him tonight for sleeping on the beach while she stayed home caring for their only child.

On screen someone filches Anatoly’s clothes. He wakes up, is not happy. We all laugh. Ellie’s face shows grim satisfaction.

I leaned back and watched my father swim in the Black Sea. My handsome, thin, dark-haired young father, unmarried, childless, happy.

Dzhubga. July, 1962.

Before marriage, before pregnancy, and — incredibly — before me. I found it hard to watch my father living what seemed to be a joyous existence before his new life began, before he even knew that took the form of an exquisite twenty-two-year-old exotic girl sitting with her own friends on the beach in their little bathing suits, laughing at the nine boys playing volleyball.

Dzhubga. 1962. They met there, fell in love in the space of a week. Married two months later. My father had been engaged to someone else. All of that gone after seeing the fresh young woman with high cheekbones and cropped hair.

It hurt to see my mother. She is so beautiful, laughing like a young girl, giggling with her friends, watching the half-naked boys in the grass playing soccer, having not fallen in love with my father yet.

I watched my father moments before he fell in love with my mother. I looked away from the unbearable suspended-in-eternity moment. My mother sits in a chair on a porch. She is being painted by one of my father’s artist friends. She can’t sit still, every few moments her youthful face exploding in happiness. My father stands on the wooden steps of the porch smiling back, watching her, watching him. Before everything. Before she thinks her whole life is a failure as she wipes the red dust off her furniture in Maui and complains about the Hawaiian sun.

“Look at my wife,” said my father, even in the dark his eyes misty and twinkling. “Paullina? Just look at your mother.”

“I’m looking, Papa,” I said, looking at him looking at her.

The day after my mother was painted, the group of them go to a dance, and afterward my father and mother dive off a mystical boat into the Black Sea, swim alongside each other at night and fall in love.

But on the porch my mother sits, unable to keep still, to keep herself from smiling, at the artist, at the beach, at my father, in love with him not quite yet but in full love with being young and alive.

How frightening, how mesmerizing to see that moment.

My father got up to smoke. He kept coming back into the room, and every time he came back, he asked the same thing. “Well, was your mother beautiful? Was she beautiful? What do you think? She was like a goddess, wasn’t she? So beautiful.”

“She wasn’t bad,” I said.

“Wasn’t bad?”

Everybody laughed.

My father nodded. “Wait till I tell her you said that. Just wait. I’ll tell her in America. She won’t talk to you for a decade.”

“Plinka,” Ellie said to me, “Your papa told me how you said you wanted to photograph the smell in Shepelevo.”

I glanced at him, shaking my head.

“And what were you writing,” she went on, “while your Papa slept in the car on the way back from Shepelevo?”

I stared at my father. He went out on the balcony to smoke.

I marveled at the chain of events that led my father to ask Viktor, who had seemed too busy washing the car to observe anything, what I had been doing while he slept and then for Viktor to reply that I had been writing something in my notebook. And then my father deemed it important enough to pass along over a glass or four of vodka.

“What were you writing, Plinka?” Ellie repeated. “Were you writing about Shepelevo?”

“Shepelevo, yes,” I replied carefully.

“Yes,” said Anatoly. “Your papa said you were very affected by Shepelevo. Is that true?”

“If he says so.”

It took my father a day to make a story out of Shepelevo’s smell. I wondered how long it would take him to make the story out of this afternoon’s trip to Fifth Soviet.

As it turned out, just one more cigarette. He returned from the balcony and promptly told everyone about Svetlana singing “Shine, Shine My Star” as she begged us to stay and eat her freshly made pelmeni.

“Stuffed cabbage,” I corrected, thinking, well, at least he didn’t mention the state of the apartment.

“And you should have seen the apartment,” continued my father. “What’s amazing is that in all this time, nothing has changed.” He went on to describe the unevenness of the floors, the sagging of the walls. He stopped before he got to the toilet. Instead he recounted Svetlana’s singing.

He had so obviously been looking forward to telling the story of her singing to us. He told us, and we emoted. He told us colorfully, and we emoted colorfully. Ellie teared up. Anatoly made loud clucking noises. I shook my head. Like any good storyteller, he embellished the truth, and like any good listeners, we embellished emotion. And then we all had another shot of vodka.

We changed the subject to the Kennedy assassination. This topic always comes up in our conversations. I was born two weeks before the President was killed. So anytime anyone says a word about how they can’t believe Plinka is in her thirties, the next sentence is always some variation of, “Your father thinks Oswald acted alone.”

Thirstily downing a shot of vodka and shaking his head Anatoly turned to me. “Your father,” he said, lowering his voice, “thinks Oswald acted alone.”

He glanced guiltily at my father, who tutted and went out to smoke.

“We have arguments about this all the time,” Anatoly said. “I think he is just tired of arguing.”

“That would surprise me,” I said. “Papa loves to argue. Especially when he’s right.”

“You think he is right?” Anatoly asked in the same hush-hush conspiratorial tone.

“Yes,” I said. I wish I smoked too so I could go out on the balcony and have three seconds in the white night air with my father. We wouldn’t have to talk about Oswald. We could just smoke.

With his brother Viktor listening raptly, Anatoly said, helped by another shot of vodka, “Yes, but …” he trailed off, shaking his head. “It’s the head reeling back that stymies me,” he said. “If he was shot from behind, why did his head snap back?” His brother clucked and nodded, thoughtfully pulling at the strands of his gray beard.

Back in the living room my father exclaimed, “Oh my God, you’re not still talking about that!”

Apparently when my father interviewed Mikhail Gorbachev a few years earlier for Radio Liberty, Gorbachev told my dad he had a major secret that would go with him to his grave.

Anatoly thought this secret was about John F. Kennedy. He was certain that there was a conspiracy to kill Kennedy, that Gorbachev knew the truth.

I looked excitedly at my father, who waved us all away and went back on the balcony. When he came back, he said, “So you think Gorbachev would know something like this and not tell?”

“Not tell you,” said Anatoly.

“Not tell anyone!” my father said. “Tolya, you can’t keep quiet about what your wife is cooking for dinner, and here is a man who would die before he would talk about the second most traumatic event of the 20th Century?” He waved us off again dismissively, sitting down and pouring himself a glass of vodka. “The first being the murder of the Romanovs. A perfect example of what I want to say. Their executioners couldn’t keep quiet for two months. Knowing the very future of Bolshevism was at stake, in fact, regardless, they started positively spilling with stories over vodka, then keeping diaries, then writing books, then making full confessions on their deathbeds. All within a decade. The killing of the Romanov family was the first act of political terrorism in the twentieth century, that’s why it was so monumental. And nobody could keep quiet about it. But about Kennedy, you think Gorbachev would keep quiet?” My father said all this as if he had proven his point beyond any doubt, but Anatoly looked at him defiantly and said, “Yes.”

Alla picked up on the Romanov thread. “Yuri Lvovich, so why do you think there is such fascination with the Romanovs?”

“Why?” he said. “Because they were a family that was slaughtered, that’s why. The communists didn’t kill a political leader, they didn’t kill the Tsar. They killed a family. That’s why it’s so personal.”

“Papa, come on,” I said, pepping up a bit. “Yes, the Romanovs were a family, but that’s not why there is such fascination. They weren’t killed because they were a family. They were killed because they were a royal family. The fascination continues to this day, because he was the Tsar and she the Tsarina and their son the heir to the throne—”

“There was no more throne!” my father bellowed. “Nicholas abdicated. There was no more throne, no more Tsar! There was just the family.”

“You think if the Ivanov family was killed by the Bolsheviks anyone would care?”

“Who the hell are the Ivanovs?”

“Exactly my point.”

Alla was looking sorry she brought it up. “Plinochka, is it true you might be going inside the church for the funeral service?”

When Ellie heard that we might get inside Peter and Paul’s but I didn’t have a dress disappeared for a moment, during which I took an opportunity to say to my father, “Papa, only dead monarchs are entombed in Peter and Paul’s church. The remains of an ordinary family would not be buried there.”

“Hurry up, Mama!” Alla called to Ellie. “Come on!”

Ellie promptly reappeared holding in her hands folded black material. “You can have this,” she said to me. “Just give it back, okay? Don’t take it to Texas with you.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, opening up the dress slowly. It could have been worn by Ellie’s great grandmother, and probably had been. “You really don’t have to do this.”

“Why should you go out and buy yourself a dress to wear just one time? It’s absurd. Take it.”

“I don’t know if it will fit.”

“It might be a little big. But so what?”

“You’re right. Thank you so much.”

Before I left with Viktor around midnight, my father said, “Tomorrow we go to Schlisselburg, God help me. I want Viktor to pick you up first and then bring you here to get me because Ulitsa Dybenko is on the way.”

I fell asleep on my back with the blinds open, the Leningrad night sun streaming in. With my earrings still on, dressed, shoes on my feet. I fell asleep because I couldn’t write. I couldn’t write about my day, about Fifth Soviet, about Piskarev, about Yuliy Gneze and his Volkhov front and the loaf of bread in the crook of his arm. I couldn’t write about my ravishing joyous mother, as I’ve never known her.

I fell asleep, too tired even for dreams.

THE FOURTH DAY, THURSDAY

I only thought I was too tired for dreams. When I woke up it felt as if I hadn’t gone to sleep at all. It felt like I had been reliving the same exhausting moment over and over again through the night. What that moment was I could not say. It involved either mountain climbing or linguistics. Or both. Or it might have been swimming butterfly-style in the Dead Sea.

Waking up in my clothes was almost relief at first, until I saw what the clothes looked like — as if I had been chewing them while rock climbing.

I dragged myself off the bed and into the shower. It was eight in the morning. At eight-thirty, room service came: a tablespoon of black caviar and five tough little pancakes.

The phone rang. It was Kevin.

“Your mother called me …”

“Why?” I laughed. “Papa hasn’t called her and she was frantic?”

“Noooo,” Kevin drew out. “She called because she might be having gall bladder surgery. The doctor thinks she has gall stones.”

“Gall stones? Oh, for God’s sake.”

“I know. It’s terrible.”

“No, that’s not it. When would the surgery be?”

“I think she’s in the hospital now. I couldn’t be too sure, I could barely understand her. They’re doing more tests and then I think she’s having the surgery.”

“Of course she is. I thought you said they don’t know if it’s gall stones?”

“They think it’s gall stones.”

“She’s having surgery because they think it’s gall stones?”

“I know. It’s terrible.”

“No, it’s not that. Mama didn’t want Papa and me to have this trip in the first place. Now I’m going to tell him she is about to have surgery and he’ll be upset for the next three days.”

“Paullina, you have to tell him.”

“I know, I know. But what if it’s just a false alarm?”

“You’ve got to tell him.”

“I know. But, I mean, really.”

“She said she hadn’t been well for three months.”

“Oh, but during the six lousy days we’re in Russia that’s when she decides to go get it checked out? Why not in the three months before?”

“I have no answers. She is your mother.”

We talked for too long and I didn’t have time to walk the three blocks to Malaya Konyushennaya, the street on the embankment of the Griboyedov Canal to drop off my film: nine rolls so far.

Viktor picked me up promptly at nine-thirty, and with him we walked along Griboyedov in the morning sunlight to the photo store. I was starting to warm to Viktor — a process that began when he found my great grandmother’s grave.

He told me about the apartment buildings Ellie and Anatoly and my grandparents lived in. “They were built during the Khruschev era in the early sixties when the secretary general decided that each and every Soviet citizen was entitled to a living space of seven square meters. So with that in mind he authorized construction of hundreds — maybe thousands of these buildings. They’re called Khrushchyobi.” It means a tall boxy type of building built during the Khrushchev era.

“But Viktor,” I said. “We lived five of us to seven square meters. That’s not what he intended, was it?”

Viktor had no answer for that. “Communism,” he said, shrugging.

I fell quiet.

“Speaking of Communism,” Viktor said, “President Yeltsin has decided at the last minute to pop in to the Romanov funeral afterall.”

“Oh. Is that bad for us?”

“Well, not bad, but because of that, getting inside the church will be impossible, with heightened security and all. No one is going to let you in, no matter how much you spend on your black dress.”

I laughed.

“So no need to buy one.” Thinking, he added, “You can still wear Ellie’s, I suppose.”

“I could, yes,” I said slowly. “I do have my suit, though.”

We dropped off the film and walked back to Viktor’s Volkswagen. We got to my dad on Ulitsa Dybenko at 10:30 — a crisp brilliant morning.

Anatoly was still home in his robe.

“Ellie,” I whispered. “Is he not going to work today?”

“He hasn’t decided,” she said.

“Oh.”

“He doesn’t get paid for it anyway. He’ll see how he feels.”

Ellie asked us to come and have dinner with them again tonight. My father mumbled something, which is what he always does whenever the answer is no but he doesn’t want to say. Ellie didn’t press further. Anatoly, more sensitive to my father’s reluctance, didn’t say anything except, “Plinka, have you called Yulia yet?” I hadn’t, of course, and my father came to the rescue by saying, “She’ll call her tonight.”

In the car, he said, “Whatever you want to do, Paullina. There are only a few days left. Tonight we might be back late. You have tomorrow night, Friday. You can call her, invite her to dinner. Whatever you want.” He shook his head. “I don’t recommend it. If you want to see her, I won’t come with you. It’s too uncomfortable for me. I’ll just go back to Tolya’s.”

“Papa, what about taking Anatoly and Ellie out to dinner? We talked about that during Monday’s dinner.”

“Monday’s?” He exclaimed the word Monday’s as if it were saying, Nineteenth Century’s? “Again, Paullina. You cannot do everything.”

We found the highway to Schlisselburg and got on it without once asking for directions.

I thought this was a good time to clear my throat. “Papa, hmm, I spoke to Kevin this morning, who said that Mama called him—”

“Yes?” He sat up straighter.

“Have you called Mama yet?”

He grunted. “No.”

I didn’t think so. “Well, Kevin told me that Mama may have gall stones, and that she might need gall bladder surgery. I don’t know how to say gall bladder in Russian. How do you say gall bladder in Russian?”

He slunk back down in his seat and became less interested. “Don’t know,” he said.

“Well, whatever it is in Russian, Mama might have it, and she might need to be operated on. She is waiting for the results of tests to come in.”

“Okay,” he said.

“Mama asked Kevin to tell you, in case you called Maui and she wasn’t there. She’s not there because she’s in the hospital. She didn’t want you to be worried.”

“Okay,” my father said. “I’ll try to call her.”

We said nothing more about it, and then my father became animated again, talking about the quality of the Schlisselburg Shosse.

The highway impressed Papa, who spent the rest of the forty five minute ride to Schlisselburg marveling at what this type of a well-built, four-lane highway would do to Russian civilization if it was built for the five hundred miles between Moscow and St. Petersburg instead of the seventeen miles between St. Petersburg and Schlisselburg. He wished he had some way to explain to the Russians that if they built a road like this between Moscow and St. Petersburg, they would change the face of Russia. He said if he weren’t retiring, he would make a radio program on this very subject.

I wanted to mention that the Chunnel took the British and the French nearly the whole of twentieth century to build and the English Channel at its narrowest point between Dover and Calais was only seventeen miles.

“Maybe there is no money,” I said.

“But there’s money to throw into the military? Billions.”

“Even now?”

“As ever.”

“Maybe the Russians don’t want the enemy to march up the highway between its two major cities. Its only major cities.”

“Maybe,” my father said, “it’s just narrow-mindedness. Tunnel vision. Inability to see the future of the country. Well, what do we expect? Seventy years of communism.”

We came to the Neva and went across a bridge called Mariinsky that took us into Schlisselburg.

My father was right about this: why the highway was built into Schlisselburg became evenmore unfathomable once we saw Schlisselburg, which was a hole of a stricken town under a canopy of oaks. Though it propitiously lay on the southern bank of the Neva at the very crest of the river’s beginning from Lake Ladoga.

Some wretched tenement buildings, a desolate outdoor market, one cafeteria that was closed because it wasn’t quite lunchtime. The only church in town was in what looked like an old boarded up 7-11 building.

There was nowhere to park and no one to ask directions to the ferry. From Schlisselburg there is supposed to be a ferry that travels back and forth to the island fortress Oreshek that stood against the Germans for sixteen months.

No one to ask, and no signs for the island, or the ferry, or the Diorama blockade museum.

Bewildered silence fell inside our car. We were amazed Schlisselburg was thus, my father most of all. Viktor, born and raised in Russia, seemed least surprised except for the widening of his pupils. Me? After seeing Fifth Soviet how could anything surprise me? My father must have been recalling Gettysburg, Fort Sumter, Omaha Beach — places where mystical battles had been fought and later memorialized.

Not only had the greatest battle of Leningrad’s siege been fought on these shores outside Schlisselburg but the 900-day blockade was broken here.

The dewy river shimmered and flowed beyond the oak leaves, a testament to the past, a path to the future. No matter; there was still nowhere to park. Or buy a map, get a sandwich, ask a question, buy a trinket. While my father and I grumbled, Viktor, with his usual equanimity, parked on the uncut grass and strolled to the banks of the Neva to get a ferry schedule.

My father smoked.

I took a picture of the monument to Peter the Great. I had to beat my way through thick brambles to what had once been a clearing. Peter stood on a pedestal, looking proudly onto the … untamed oak forest. Underbrush, weeds, brambles. You couldn’t see the river. I took one picture.

Viktor and my father were studying the ferry schedule like it was the Dead Sea Scrolls, my father with a worried expression.

“What’s the matter?” I said, coming up to them. “Is there no ferry?”

“No, there is,” my father slowly replied. “But the times are no good.”

“Let me see.” I glanced at the schedule for two seconds, just long enough for me to see a noon departure. “The boat leaves at noon. It’s now eleven-forty. Perfect.”

Noon apparently wasn’t perfect. My father had worked out our whole day in his head, and the day did not include two hours at some island, not even the island where Lenin’s brother was hanged, the island that was instrumental in fighting the Germans during the siege, the island that saved Leningrad. Nah.

“Yes, but the boat doesn’t return until 2:25.”

“So?”

“I’m not going to spend two hours at some island, Paullina. Not when we have so much to do.” He cleared his throat. “Ideally what I’d like to do is take the noon boat and come back on the twelve-twenty five. That gives us half an hour on the island. Now that’s perfect.”

“But, Papa,” I said incredulously, “how can we do that? The boat takes seven minutes just to get to the island. It means that we basically get off and get back on again. Maybe we chould just stay on the boat?”

“Paullina,” my father said with feeling. “You cannot do everything. You just can’t. We have to choose. We can go to Oreshek, but then we don’t go north up Lake Ladoga to the Road of Life.”

I stood my ground for a moment. “Why can’t we do both?”

“Maybe you’d like to go to Kobona too?”

“Yes.”

He turned to Viktor. “Viktor! See what I mean? What to do?”

Viktor studied the schedule, trying to accommodate everybody. But my father, soon-to-be-retiring-or-not, was still his boss. I was only the boss’s daughter. We didn’t go.

Getting back in the car, we drove down a dirt road to another grassy knoll and parked. Instead of taking the ferry, we took a walk on a narrow strip between two canals built to protect trade ships from the heavy storms that often plagued the lake. The first canal was built by Peter the Great in the 1700s, but it wasn’t sufficient to protect the fishing boats. The second was built by Catherine the Great in the 1800s. Only two hundred meters separated Oreshek from the ten-foot-wide shore of the Catherine canal. It was on that shore the Germans perched for over a year in permanent trenches and shelled the island.

The Neva flowed from the bombed-out walls of Oreshek seventy kilometers to Leningrad where it emptied into the Gulf of Finland.

Before the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917, the island was a Tsarist prison, and was in fact the place where Lenin’s brother Alexander Ulyanov was hanged in 1881 for conspiring to kill Tsar Alexander III. After the revolution the prison became a museum and in the place where Ulyanov died an apple tree was planted in his honor. At the start of World War II, Russian soldiers occupied the island, and from it fought the Germans who had seized nearly the entire southern bank of the Nevá. Schlisselburg remained in German hands until 1944. The Russian soldiers in Oreshek were supplied by the Red Army troops on the northern side of the Neva. Today the fortress stood as a monument to the Russian heroes and their wartime glory.

But all of that warranted about ten minutes according to my father; any longer would have been too much. I was full of regret as we walked between the two canals and took pictures of the island from what had once been the German front.

I was very much in the blockade and World War II frame of mind, but not so Papa, who for the entire thirty minutes of our walk discoursed on the poor money-making capabilities of the Russians.

Not that he wasn’t right. In the last fifty years, Schlisselburg had gone largely unnoticed by vacationers and tourists. The town was run down in a typical Russian fashion, and the glorious lakeside coast, which anywhere else in the world would have long ago become developed and prosperous, lay fallow amid one cafeteria, a couple of crumbling tenements, a makeshift church, and a dozen fishermens’ huts. Between the two historic canals, the Soviets in 70 years of rule-by-proletariat-for-proletariat could not even pave a road, except the highway to nowhere.

My father and I discussed two other canals we have seen with our own eyes: the intercoastal waterways flanking the state of Florida, one on the Atlantic Ocean, one on the Gulf of Mexico. Yes, one could argue there were one too many night clubs on the Gulf of Mexico, a few too many white sailing boats, and who wanted to see one more wooden house on flood stilts? But these excesses of western civilization did not detract from the appeal of the coast. You could get a drink, breathe in the salty air, go for a boat ride, cluck at the maroon sun beyond the palms, and then get into your SUV and drive a hundred feet to buy a quart of milk or a new bathing suit before you went home to your house on stilts to watch the sun set over the gulf from your den windows.

Here in Schlisselburg, alongside the Peter Canal, only a dirt road with craters blundered ahead. At the apex of a most magnificent view — Lake Ladoga opening up into a breathtaking oceanic expanse — lay an ancient closed-down scrap-steel yard and nothing more.

No houses, no cars, no shops, no people strolling. Only us who wandered amid Bolshevism, gawking at the sights.

On the Catherine Canal, where the Nazi artillery was once entrenched, a few old row boats were moored. A squalid hut here and there showed us that some fishermen lived close to their boats.

“What happens to the huts during storms?” I asked.

“Take a guess,” replied my father.

Staring at one of the huts with a caved-in roof, I said, “Where do you think the Germans dug in? That shore looks awfully narrow. And how did they get there from here, anyway? Did they swim?”

“It was winter,” my father said with a disdainful snort.

“Oh, yeah. They just walked across the ice. But what about in the summer? How did they get back and forth? They certainly couldn’t have remained on that ten-foot strip of land.”

“If I had a million dollars,” my father said, “I would buy all this land, heck probably for a lot less than a million. I would buy it all.”

“Well, you don’t have a million dollars.”

“I wish I did,” he said. “Can you even imagine? Can you even imagine what this would look like with some western money? What a waste. Isn’t it, Paullina? Isn’t it, Viktor? A waste?”

“A waste,” I agreed. “But what about the Germans?”

“They had boats,” said Viktor. “They rowed to the Catherine canal.”

“Where did they get the boats from? They didn’t bring boats with them from Germany, did they?”

“No,” my father said. “They stole them. From the fishermen.”

We took a few more unenthusiastic pictures and left, continuing to lament the lack of Soviet enterprise and initiative.

One last time, I looked at Oreshek Island across the water. The island with its battered fortified walls at the mouth of the now tranquil Lake Ladoga was a baffling anachronism. It was as if Oreshek was meant to look exactly as it did in 1943. As if perhaps Schlisselburg was too.

As if perhaps all this was by design not chaos. As if leaving it as it was, was precisely in memoriam.

Yet, I had seen Shepelevo. I had seen Fifth Soviet. I had seen Gostiny Dvor. Was everything left the way it was in memoriam?

“Paullina,” my father said, patting my back. “Look at the Neva. It’s something isn’t it? Just look at it.”

I looked at him, smiling. “You like this river, don’t you, Papa? You love this river.”

He nodded ruefully. “Did you know the Neva is one of the fullest rivers in the world?”

“This I did not know.”

“After winter, the ice that completely covers seventy kilometers of the Neva melts. You think all is well, you’re smelling the daffodils, looking forward to the lilacs, and then, weeks later, boom, the ice on Lake Ladoga melts, and in great icebergs flows down the Neva to the Gulf of Finland with extraordinary force and noise.”

“In icebergs?”

“Yes. Icebergs. The noise from the Ladoga ice sounds like cannons going off for weeks until it is all carried down into the gulf.”

“Cannons?”

My father nodded. “Every single year the Leningrad spring sounds like war.”

My father sat down heavily into his passenger seat and said, “Off to Road of Life then?”

“Yuri Lvovich,” Viktor said, “Here I must agree with Paullina. We simply must go visit the Diorama of the Breaking of the Siege of Leningrad. We can’t come all the way to Schlisselburg and not see that. Paullina will never see it again.”

My father sighed. “Okay. Let’s go. But quickly. We still have to drive up north.” He turned back to me with hope, “Or maybe you don’t want to see the Road of Life?”

“I do, I do,” I said, hoping we could see the Road of Life in less than twenty five minutes so as not to upset my dad.

In Storied Battles

We parked by a tank. God forbid we should have looked at this green tank, named “Breakthrough.” I gave it a cursory glance as I hurried from it. My father was calling me. “Paullina! Stop dawdling! Come on.” I managed to notice fresh roses lying on the tank’s tread.

We were the only car in the parking lot, which also handily served as parade grounds. The parking lot had grass growing through the cracks in the asphalt, which was surprising considering the museum only opened in 1994, on the 50th anniversary of the lifting of the blockade. Four years later and the weeds were already growing through the paved parade grounds.

The museum looked tiny and uninviting from the outside. It was just a dark-gray low-roofed granite building with the words, “BREAK OF THE LENINGRAD BLOCKADE,” inscribed on the entryway header beam.

Inside was even more uninviting. All dark and slate cold.

The whole museum was one room, with a desk in the front hall. “Would you like to go in?” asked one of the two ladies behind the desk.

“I suppose,” I said. “What’s here?”

“Why, the diorama, of course. Have you not heard of our diorama?” She lifted her eyes to the slate ceiling. “Wait till you see. That will be five rubles please. Each.”

I looked around and couldn’t see a thing except for a dim blue light emanating from the center of the room.

As I paid, I whispered to Viktor, “What’s a diorama, anyway? And why so dark?”

We walked to the blue light. Viktor said, “So nothing will draw your eyes away from it.”

I stepped up onto a platform and before me opened up the ragged shores of the Nevá in the pre-dawn hours of a bitter winter morning.

I was looking at a life-size panorama of the river in which actual objects and figures were set against a painted backdrop.

The objects were tanks, trenches, guns, artillery. The figures were Russian soldiers charging across the Nevá ice, singularly to their deaths but collectively towards the liberation of Leningrad.

Nothing could draw my eyes away.

I listened to a shout Russian woman with a laser pointer speak to the small group of us about what happened on the banks of the Neva for six days in January, 1943.

The lecturer talked slowly and frequently stopped, because it so happened that we weren’t the only ones listening to her. I had no idea when the other two people besides us arrived, but suddenly there was a Finnish woman standing close to her Finnish translator. It was for the translator that our lecturer stopped every few sentences, and as she stopped, the ice, blood, the fire and Oreshek up in smoke, were all slowly burning themselves into my heart.

My eyes wide and my mouth wider, I stood mutely—

“For six days,” said our lecturer, “our Soviet troops attacked the Nazi defenses on the south bank of the Neva at Schlisselburg.”

Pause.

My camera down, my purse down, my hands down, I stood in front of the river.

“Look over here,” the lecturer said, pointing to the shore opposite me. “Across the river on the south shore. We were trying to unite our northern Leningrad front with the southern Volkhov front. The German forces separated our two fronts by ten kilometers. We needed to cross the river, remove them from their positions and unite with the Volkhov front. That wasn’t easy. The Germans were well entrenched and well fortified.”

Pause for the Finns. The woman didn’t really look impressed by what the translator was telling her. My father and Viktor stood slightly behind me.

“This was not the first attempt to break the blockade,” the lecturer resumed. “Do you see these bodies here?” She pointed with her laser to the mass of bloodied forms lying on the ice a little downriver. “Half a kilometer away on the frozen Neva, six hundred bodies lay as a testament of the failure of the first such attempt to break the blockade, just six days before this one, on the sixth of January.”

Pause for the Finns.

Turning to look at my father, I whispered, “Six hundred is a lot.”

“Shh,” he said with a slow blink. “And listen.”

Behind me I heard his quiet voice. “It seems like a lot, I know, considering that on the first day of the D-Day invasion, on Omaha Beach, two thousand Americans died.”

“Yeah.”

“But just listen.”

The woman continued. “For six days, the fighting that you see before you went on. The blockade was finally broken on January 19th, 1943. On that day, our Leningrad troops hugged their Volkhov counterparts.”

Pause. Smoke everywhere. You could barely see the planes overhead. Fires raged all along the southern shore.

“On January 20th, the People’s Volunteers began to build the railroad across the Neva on the very place the six hundred bodies lay.” She pointed with her laser. “The first thing the civilians did was carry away the dead, the second thing they did was build a railroad to run from Volkhov to Leningrad.”

Pause. Finns clucked appreciatively.

“The volunteer force comprised sixty percent women.”

More impressed clucking. In front of me was a tarp-covered army truck with a Red Cross emblazoned on its side. Three steps forward and I could reach and touch the truck. Beyond it a tank was treading across the ice. In front of the tank horses lay dead.

“The women built the railroad over land and over ice on the Nevá in seventeen days. On February 7th, the first train carrying butter came to Finland Station in Leningrad.”

Pause. The sky heaving smoke, as if smoke itself came with deafening noise. I could barely hear the lecturer.

“The Germans bombed this railroad for the next year, and soon, in contrast with the Lake Ladoga Road of Life truck route, it began to be called the Road of Death.”

Pause. The Finns stopped clucking.

“But it was also called the Road of Victory. Because though it kept being bombed, the railroad did not stop working. The Germans never regained this territory.”

Pause. I looked across the river at Schlisselburg — all smoke. Oreshek — all smoke. I wanted to step down into the bunkers to escape the haze. I had no courage. The men in front of me were charging the river. I was next.

“The Germans remained armed in a place called Sinyavino Heights. They loved high positions, the Germans. They could shoot us really well from them. Hitler’s Group Army Nord remained in Sinyavino for months after the siege was lifted because we could not get them down from the hills.”

Pause.

“If you get a chance, do go up to the memorial in Sinyavino. It’s fabulous.”

My father whispered behind me, “Don’t even think about it.”

The soldier in front of me was bleeding to death on the ice holding up the Soviet Flag as high as he could. His eyes were on me. I wondered if the flag would be too heavy for me to pick up and carry. I was hypnotized by the blazing hammer and sickle on the flag. I did not reply to my father.

He whispered, “Are you listening to all this?”

I barely nodded, without turning around.

“Ask her a question,” he said. “Ask her while I go outside for a smoke.”

I thought, no need, there is plenty right here. Look at the sky. I said nothing. “Ask her,” he whispered, “how many men died during these six days.”

He left.

I raised my hand, then quickly put it back down. I wasn’t in school, what was I doing?

“Excuse me,” I began. “Tell me please, how many men died in this battle?”

The lecturer, smiling and helpful, said, “During the six days that it took to break the blockade, nineteen thousand Germans died.”

“How many Russians?”

“One hundred and fifteen thousand.”

I spun around and there was my father, standing back from me in the distance, nodding in the dark, crying.

I turned back to my men. I needed to get inside my bunker. One hundred and fifteen thousand boys in six days. One of them right in front of me, holding up the hammer and sickle for Mother Russia. The truck with the Red Cross couldn’t get to him fast enough. The tanks and the dead horses were in its way.

America lost 300,000 men during four years of the war, and in this one obscure battle, a hundred and fifteen thousand men perished.

Schlisselburg was just a blip on the most detailed map and barely a mention in the most detailed history books. The good ones said of Schlisselburg, “And here on the shores near Schlisselburg, some of the battles for the defense of Leningrad were fought.”

Only a second ago I was feeling slightly resentful that we hadn’t gone to Oreshek. It all fell away from me. The Battle for Leningrad flowed into me. I could reach out with my hand and touch the trenches, that’s how close they were, and beyond them any minute I could any run out myself onto that blue ice at dawn on 12 January. My soldiers were exploding as German planes flew low overhead bombarding us. We picked up one more soldier who died in our arms. We lay him down on the bloodied snow. Red, white, metallic blue, gray tanks, gray uniforms, red blood.

It was all in front of me, as if it had been built for me. In an instant of longing, I had been transported here for understanding. By the time I understood, I was lost in that world. I the drinker stood before my coveted bottle of red wine and opened my throat. I was no longer a spectator but a participant. I put my hand over my heart. I could barely breathe.

There and then, I felt, no, knew — between the Finnish pauses, thank God for Finland! — it was here in Schlisselburg that my Bronze Horseman came alive and jumped off his pedestal just as he did in Pushkin’s poem. I shuddered a little. The horseman came alive and for the rest of Eugene’s days chased him through the streets of Leningrad through that maddening dust until Eugene went mad. Was my horseman also going to chase me down the days through my maddening dust?

This is what I came to see. This is what I came to Russia for.

I came for the Bronze Horseman, and I found him here, rearing up in the cold slate building in front of 115,000 dying Russian soldiers.

I felt it all inside me, twisting and warping its way into fiction, into drama.

Though not much was needed to warp it into drama.

The dead, where did they go? Were they buried in the river? I didn’t ask.

The Bravest of the Brave

“I know that one hundred and fifteen thousand people dead seems like many — too many,” the lecturer said, “but right here—” she pointed with the red dot of her laser pen to a remote location on the south banks of the Neva— “two hundred and forty thousand men perished during the course of the war, in a place called Nevsky Patch.”

Nevsky Patch. That was the place Yuliy Gneze told me about as he carried a loaf of bread in the crook of his arm through a concrete museum building in Piskarev Cemetery.

I stared at the little place her red laser dot had landed. I could barely see the smoke. What was she pointing to? And wasn’t that the German side? She must have been mistaken, the Germans must have been the ones to lose those men, because—

“Two square kilometers held by Russian soldiers in enemy territory on the south bank,” she continued. “Our men occupied this little patch in the fall of 1941. They were supplied with food, ammunition and new soldiers by boats from across the river.”

I began to ask, “How long?” but broke off. This was ridiculous. I was not going to get emotional in front of two Finns and Viktor. Pausing to compose myself, I tried again. “How long did they hold that land?”

“For five hundred days,” she replied, “they held that bit of land against the Germans.” She paused, her own voice cracking. How many times has she given this lecture since 1994 when the Diorama first opened? “They were the bravest of the brave,” she said.

I remembered what Yuliy Gneze had told me. “They went there to die,” he said. “No one came back from Nevsky Patch.”

I had to turn away because I couldn’t look at the lecturer any more. Behind me was my father listening with his own stricken face. Nowhere to hide.

I turned back to the Diorama.

“Right after the war,” the lecturer said, “the Leningrad city council attempted to plant some trees at the memorial site for Nevsky Patch. Nothing grew. They tried again twenty years later. Nothing grew. They tried again thirty years later. The last time was on the fiftieth anniversary of the end of war. The council once again attempted to plant some trees in the soldiers’ honor, but one tree after another died, their roots turning up.”

“Why?” I said hoarsely. I cleared my throat. “Why?”

Behind me I heard Viktor whisper, “Metal.”

“Because the ground was full of metal,” the lecturer replied. “Nothing could grow, not even fifty years later. Two square kilometers, and to this day nothing grows on that fallow ground. It’s all metal: weapons of the fallen soldiers, enemy artillery, bullets, knives. And their bones.”

The men went to Nevsky Patch to die and were replaced by more soldiers from the boats that came across the river.

“Nevsky Patch holds a near-mythical status for all Russians,” Viktor told me as we turned away from the lecturer for the last time.

“You went there?”

“Yes.”

“Just like Piskarev?”

Viktor shrugged. “At least they were buried in Piskarev. At Nevsky Patch, they lay where they fell. The soldiers made barricades out of the dead bodies.”

Omigod, I mouthed to Viktor.

“I know,” he said. “Not quite like Piskarev.”

Shell-shocked, I bought some books and talked to Ludmilla, the woman who sold them to me. She said she had lived in Schlisselburg ever since she was a little girl.

The lecturer came over and shook my hand, introducing herself. Her name was Svetlana.

“So where do you girls go shopping?” I asked, me of the NorthPark and Galleria malls in Dallas. I was trying to change the subject to something facile.

“We don’t go shopping much,” Svetlana admitted.

“But you have to buy things, don’t you? Clothes, coats?”

“Not really,” Svetlana said. “We don’t need much.”

Ludmilla and Svetlana had been working at the Diorama since it opened. They got paid 70 rubles a month. “Theoretically,” interjected Svetlana with a chuckle. “We haven’t been paid in three months.”

“Oh,” I said.

“I almost died in Schlisselburg,” Ludmilla said, as if that was the reason she could never leave town.

As Ludmilla crossed the Nevá with her family in September, 1941 to evacuate, her boat was torpedoed by the Germans and sank. The drowning Ludmilla nonetheless grabbed her one-year-old brother, and clung to him in forty-degree water. “We would have gone down for sure,” she said, “but for an eighteen-year-old nurse who saved us both.”

“How old were you?” I asked.

“I was four.”

She was a year younger than my father.

A little later Viktor whispered to me, “She was four, and still grabbed on to her brother. Isn’t that incredible?”

Almost inconceivable, I echoed, recalling the complex relationship my daughter has with one of her brothers. Would Natasha grab on to Misha?

My father was nodding as if he were also listening; he even mumbled, “That’s incredible.” But then suddenly he said, “Girls, I cannot tell you how this place would change with a little money, a few restaurants, some vacation homes. I mean, you have a beautiful place here in Schlisselburg. World-class beautiful. If I had a million dollars, I would buy up all the land between those canals of yours, and then this would really be something. That’s all that I’d need. A million dollars.”

The two women smiled vacantly at him.

“Papa, let’s go,” I said, shaking my head.

Outside, I turned to him, exasperated. “Papa, what are you doing? Those women haven’t been paid in three months and you’re going on about what you would do with a million dollars?”

“I’m just saying.”

“Okay. Do you want to go and look at the tank?”

“Not really. We need to get going. We spent too long in there.”

“You think?”

I heaved myself inside the car. “Papa, do you think this place we’re going to, the Road of Life place, there might be a bathroom?”

“Are you joking?”

“Anywhere along the way?”

“You are, right?”

“Well, I really need a bathroom.” For feminine reasons, but I was hardly going to tell my father that. I needed a bathroom that instant.

“Go back to those women. Maybe they’ll let you use theirs. They must have a bathroom. It’s a museum.”

I went back, while the two men waited for me in the car.

“Svetlana,” I said, “do you have a ladies room I can use?”

She glanced at me awkwardly and then pointed me back to the exit. “Come,” she said walking with me. “I’ll take you. Frankly, I’m ashamed. It’s in the woods, behind the museum. But someone stole the doors off it.”

“Stole the doors off the bathroom?”

“Yes.”

“Well, why doesn’t someone, maybe the city council, give you new doors?”

“They’d have to pay us first.”

We walked down a path that ran alongside the highway just before the entrance to Mariinsky Bridge. A few sparse white birches did not make it look like a forest, more like an outgrowth, and the grass was uncut — naturally.

In the near distance I saw something I thought could not be the bathroom. It was a small, corroded steel square structure with a letter M on top.

It was the bathroom. M was for men, engraved helpfully above the opening that used to have a door. We came closer. I could smell the bathroom from thirty feet away. What was it with Soviet bathrooms? The smell was particularly harsh because we were in the open country. You’d think the freshness of the flowing Neva and the blooming grasses would’ve taken care of the stench. Not so. Nature was ill-quipped to battle the intensity of the rusted cubicle. We came closer. The men’s side was first.

It was all metal. The door must have been metal too. Maybe the door pilferer sold it for scrap. Maybe not sold it, but bartered it.

The opening in the ground that served as the toilet was a square hole poured in concrete, and the concrete was covered in excrement.

Pressing my lips shut, I looked at Svetlana. I was trying not to breathe. But I also didn’t want to offend her by either retching or holding my nose. “The men’s side is awful,” she said. Her face was full of acute embarrassment: the dull yearning for civilization mixed with the resigned knowledge that she wouldn’t find it in these woods.

“Please come this way,” she said. “To the women’s side. The women’s is cleaner.”

We walked around the metal structure. There were no doors on the women’s side either. Inside was a square hole in the ground poured in concrete, and the concrete was covered with excrement.

I couldn’t divine Svetlana’s criteria for “cleaner,” nor would I dare ask. I could think of nothing to say except a limp, “Is there any toilet paper?”

It was that awful time of the month. I could’ve been born a man, but no. In my abject necessity, I repeated, “Toilet paper, is there some?”

“Nnn — no,” Svetlana said, brow furrowing. “There is no toilet paper.” She paused. “Do you … need toilet paper?”

I shook my head. “You know what?” I stepped away. “I’ll wait. But thank you anyway.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

As we walked back, she said, “Excuse us, please.”

“No, no,” I said. It is I who needs to be excused by you, for intruding on your life. I was the last thing these Russian people needed.

“We usually just go into the woods, Ludmilla and I,” Svetlana told me.

“For everything? Even the … hmm … the big things?”

“Well, usually, we wait for those until we get home.”

I walked carefully, trying not to rattle my bladder on the uneven ground.

“So whoever took them, took both doors?”

“Yes. Both doors.”

I was silent.

Brightening up a little, Svetlana said, “You know, President Yeltsin came to see our Diorama a couple of years ago, and we thought maybe they’d give us some doors for the toilet then, but they just brought a portable toilet with them, and when he left, they took their toilet. They didn’t even let us glance at Yeltsin. They locked us in the basement.”

My astonishment must have been too bald on my face, because she shrugged and laughed a little. “I know. Not a single peek at him.” She sounded more upset about not getting a glimpse of the Russian president than she did about the toilet.

“But who got to tell him the story of the breaking of the blockade?” I wanted to know. “You tell it so well.”

Svetlana shrugged again. “They have their own people for that.”

When I said good-bye to her, I held her hand for a moment.

When I came back to the car, my father asked, “Well?”

“I decided to wait.”

He whirled around. “There was no toilet?”

“Oh, there was.”

When I told him, my father didn’t know whether to laugh or shake his head. He did both.

“It’s easier for them to requisition a port-a-toilet from somewhere,” he said, “than to replace those doors. In any case, they were hardly going to send Yeltsin into the woods to pee in a hole.”

“Certainly not,” I agreed, as Viktor drove away from the Diorama, the tank with the roses, and across Mariinsky Bridge.

On the way to the Road of Life, my father told me the story of the writer André Gide, who came to Russia in 1936 and wrote a scathing book about his visit. Gide’s chief complaint was that there was no toilet paper to be found in the Soviet Union. Aleksei Tolstoy, a Russian writer and Leo’s nephew, after reading Gide’s book said viciously, “That’s right, because of course all André ever thinks about is his ass.” Gide, apparently, was a known homosexual.

Northward we drove up the western coast of Lake Ladoga. Viktor called the road “the Broken Ring.”

“Why do you call it that?” I asked.

“Because,” he replied, “the memorial to the start of the Road of Life is a concrete ring that’s broken at the top, symbolizing that the Soviets broke the blockade with this route along the ice years before Schlisselburg.”

“Papa, what did you think of the Diorama?”

“What can one think of it? What about that Nevsky Patch?” He shook his head. “You know your dedushka, my father?”

“Yes, I know my dedushka, your father.”

“Don’t be fresh. You remember his brother, Semyon? He was an engineer during the war; he repaired airplane engines for the Red Army. Semyon told me that all the pilots in his company died. They either died in the air or they died while landing because in those days planes didn’t have the stabilizing third brake. He said before the pilots went out, they drank, they smoked, went to sleep and when they woke up, they flew out to die.”

“All of them?”

“That’s what he said. All of them.”

“Papa, do you think we’ll have time to go to Nevsky Patch?”

“Are you crazy? We don’t have time today to eat. Have you noticed we haven’t eaten?”

“That’s because there is nowhere to buy food.”

“We can’t go to Nevsky Patch.”

“It’s worth seeing,” Viktor said.

“Everything is worth seeing, Viktor!” my father exclaimed. “But we cannot see everything.”

“What about Saturday? Isn’t it on the way to somebody on Saturday?”

Shaking his head, my father said, “Nevsky Patch is on the way to nowhere, I already told you.”

We stopped to get some food at a small open market with stalls. “Fresh bread,” the sign read.

“Do you think there will be a toilet here?” I asked with hope.

“Absolutely not,” said my father. “Not even a possibility.”

We bought some bread of dubious freshness, tomatoes, cucumbers, cherries, 200 grams of bologna, 200 grams of lamb bologna, and Kvas — a Russian drink made from bread. For one ruble, or sixteen cents, Viktor also bought a replica of a Swiss army knife. “For a ruble?” I said. “Wow.”

“Pretty good, huh?” He smiled — a rarity. “Made in Taiwan.”

On the way to the car, we bought crème brulée ice cream, which was the only thing I wanted. I sat in the back of Viktor’s car, and ate the ice cream with the kind gusto and joy one reserves for reading a fantastic book, slowing down at the end because it is just too good to finish. I kept gazing at the caramel-colored ice cream in its plain tasteless wafer cone, and my father kept turning around and asking, “Well, how is it? How is it?”

“It’s everything I thought it would be.”

These three things: the smell of Shepelevo, the smell of the Metro and the taste of crème bruleé ice cream. The essence of my childhood in Russia.

The rest of it — well, I didn’t want to remember.

Viktor was pulling over to the shoulder.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “We’re not there yet, are we?”

“This is a good place,” he said, turning to me. “There is no one here.”

“A good place for what?” I said, staring deep into the well of my diminishing ice cream.

“Go in the woods, do your business. You’ll feel much better.”

“Viktor,” I said. “Please. Who are you talking to? Drive. I’m not going in the woods.”

My father shook his head at me with a scowl. “Stop it, you fool. You will have to go in the woods in the end. Go now and end your misery — and ours.”

“No, I will not end your misery,” I said. “At Broken Ring, there’s bound to be something.”

“There will be nothing, I tell you!” my father said. “Nothing! Go now.”

“I can’t.”

“Ah, hell,” said my father. Viktor pulled away from the grass.

He slowed down several more times before we got to Broken Ring. Each time he said, “This is not a bad spot. Secluded. Go here.”

“No.”

How they laughed at me. Yes, my father laughed, but underneath I could tell he wished he could just order me to go, as if I were still a child or an employee under his control. It frustrated him that I would not see sense and would not listen to him.

The Broken Ring memorial near the tiny village of Kokorevo is about thirty kilometers up the northern coast of Lake Ladoga. The Road of Life stretched to Kobona on the eastern shore of the lake, thirty kilometers (twenty miles) across the ice. During the damning winter of 1941, the desperate Leningrad city council together with the Red Army devised a trail across the frozen lake. Army trucks made their way through the night to bring bread to the dying Leningraders. The passage between Kobona and Kokorevo is one of the narrowest points across Ladoga, which at its widest stretches 126 kilometers, or 71 miles. Three times as wide as Long Island in New York. Three times as wide as the state of Israel.

The Germans bombarded the bread trucks from the air as they carried bread and sugar from Kobona and picked up evacuating Leningrad residents from Kokorevo. The Russians set up land-to-air artillery missiles to fight the Luftwaffe, and little by little, in the dead of night, with only the headlights of the trucks showing the way, they rolled across the ice to save dozens, possibly hundreds from dying. Some trucks fell to German air strikes. Some fell through the ice.

The road we were on extended in a narrow straight line towards the horizon. There were no crossroads, nor any houses. It was just a birch and pine forest through which ran a road toward the lake and the Broken Ring. From two kilometers away I could see the ring rise up out of the ground like a smaller Arch of St. Louis.

The ring didn’t look broken from the distance. The highway ended at the ring. We stopped the car. The ring still didn’t look broken.

“Where is it broken?” I asked Viktor.

“Right on top. Do you see?”

There was no place to park for the memorial. We parked on the grass. The ring was a giant concrete semi-circle with the two circular halves not quite connecting. Under the ring, tire tracks treaded through the asphalt, vanishing into the wetland cattails of the flattened lake.

Only when I came close, did I see the break in the ring, at the very apex, maybe six inches wide. Considering the ring itself stood forty feet above ground, it was a tiny break indeed. I hoped this was symbolic — the Road of Life breaking the German ring around Leningrad. Was the lack of a parking lot also symbolic?

A wedding party was taking place underneath the ring. Either that or a wedding. The bride was clowning around, throwing her veil up above her head and dancing on the tire tracks. Why would anyone want to come here to have pictures taken of the bride and groom?

“A wedding wouldn’t happen here if there weren’t a bathroom,” I said to my father.

“Yeah, right,” he said. “Why don’t you go ask the bride. Ask her where she goes to pee.”

“I bet she doesn’t go in the woods.”

“I bet she does,” said Viktor.

I walked up to the bride. “Congratulations,” I said. “Excuse me, but is there a bathroom around here?”

She shook her veiled head. I could tell she was surprised by my question. “There are no conveniences here,” she said in a casual tone of someone who expects exactly that and nothing more.

I wanted to point out that a toilet was more a necessity than a convenience, but I smiled and said, “Of course. Thank you.” Clearly it wasn’t a convenience.

After the bridal party departed, my father came up to me and said with a wide self-satisfied smirk, “Did you ask the bride if she lifted up her wedding dress to pee in the woods?”

“No, I did not.”

He laughed heartily. “What did I tell you? I told you there would be nothing here. I told you to go in the woods. Who told you?”

Viktor pointed out all around us that there were still plenty of woods for me to come to my abandoned senses.

“She can’t go here!” my father said in an affronted tone. “It’s the Road of Life memorial, for God’s sake.”

Besides the ring memorial and the Zenith land-to-air artillery gun there was nothing else around, and I mean nothing. It was marshland. Long grasses grew right out of the water. After ten minutes we left.

My father and Viktor were hungry.

We decided to go down the dirt road to a paid beach, have a swim and then a picnic. “It’s a paid beach,” my father said, “so there’s bound to be a toilet there.”

Not bloody likely.

The road with the same gargantuan potholes as we had found on the way to Shepelevo was hard on my bladder.

“Viktor, gently. Please.”

It was three in the afternoon.

“Harder, Viktor, harder,” Papa said. “That’s right, like that. Teach her a lesson.” He laughed, enjoying himself.

The attendant at the beach took ten rubles from us. Papa asked him about a toilet. “Toilet? No, no,” the man was surprised we were asking. “No toilet here.”

“Why would there be?” I said.

“Exactly,” he replied.

“Makes you wonder what we’re paying for,” my father remarked as we drove on.

After Viktor parked, he retrieved from the trunk some harsh-looking brown unbleached toilet paper he had bought at the open market for just such an occasion.

“Take this,” he said. “Go down the path and go into the woods.”

Vanquished by the merciless demands of my body, I went into the woods. How ridiculous I must have seemed to Viktor, walking lamely down the forest path, holding my little purse in my hands as if I were heading down the stairs to the marble public bathrooms at the Plaza Hotel to freshen up a tad.

In a manner of seconds, every part of me that was exposed was stung by big black fat mosquitoes that probably hadn’t eaten since the Road of Life bride.

As I was walking back, I saw my father and Viktor changing by the car. That was the last thing I needed to see, so I turned around and started to walk back to the woods.

“Paullina, where are you going?” my father called after me.

“Going to give you some privacy, Papa.”

“Come back.”

I came back.

“Papa, I read somewhere that there is no word in Russian for privacy. Is that true?”

He thought about it. “Let me think about it,” he said. “I’ll tell you in a minute.”

In a minute, he said, “There is a word for private property.”

“No, Papa. I want a word for privacy. As in give you some privacy.”

Clearing his throat, he said, “No, I can’t think of it. I guess there isn’t.”

“I understand,” I said. “Now I understand everything.”

As we were walking to the beach, Viktor said, “You mustn’t feel bad about the woods. The woods is often the best place to go. Clean, hygienic.”

Yeah, I wanted to say, with 150 million people using the woods as one large unprivate public toilet, clean and hygienic is precisely what springs to my mind.

My father and Viktor immediately went swimming in Lake Ladoga. The day was blazingly sunny, and almost warm — maybe 63°F. I touched the lake water gingerly with the tip of my big toe. It was cold. Standing up to his torso in the water, my father called out, “Paullina, what a shame you didn’t bring your bathing suit!”

“Yes, isn’t it just,” I said, taking the tip of my big toe out of the water.

I went back to the car, sat on a rock and leafed through the blockade book I just bought.

Two hundred and forty thousand dead in a place the rest of the world and ninety percent of all Russians have never heard of. Dead on Nevsky Patch where the memorial to those men reads:

“You the living — Know this!

We didn’t want to leave this land,

And we didn’t.

We stood to the death on the banks of the dark Neva,

We died so you could live.”

Viktor and Papa came back, dried off. At the market, Viktor had very smartly bought a plastic picnic set that came with a plastic cloth that we now laid out on the ground right next to the car. Problem was, it kept blowing away. So we put the bologna and the tomatoes on it. Then we put our shoes on it. Then we looked at it. There was nowhere left for us to sit. My father stood. I sat on my rock. Viktor snaked himself among the shoes and the bologna. Getting out his version of the Swiss Army knife, he attempted to cut the tomatoes. Instantly I saw why his knife had cost sixteen cents. He may as well have been cutting the tomatoes with a spoon. First the juice started pouring out. Then the seeds. Then only the skin was left in his hands, the skin that was still pretty much intact except for the gouges.

Searching through my purse, I said, “Hmm. I hope we have another tomato.”

“Yes, we bought a couple.”

“Viktor the knife is no good,” my father said.

“What do you expect for a ruble?”

“Here, Viktor, let me,” I said and took out my little bought-in-America Swiss Army knife, which cost $10 bucks and was actually made in Switzerland. The knife effortlessly cut paper thin tomato slices for all and then sliced some bread. Those Swiss. They were busy designing a perfect utility knife while the rest of the world made automatic rifles and then used them.

We ate the pumpernickel bread and bologna. My father and Viktor drank the bread juice. “Plinka, want some Kvas?” my father asked.

“No, thanks,” I said. “I would rather have my bread in a sandwich.”

Besides, I learned too late a cardinal rule the hard way. Any liquid that goes in, must come out. I wasn’t going to drink another sip of anything until the Sunday flight home.

We talked in detail and at length about real estate possibilities on Lake Ladoga, which is the largest lake in Europe and the least inhabited. So what if it was covered with a sheet of ice two solid meters deep for eight months of the year? That didn’t matter. This was the tourist attraction of the 21st century, according to my father and Viktor.

I wasn’t paying attention to them. I was thinking of Schlisselburg, of Nevsky Patch.

On the way back, my father slept. I was near silent. All I could think about was the blue Neva ice at dawn, of losing a hundred and fifteen thousand men in six days, and of the two square kilometers covered with Russian bones and German bullets.

As we were passing Schlisselburg again, I leaned forward and whispered, “Viktor, how about if you drive on, to Nevsky Patch?”

“Oh, Paullina,” said Viktor. “Your father will kill me.”

“He’ll never know,” I said. “He’ll be asleep until Grand Hotel Europe. We’ll be quick. Fifteen minutes.”

“But it’s an hour or more out of our way.”

“So?”

“Your father will wake up.”

“Trust me, he won’t.”

“He will wake up at Grand Hotel Europe and wonder why it is eight o’clock instead of six.”

“Tell him you were stuck in traffic.”

“Oh, Paullina. What traffic?” There was no one on the road.

I imagined walking on earth on which nothing grew. I leaned back. I closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, we were at Grand Hotel Europe.

My father showered in my room.

I talked to my three-year-old son — finally! Poor boy. I had not spoken to him since I left five days ago. Could that even be possible?

Misha began with, “I’m so happy, Mommy.” So happy he finally got me on the phone.

Afterward, while my father was getting ready, I went for a walk around the hotel, and looked inside the boutique for the black dress I would have bought had I been going inside the cathedral for tomorrow’s funeral.

All I can say is thank God for President Yeltsin because the dress was not 200 UNITS but 375, and it wasn’t black.

Without our coats, because it was a sweet warm evening, we walked to Dom Knigi — House of Books. My father was not talkative and told me he would wait for me on the street. “Hurry up,” he said.

There are a few fundamental skills one needs to run a bookstore. One is a loose knowledge of alphabetization and some of its practical applications in a place that sells books.

Dom Knigi disagreed.

Perhaps they had other ideas for classifying their books that I had not been aware of.

“I’m trying to find books about the blockade,” I asked the clerk.

A young, bleached-blonde, sloppy girl stared at me wanly and spoke only when she was good and ready. “The blockade? Berlin?”

“Well, I was thinking of the blockade, Leningrad.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

Then, “Did you try upstairs?”

“No.”

“Try upstairs.”

“Thanks,” I said. “What about maps?”

“Maps of the blockade?”

“No. Just generally of this region.”

She sighed. “Try upstairs.”

Upstairs was run-down, unfriendly, and had no good maps. I had to wait five minutes before I could ask where they were hiding their history section. The man pointed me to the front window, where I found five shelves of books in no discernible order. I went back to him, and after waiting five more minutes asked where I could find books about the Leningrad blockade.

“Leningrad? What are you doing upstairs?”

“Well—”

“They’re downstairs, of course, in the World War II section. Just look through there. You’ll find what you need.”

I left.

On the street my father looked cranky and hungry. He was having a little trouble walking.

“I’m going to wait for you right here,” he said, settling on a stone bench underneath a lone tree near the Griboyedov Canal.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“We haven’t eaten,” he said. “I’m not feeling very well. I have slight diabetes. I’m just dizzy. Go pick up your pictures. But hurry, I want to eat.”

I ran to get my silly photos from the Kodak store, as if I were in London’s West End. How civilized, how westernized, how decidedly un-communist.

Speak Softly Love

We ate at “Sankt Peterburg” Russian restaurant on the Griboyedov Canal, next to the Church of the Resurrection. Last Monday my father promised me we would see this church again, and here we were, glancing at it as we made our way down the steps of a darkened restaurant.

I ordered exquisite black caviar with blini, excellent pelmeni and substandard chocolate mousse for dessert. My father had solyanka, a thick meat soup, and pelmeni.

He finished my mousse for me.

With the tap water being undrinkable like we were in Mexico City, I was forced to buy a tiny bottle of Evian, which at thirty rubles or five dollars was three dollars more than my father’s huge glass of beer that he drank to chase down his four dollar double shot of vodka.

He was tired at first but after a bit of food and drink he brightened. We talked at length about his retirement and plans for Maui.

“Papa,” I said, “there are two things you love: fishing and gardening. How are you going to grow your tomatoes? How are you going to sit in your boat?”

“What boat, what tomatoes?”

“Exactly.” No garden for him, no fishing.

My father again mentioned something about fishing off the ocean coast. I remained unconvinced. “Are you going to stand on a pier? Are you going to stand in two feet of water?”

“If I have to.”

“It’s not like sitting in a boat.”

“No,” he said. “But the sun sets on the ocean; you know what that’s like?”

“No,” I said sadly, me of the Atlantic shores that faced east.

“Well, it’s quite a sight. Besides you are wrong. I love three things. The third one is your mother. Maui is the perfect place for her, so I will be happy there too. I can be happy anywhere.”

I thought. “You also love movies.”

“Yes.”

“Instead of gardening or fishing, you can watch The Godfather with Mama.”

He smiled. “What a splendid life.” The Godfather is my father’s favorite film.

We ate, we drank. I wished it weren’t so smoky. My eyes were burning.

“Are you a little scared, retiring? You’ve worked your whole life. You love your job.”

“I have worked my whole life,” my father said. “And I do love my job. There are very few people in the world who can do what I do.”

He shook his head, took another gulp of beer. “Paullina, it’s time for me to leave work. I don’t feel well. I do not live a healthy life. I don’t. And also, your mother.” He fell quiet.

“I’m leaving for her,” he said. “She needs me to stop working, to be with her. I’m going to do that. I want us to have a good life in Maui.”

“And you will,” I said.

“We’re going to get up at seven in the morning,” he said, “and we’re going to go to the beach. We will walk, swim, sit, talk. Then we’ll come home around ten and have breakfast.”

“By the time you’re done, it’ll be time for lunch.”

“Then we’ll have lunch. After lunch a nap, and maybe a little Internet.”

“Good plan,” I said, not wanting to mention the red dust.

“Then back to the beach for the late afternoon. Then dinner. Then movies. It’s a splendid life, isn’t it?”

“Perfect,” I agreed.

“And any time we want to, we can hop on a plane and in three hours be in San Francisco. We’ll rent a car, we’ll drive down to see you and the kids, we’ll drive to New York, we’ll travel. Mama will see her Las Vegas. Paullina, it’s what I want to do.”

“I know.”

“You and the children and Kevin of course can come and visit us any time. Any time. For as long as you want. You have a place to stay. With us.”

“Papa, you have a two bedroom condo!”

“We’ll fit.”

“Papa, the flight to Maui is thirteen hours from Dallas. What are we going to do with the kids on the plane for thirteen hours?”

He paused. “It’s not thirteen straight hours. There is a change-over in San Francisco or Honolulu.”

It was time for me to shake my head.

“Paullina, you don’t know Hawaii. You cannot imagine. You won’t want to leave.” He smiled. “It’s not like here.”

Then why didn’t I want to leave here? “I hear it’s paradise on earth,” I said. I sipped my water, he drank his beer.

“There, not here.” In case there was any confusion.

“So I guess I’m not calling Yulia, huh, Papa?”

“Do what you like,” he said. “It’s going to be very difficult for you to see her.”

He seemed so reluctant to share this time with other people. No Alla for breakfast, no Anatoly and Ellie for dinner, no walking with Anatoly through the streets of Leningrad. Just me and my father.

Well, he did put off his retirement to Maui so he could come to Leningrad with me. It was only right.

“What did you think of Schlisselburg?” he asked. “You don’t need any more inspiration, do you?”

I shook my head. It was all I needed. Everything.

He drank his beer.

“But you know, the thing that affected me most …” I broke off. I found it hard to continue. I had started well enough, couched myself in euphemism, the thing, affected me, so banal, taste-free, yet in the middle of six words, an image sprung up, an image of the ground on which nothing grows with we died so you could live. Then darkest Neva rose up, and tears too. This is ridiculous, I thought, and tried again, slower. “You know, the thing I want to say, is this …” Trailing off again, I looked into my tea.

“What?” my father said, trying to understand. “What’s the matter with you?”

My head twitched as I tried to compose at least my voice. What is wrong with me? Why am I crying?

“It’s those two hundred and forty thousand men at Nevsky Patch,” I said, looking into my tea, not looking at my father. “What did they die for?”

My father shrugged. “What does anybody die for? It’s war, Paullina. Young boys go to die. That’s what war is.”

He wasn’t understanding what I was trying to say. What did they die for?

I tried again. “Yes, but we’ve all heard of Iwo Jima, we’ve heard of Omaha Beach.” That wasn’t it. That wasn’t the heart of it.

“Yes, and no one has heard of Nevsky Patch. No one’s heard of Schlisselburg.”

Yes, but that still wasn’t the thing that hurt. It was the enormity of the sacrifice balanced against the reality of the present life. The see-saw was upended.

A show began with elaborately dressed Russian dancers cavorting to loud Russian muzak. I kept waiting to hear “Shine, Shine, My Star,” but no such luck. It was too loud for us to talk, so we asked for the check.

The Russian waiter, though polite, could not for the life of him say “You’re welcome,” when I would thank him for bringing us food or drink. After we tipped him generously, he didn’t say thank you, but he did ask us to come back soon.

On the way out, I stopped to get some matryoshkas for my children while my father went outside to smoke. He had smoked all through the meal, exhaling the fumes into my face. Can they smoke here, oh, of course, not even a thought, and why should he give one? That had been his life and mine too in smaller less well-ventilated rooms and I never said a word and never could.

I must have spent ten minutes choosing my nesting dolls. I glanced outside to make sure he wasn’t getting too antsy, and there was my dad leaning over the canal talking to a young dark-haired man. The Church of the Resurrection was behind them. The man was leaning very close, energetically explaining something, and my father was listening intently.

Suddenly he came inside and motioned for me to come. In the golden glimmer of the evening canal I instantly saw that the dark man was drunk.

“This is my daughter,” my father said, smiling and proud. As if he were introducing me to his good friend.

The man shook my hand; rather, he grabbed my hand and held it. I pulled away. My father said, “Come, I will buy you some water.”

I glared at my dad, but he wouldn’t give me the satisfaction of meeting my eyes, so we started to walk along the Griboyedov with the drunk man following us closely. He never for an instant stopped talking. Rather, he didn’t not so much talk as quote obscure Boris Pasternak poetry.

Under willow trees with ivy ingrown

We are trying to hide from bad weather.

I am clasping your arms in my own,

In one cloak we are huddled together.

I was wrong.

Not with ivy-leaves bound,

But with hops overgrown is the willow.

Well then, let us spread out on the ground

This our cloak as a sheet and a pillow.

A few hundred feet down the canal, my father bought the drunk poet an Evian. The man promptly offered to share the Evian with my dad, who promptly refused. We started to walk again. The man continued to amble, somewhat beside us, linear patterns long abandoned, and continued to quote Pasternak. It took me two more blocks to realize he was repeating the same poem over and over, about sitting down and drinking from the common cup. But when he expressed contemptuous distaste at the saxophonist playing by the canal, even my father had had enough. My father was partial to saxophonists. He had given the musician money earlier, for a Russian jazz rendition of You Ain’t Nothing but a Hounddog.

Thankfully, it was time for us to cross the bridge across Griboyedov so my father bid goodbye to his new friend. What surprised me was how unperturbed my dad was by being accosted and unworried about being followed. He bought this man a drink as if it were nothing, and then walked on and didn’t mention him again except to reply, “Very drunk,” to my question, “Was he a very sober man?”

The saxophonist continued to play by the side of the Griboyedov Canal with the golden onion domes of Church of the Spilt Blood in the near distance.

We had long passed him when he started to play “Speak Softly Love,” from The Godfather. My father and I stopped, looked at each other and came back to the saxophonist. Papa smiled. We were back in America, at the movies, at our Kew Gardens apartment, in our Ronkonkoma house, dancing together at my first wedding. We didn’t move until the man finished playing. To hear the dulcet Nino Rota strands drift through the air while walking through the streets of Leningrad on a warm sunny white July night, having drunk, having eaten, having lived a full life in one day, it was a halcyon snapshot of our post-Russia existence. My father and I were suspended in the air with the minor chords.

We returned to Grand Hotel Europe for a brief bathroom oasis in the middle of the desert, and then at nearly ten-thirty at night set out for the Decembrists’ Square and the statue of the Bronze Horseman.

We walked past the Kazan Cathedral; I didn’t look up. I knew by now not to look too closely, the gold of the domes was black and green and the walls were black and gray, but above the dome shined a polished luminous gold cross. Before 1991 and the fall of Communism, there were no crosses on any of the cathedrals, because they weren’t houses of God, they were storage facilities or museums. After 1991, brand new gold crosses, the beacons of a religion other than Communism, were placed atop all the Leningrad cathedrals. It was the only new thing in the façade of the cathedrals.

I wanted to get a crème brulée ice cream, but the street seller had run out. All she had was vanilla. I shook my head.

We walked down Nevsky Prospekt. “Where is that sign?” I asked my father. “That famous sign.”

“We’re just about to pass it. Cross the street,” he replied. Just past the alphabetically challenged Dom Knigi, a rectangular blue and white sign hung on the building wall. “COMRADES, DURING ENEMY ATTACK, THIS SIDE OF THE STREET IS MORE DANGEROUS.” During the siege, the Germans aimed their missiles at Leningrad’s thoroughfare, Nevsky Prospekt. The bombs flew all the way from Pulkovo Heights, the site of the current airport eleven miles away, and landed on the northern side of Nevsky. The southern side was safer.

Underneath the sign, another small sign. “Left in memory of the besieged.”

“The war is everywhere, isn’t it?” said my father, as we crossed Nevsky again in the direction of Decembrists Square.

“Yes,” I said. “War, poverty, beauty, white nights, communism, our whole life.”

“Heartbreaking, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

It was eleven at night, and we passed only an occasional pedestrian as we slowly made our way through the empty streets.

One of Leningrad’s most celebrated cathedrals, St. Isaac’s in Decembrists’ Square was so badly in need of paint and renovation, its former splendor so shattered, that I was too sad to take a picture, until my father said, “Look at this incredible St. Isaac’s. Aren’t you going to take a picture?” I did, hoping the falling dusk would camouflage what I did not want the lens to capture.

My father told me Decembrists’ Square had been renamed Senate Square in 1992.

“Who can keep up with all the name changes?”

“Nobody,” he replied. “That’s why everybody still calls it Decembrists’ Square.”

Between St. Isaac’s and the Neva embankment stood The Bronze Horseman — Peter the Great atop his horse. In Pushkin’s poem, after the Great Flood of 1830, the luckless hero Evgeni comes to stand in front of the Bronze Horseman. The stallion rears against the setting sky, comes to life and chases Evgeni through the streets of Leningrad.

The horse and the Tsar stood on monolithic 1600-ton Thunder Rock. On the side of it the most simple words “TO PETER I, CATHERINE II.”

I took three pictures and my film ran out. I didn’t have another in my purse. But of course. I take twenty pictures of the Broken Ring but have nothing for the Bronze Horseman.

My father was already ahead, walking toward the Neva embankment, smoking. I circled the statue, then followed him to the river. He seemed to be searching for something.

“Is there anywhere to buy film around here, you think?”

There was a bar, and young people sat outside in chairs drinking their beer, laughing, talking. Somewhere else on the plaza, music blared. The Beatles were singing “The Things We Said Today”, one of my favourites.

My father still didn’t answer. “See across the river?” he pointed. “Along the embankment of General Schmidt is Leningrad University. That’s where I studied as a young man. See that resplendent building right there? Right in front of us across the river?” My father laughed. “That is not the university. That is Menshikov’s mansion. Do you know Menshikov?”

I shook my head.

“Peter the Great’s chief deputy. Peter told him to build the Petersburg University, as it was then called, on the banks of the Neva and then left for the country, thinking he was the Tsar, and his orders would most certainly be followed. But Menshikov decided to take matters into his own hands and built himself a mansion instead, overlooking the banks of the river. The university buildings he built perpendicular to the river, as you can see, so just the short side of them is showing, but Menshikov’s house spreads out gloriously right along the shoreline. When Peter came back and saw what had been done, he was upset, of course. He threatened banishment, and worse, but the deed was done.”

The anecdote was funny, but as my father gazed across the river at the university of his youth, his Russian life was in his eyes.

We resumed our stroll down the embankment. “You want to get a beer or something?” I asked.

“No, no. I’m getting tired. We have such a long way back. But I just can’t leave. Look at this river.”

“I’m looking, Papa, I’m looking.”

I stood at the Neva and watched the Northern sun ignite the sky as it set in front of us behind Leningrad University. My eyes traveled a bit to the right to Peter and Paul’s Cathedral, where we were going to bury the Tsar tomorrow, the hazy sunrise already glimmering behind the golden spire. So there it was: the sky ablaze with sunset in front of me but just upstream sunrise, all in the same lapis lazuli Leningrad sky. It was after midnight.

In 1984 when I had gone to live in England, I sent back home a photo of the glum, half cloudy Colchester sky with the inscription, “The sky is the same all over the world.”

I was wrong. The sky wasn’t the same all over the world.

When he asked isn’t it beautiful, my father was seeing his youth, and his youth was beautiful. He closed his eyes and saw himself young and so handsome, in love with many girls, funny, brilliant, popular. Of course it was beautiful. It was mystifying. It was mystical.

Yes, I said, wanting so much to see what he saw. But what I saw was what mattered to me. The war, the water, the midnight sun. I saw the streets not of my youth but of my fiction, and that was enough for me. I hadn’t loved in Leningrad, I was a child in Leningrad. But now for the first time, I saw streets of passion, of adult drama, of lovers, of heartbreak. I saw the streets of Alexander and Tatiana.

“Tonight,” my father said, “is the last official night of white nights. Tomorrow the street lights are turned back on.”

“Well, then it’s good we are here.”

We sat down on a bench by the river. No sooner had we sat down that my father sprang back up again, and said, “We must go.”

I willed myself up. Suddenly I was old, and Papa was young.

Taking a deep drag of his cigarette, he said, “Thank you, Plinka. Thank you for making me walk the streets of my life.”

I didn’t speak for a moment. I just placed my hand on his back. “But Papa,” I finally said, “you’ve been to Leningrad three times since 1991. You must have already walked these streets.”

“Never,” he said. “I have never walked here since the day we left Russia in 1973.”

“How can that be?” I was incredulous.

“That’s how it is.”

“Not even when you came here with Mama?”

“Never.”

“What did you two do when you came here?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Nothing.” He added, “When Mama came by herself, she walked. She walked everywhere, but not me.”

No film in the camera for these irretrievable seconds of my life, along the Neva with my Papa.

“Oh, Paullina,” my father said, walking slower and slower. It was quarter to one in the morning. “What are you doing to me?”

Back in my room, I undressed, lay on the bed and prayed for sleep.

Getting up, I opened the window to hear the sounds of Leningrad, and to air out my room, because a pungently malodorous cleaning lady had been in it. A mosquito flew in. It was three in the morning.

I found myself thinking in Russian, something I hadn’t done in years. I was not only thinking in Russian, but thinking in Russian words I never knew I knew, like sorrow, and mourning, and biophysical nuclear submarine engineering.

I realized why I could never remember the bon mot in English: because my brain was Russian, and my Russian brain scrambled the signals. The neuron was Russian and I tried to send English electrical impulses across it. Every once in a while rebelled.

I thought back to this morning. What did I do? Morning, morning, morning. Ulitsa Dybenko … sunshine … the highway … Mama’s gall bladder … the scrap steel yard at Schlisselburg … the stolen metal doors of the outhouse … the bride under the Broken Ring … crème brûlée … Kvas … Ladoga … Maui … caviar … in one cloak we are huddled together … Pasternak … speak softly love and hold me close against your heart … in memory of the besieged …

You the living — Know this! We didn’t want to leave this land, and we didn’t. We stood to the death on the banks of the dark Neva, we died so you could live.

Not them. You. We died so that you could live, Paullina.

I tossed, sleeplessly, mournfully. I’m not a Cimmerian, I wanted to cry, why can’t I sleep? I thought about my Bronze Horseman and Pushkin’s Bronze Horseman, and remembered cold a verse out of his poem.

At last, his eyelids heavy-laden

Droop into slumber … soon away

The night’s tempestuous gloom is fading

And washes into pallid day.

THE FIFTH DAY, FRIDAY

When I woke up at eight in the morning I was sick.

I must somehow have drunk the water yesterday. Today I took Immodium AD for the first time in my life. What was Immodium exactly? AD, did that refer to the approximate millennium the product was made? What had I drunk? Somewhere in our travels, the Neva water must have run unfiltered into me.

I realized I never did go for my two hours at the business office computer. Who had time to write?

I grimly got ready for the Romanov funeral. I couldn’t believe we were in Russia — I was in Russia on the very day of their funeral. What coincidence, it was, what irony, what destiny.

After I talked to Kevin, I put on my taupe pant suit, my taupe shoes. Threw some make-up on my face, and stumbled out to meet my father.

“Tired, Papa?” I asked. Actually, he looked fresh, shaved, and happy to see me. He was all dressed up in a dark blue suit, white shirt and tie. Viktor also wore a suit.

Before the guards let us inside the fortress grounds, we had to stand and wait behind the police barricades like voyeurs or geeky groupie fans in line for the stars at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion at Oscar time.

No one knew exactly what we were waiting for. The people with press credentials like us and the people without, like the woman in front of me from Novgorod, were all standing in the same queue. We were supposed to walk through the metal detectors but there were two of them set up and no one knew which we were supposed to go through. “With invitations here, without invitations there,” the puzzled guard said, as if he himself didn’t know what that meant. What did it mean? I broke through the crowd and made my way towards the guard. “What invitations?” I started to ask, but he cut me off immediately. “Please go back to the sidewalk. Get off the road.”

I got off the road. We waited, wondering if our press credentials were going to mean squat. “Papa, what are we waiting for?”

“Damned if I know.”

Finally, the guard spoke to our wormy block of tightly packed impatient people. “Those of you with press credentials, move over here. The rest of you will not be able to get in. Unless you have an invitation.”

The woman from Novgorod in front of me, in a housecoat and unkempt hair, waved her invitation, or whatever it was at the guard, and said, “I’m here to see the Tsar. I’m here to see the Tsar.”

There was a large disorganized mob of people along the street, having turned out to catch a glimpse of I don’t know what.

We squeezed in through the metal detector at long last and walked over a short bridge and through a portico to the interior square.

Peter and Paul’s is a slender beautiful old yellow stucco church, set into a cobblestone courtyard, which was itself set into the middle of Peter and Paul’s Fortress — a tiny island on the Neva that for many years stood as the sentinel of Leningrad and then became a prison. Most fortresses in Russia became prisons. Peter and Paul, Oreshek. Like Alcatraz but not as well appointed.

The church’s canary stucco had faded, giving the courtyard square the look of ancient Rome or Marseilles.

Marseilles has a church, Notre Dame a La Garde, set on top of the highest mountain overlooking the city. That church looks like it’s from the days of Francis of Assisi, but why was it endearing to me in Marseilles yet so heart-rending to me in Leningrad?

We met Viktor Ryazenkov in the square.

“So what are we supposed to do now?” I asked.

“We wait,” he said. “It’ll start soon.”

“Will we be able to hear the funeral from here?”

“Yes, they’ve set up microphones and a television set for us,” he replied.

“Where?”

“Right there? Do you see?”

“I don’t see the television.”

“Do you see the screens?”

“Yes, but they’re not turned on.”

“Be patient. See the cameras on the crane? They’re televising who is coming inside the church, all the church proceedings and all the speeches.”

“Where is the sound coming from? There are no loudspeakers.”

“Do you see?” He pointed off into the distance. “Right there is a loudspeaker.”

I saw a solitary loudspeaker hanging from a light post. “Okay,” I said. “We wait. Is there anything to drink?”

“Not really,” my father piped in.

“Is there anywhere to sit down?”

“What’s the matter with you?” my father said. “We just got here. You just woke up.” He tutted. “You never did like standing.”

Viktor R. gave me some warm mineral water that tasted like Gatorade.

I walked around, trying to shake off the stomach blues.

The political in-fighting surrounding the burial of the Romanovs was vast and petty and multi-layered. The Archbishop of the Russian Orthodox Church was not attending. Yeltsin was not attending — until yesterday. A number of the Romanov descendants were not attending.

No one could let Nicholas II and his family rest even eighty years later, even in death, not the people who loved them, not the people who couldn’t care less.

They died a bad death, the worst death, yet somehow it was not suffering enough.

Were they remains or were they sacred remains? Apparently, this semantic issue is what was keeping the Archbishop from attending the funeral as he roundly condemned us all for not only letting their sacred remains be buried, but be buried in St. Petersburg.

Three hundred years of the Romanov Dynasty had been wiped out in one night, on July 17, 1918. Eighty years ago to the day. And today all pretenders to the throne are fighting with one another, and the priests are fighting with the politicians, and the politicians are making conciliatory speeches about healing the rift, about repentance, redemption.

We couldn’t see anyone going inside the actual church. Did anyone even come to the funeral?

The beginning of the end began in February, 1917, when Nicholas II abdicated his throne. Afterward he and his family lived in voluntary exile in their summer residence south of Leningrad. When the Bolsheviks took power in October, 1917, he was forced deeper into Russia, to a town called Tobolsk.

He became an insurmountable problem for the Bolsheviks, who while embroiled in a bitter civil war, were deathly afraid the enemy would use the living Nicholas as a rallying cry against Communism. The Bolsheviks moved the Romanov family to Ekaterinburg, an inconspicuous city deep in the middle of Russia where they arrived in May of 1918 and were placed under effective house arrest at Ipatiev House. Nicholas was 50, his wife Alexandra, 46, their four daughters, the Grand Duchesses, were Olga, 23, Tatiana, 21, Maria, 19, and Anastasia, 17.

Their son and former heir to the throne Tsarevich Alexei was 13. Crippled with hemophilia, his limbs and joints permanently swollen and misshapen from internal bleeding. He was unable to move around by himself. His mother sat with him in the room day and night and read to him, or slept next to him.

They lived quietly for seventy-eight days until 16 July, 1918.

At midnight on 17 July, Nicholas and Alexandra were woken up and asked to get dressed and come downstairs into the basement. They were told the Bolsheviks were afraid for the family’s safety.

Because Tsarevich was so sick, Nicholas carried his teenage son to the basement himself. Twelve people piled into a subbasement room which had one small half-window. The chief guard spent some time positioning them — ostensibly for a photograph to prove they were still alive. One of the girls asked for a chair to sit on; two chairs were brought in. The mother and the young son sat in them.

The doctor, the maid, the nurse and the cook stood behind Nicholas. The youngest duchess Anastasia held in her arms the family poodle.

Eleven more guards stepped into the thirteen-by-eleven foot room. There were now twenty-four people in it, twelve of them with weapons. The chief guard took out a piece of paper and read out loud that by the order of Lenin himself, Nicholas and his family were to be executed. Nicholas turned to his family and said, “What? What?” The chief guard quickly repeated himself, then took out his pistol and shot Nicholas in the forehead. The Empress Alexandra and her daughter Tatiana started to cross themselves but there was no time. The other guards raised their rifles and opened fire on the rest of the family. The guards had been ordered to shoot for the heart and not the head to minimize the flow of blood. Many of the guards went partially or completely deaf as they fired more than one hundred and fifty shots into the royal family.

Suddenly the guards noticed that the bullets were ricocheting off three of the girls. The frantic men were stunned to discover that the girls were still alive, the bullets unable to penetrate them. Stepping closer, the guards began to shoot at them again at point blank range, yet the girls kept moaning and trying to crawl away. The maid even grabbed one of the rifles from the guards as she edged along the wall to the door. Now hysterical, the guards turned their bayonets on her and on the duchesses. Eventually the girls stopped moving.

The massacre had taken twenty minutes.

Later in the woods after the guards undressed — and touched — the duchesses, they discovered over eighteen pounds of diamonds sewn into their breast plates that the girls wore like armor. The diamonds were responsible for the initial ricocheting of the bullets that had so frenzied the shooters.

Except for the jewels, all the personal belongings of the family and their servants were placed in a heap and burned. With axes, the bodies were hacked into pieces, doused with sulfuric acid and gasoline, and then burned in a mining shaft. The following day, the executioners came back, retrieved what was left of the bodies and buried them in another mining shaft, which was then blown up.

It had taken seventy years to locate the remains. All except the Duchess Tatiana and Tsarevich Alexis were identified.

I wandered around on the cobblestones, thinking of the Romanovs lying unburied after such a death for eighty years, unburied, uncommenced to God. But not unmourned, I thought restlessly, coming up to the backs of other press agents, photographers, writers, all straining their necks to stare at the double doors. They were very attractive doors, made of solid wood, oak maybe.

“What are we looking at?” I asked a tall thin man with a camera in front of me. I just wanted him to move out of my way a little so I could see too. He turned around, gave me a haughty look, and said, in Russian, “For the dignitaries to arrive.”

“Oh.”

Coming up to my father, I asked, “Papa, when are the Romanovs going to be carried through those doors?”

“No,” Viktor R. stepped in. “They’re already inside the church. Remember? They were carried there yesterday.”

Yesterday, the royal remains were brought by plane from Ekaterinburg where their bones had lain on a metal slab in a laboratory since their discovery a few years ago. Quietly they rode through St. Petersburg streets towards their overdue burial.

Again politics and poverty ruled. There was not enough money in the city coffers to hire limousines to carry all five of the caskets, there was only enough money for one — to carry the Tsar’s remains.

“How did the rest get to the cathedral?” I asked Viktor R. My father had walked away, disgusted with the whole thing. “By bus?”

“No, by other means,” was Viktor’s evasive answer. Maybe that meant by taxi, by lesser cars, by cars that weren’t black hearses. I couldn’t get a straight answer standing in the courtyard of Peter and Paul’s.

Two days ago, at the Laima café, when I first had heard about the Tsar’s remains traveling across Leningrad, I said, wait a minute. I had seen horses on the Palace Square, waiting patiently for an amorous couple to rent a carriage for a half hour and ride through the streets of St. Petersburg. Why couldn’t the city rent a horse for 60 UNITS an hour, get an old carriage from somewhere, attach the carriage to the horse, and have the coffins be carried in a horse carriage to Peter and Paul’s, a couple of kilometers away? Our driver, Viktor had shrugged, so did Viktor R. It’s more complicated than that, they told me. Why? Princess Diana was pulled by several horses. Why couldn’t the Romanovs be pulled by just one?

That was England, this is Russia, they said.

I understood that.

So yesterday the Tsar was driven slowly through city streets in a black stretch limo while only a few hundred people turned out to watch him pass by. We had a larger turnout for O.J. Simpson during the 1994 slow-motion charade on Interstate 5 in Los Angeles.

During the press accreditation, we had been told that the funeral service was supposed to start at eleven in the morning, but Yeltsin had changed all that. He was supposed to arrive at eleven and speak and the funeral would start at noon.

I had been standing since ten-thirty, and my back hurt and my legs too. And my stomach. I wasn’t at all in good spirits. I was in my high heels on the uneven stones and wished I could lean against something, sit somewhere.

Surprisingly, there were toilets in the yard. PortaPotties, four of them. They would be leaving when we all left. The only reason to bring them was for the dignitaries, because, though Peter and Paul’s Fortress is a national treasure, a museum, a prison, a shrine, a cathedral, there are no permanent toilets here, as if this were not a national monument, but a field in the middle of Hecksher State Park on Long Island. Which, come to think of it, has public restrooms.

The Russian choir when it started to sing had a lovely melancholy tone. I wanted to smell the church incense, but I was not inside the church, I was on the cobblestones.

The Russian choir sang beautifully. Just like in The Deer Hunter.

We were doing nothing, saying nothing. We had no role. We just stood. My father smoked more than usual. I could tell he was frustrated by this ordeal. That’s what it felt like, an ordeal. This momentous occasion, this once in a lifetime moment, thousands of journalists from the world over, piled together on the cobblestones like old trash and just as ignored. We had nothing to see, nothing to photograph. We were barricaded away from the action, by ladders and on ladders were balanced people with cameras, ten feet deep. The only truth I was witness to was the backs of the frustrated photographers and my smoking Papa.

When Yeltsin finally arrived at noon by helicopter, a fashionable hour late, he said in his introductory speech, “This is the time for repentance.”

I wished there was a question and answer session after his speech. I wanted to ask him about Ipatiev House. Yeltsin had ordered it razed in 1977 because the people in Russia were so crazed with wanting to canonize the martyred Romanovs that a trip to Ipatiev House in Ekaterinburg became a pilgrimage for many Russians. Yeltsin, who had been quite an avid communist, figured if there were no Ipatiev House there would be no pilgrimage. He was wrong.

“As a human being and as President,” he continued, “I could not not be here.”

Then the microphone went dead.

We heard nothing more for the rest of the funeral. Which was only fitting because we could see nothing either. Though we were told that television screens would be provided so we could watch what was happening inside while being outside, what we got was five rows of five televisions, that’s 25 screens in all, at 13 diagonal inches a piece, all adjacent to one another, and we could have been watching reruns of I Love Lucy, or the Weather Channel for all we could see in the hazy sunlight. It was like watching a movie inside a well-lit theater, but on a tiny screen. It was as if the Russians thought, hey, if we put 25 small TVs next to each other, those press idiots will think they’re getting one big screen. And we’ll only rent one microphone, because what are the chances it’ll break?

Where were the big screens that were erected in Hyde Park for Diana’s funeral? I would have taken one screen half that size. I would have taken aeven a 13-inch screen as long as it showed a picture.

It was hot on the cobblestones.

At 12:30 p.m., Papa told me to go and stand over there to see if Yeltsin would come out the front doors. I went and dutifully stood on the steps of a little boat house next to the church. There was no Yeltsin.

My feet, my back, my stomach, all hurt in unison. A gray-haired French man in front of me had dandruff that flaked off in the breeze in my direction. I stepped away. I didn’t want to see Yeltsin that badly.

Women were dressed in too tight clothes, even career women. Especially career women. Too tight clothes that didn’t match. And they smoked. Everybody smoked.

I sat down on the boathouse steps. It was the hottest day yet, eighty and humid. What a day to be standing on cobblestones. There was no more Russian church choir music. No more Yeltsin. Just a bunch of suited up people with cameras clamoring to see the closed oak doors of a church. And women in tight clothes smoking.

That was the Romanov funeral eighty years in the making.

In The Courtyard of the Cathedral

Later Newsweek had an article on the burial of Tsar Nicholas II, and People magazine had one too. I read these articles and felt a sense of propriety about that Friday morning. I wanted to say: I was there. I was there when the Tsar was buried. I saw …

Nothing. Wait: that’s not true. I saw the courtyard. What I didn’t see was what the rest of Russia saw beautifully on television. Or what the rest of the world wrote about.

The meaning of the Romanovs to history, about the power of repentance or the virtue of forgiveness. I didn’t see any of that. I saw a courtyard, and sun, and a hurting back, and aching feet, and a sick stomach, and the backs of photographers standing on ladders, straining to photograph — to photograph what? The doors of the church? The doors that remained closed for two hours, until the governor of Krasnoyarsk, Aleksandr Lebed, walked quickly through the courtyard, microphones thrust into his face. He was wearing a suit, and he looked distinguished. I saw that much.

“Quick, quick,” my father urged. “Climb up here, take a picture of Lebed for Deduska.”

I climbed up. I couldn’t get a picture of him. By the time I balanced myself atop a divider and focused the Pentax, all I saw was his back too.

I should have realized the funeral was going to be much like the accreditation process. In literature, they call it foreshadowing.

Finally Papa said, “Paullina, have you seen enough? You want to go?”

“Yes,” I instantly said, and thank you.

In the end it was not about us. It wasn’t about Viktor, or the press, or Newsweek’s lofty musings. It was about a family being buried.

I wish we could have seen it.

We left at 1:30 PM, with the funeral still in full swing. Or not. Who could tell?

Between the Funeral and the Hermitage

We dropped off Viktor R. at Radio Liberty. While we waited for our driver Viktor to come back downstairs, my father read world weather and Yankees stats to me. (87 degrees in Honolulu; Yankees, 69-21 giving them a .751 average, one of the best records in baseball history; could one dare hope it continued?).

Viktor came back. “Where to now?”

“Viktor,” my father said, “what do you suggest?” He actually asked someone’s opinion! “It is our last day in Leningrad. Tomorrow we drive to the Karelian Isthmus. We need to make today count.” He turned to me. “Do you want to go to the Defense of Leningrad Museum? It’s near the Field of Mars.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Or do you want to go to the Hermitage?”

“Yes,” I said.

“We can also take a walk along the Neva to the Summer Garden. You can’t leave Leningrad and not see the Summer Garden.”

“Yes,” I said.

Viktor studied me briefly. “Paullina, I don’t think you should go to the Defense of Leningrad Museum.”

“No?”

“No. You’ve seen too much, you’re overwhelmed.”

“Yes,” I said.

“You have been bombarded with too much information. I can see it’s becoming hard for you to absorb it all. To process it.”

“Yes,” I said.

“The museum is overkill. You will remember only five percent of what you see. What’s the point? I suggest the Hermitage.”

“Why not both?”

“That’s the trouble, Plina,” my father said, reading the paper and half-listening. “You want to do everything.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Seeing the Hermitage in one hour,” Viktor said, “is like not seeing it at all. You’ll barely have time to pay and go up the marble staircase.”

“Plina, here’s a plan,” my father said. “We go back to your hotel, you change. Then we walk to the Hermitage, and spend a couple of hours there.”

“Three,” said Viktor. “At the very least three hours.”

“Okay, okay, three. Then we walk along the Neva to the Summer Garden, and after I will show you the courthouse where I was tried and convicted. Then we will go and have our last dinner in Leningrad. What do you think? Is that a plan?”

“Yes,” I said.

But what about Yulia? I wanted to ask. I hadn’t called her. I guess I had to forget about Yulia.

But wasn’t Yulia the only one who had kept me from feeling utterly alone? We were both only children, but when we lived in Shepelevo we lived like sisters.

Yes.

At Grand Hotel Europe I changed from my taupe suit into a black shirt, white skirt, and sandals. I looked longingly at my bed, wishing I could fall down on it and sleep until it was time to leave Russia.

We walked in the afternoon sunshine to Café Nord, where we ate smoked salmon in an open-faced sandwich. I had cream cake with bitter espresso to drink. I picked at my food. I didn’t like the espresso, didn’t like the salmon, didn’t like the bread. I was feeling glum inside and out.

In the underpass from one side of Nevsky to another, a beggar woman sat with her young infant. Another beggar woman sang Russian songs I had never heard before. Farther along, two men and a young boy played the guitar and sang.

On Nevsky Prospekt, when we crossed the street to Dom Knigi, a man came up to us. “A boat trip down the Neva, down the canals,” he said. “Very good trip. The air is fresh.”

After hearing that three times, I said, “Papa, apparently the air is fresh.”

He said he didn’t like to see Leningrad from the canals, because Leningrad is best seen from the streets. The canals are narrow and the view is poor.

“Are you feeling all right?” he suddenly asked, a remarkable question coming from my usually oblivious father.

“Great, yes, thank you,” I replied. I wasn’t about to ruin our last day together by whining about my stupid stomach and my stupid feelings.

Danaë

As we headed down Bolshaya Morskaya toward the Arc of General Stamp, we walked past the Inter-city Phone Building.

“What is that building?” I asked my father.

“It’s the Inter-city Phone Building,” he replied. “When you wanted to call another city from Leningrad, you came here.”

“Oh,” I said, thinking, how antiquated, how good to know this, how handy this information would be in my Bronze Horseman book. How provident that we were passing this ancient relic of the past. “How long ago was that?”

“Until two years ago,” replied my father.

On we went through the Triumphal Arc of General Staff, this time in daylight. Beyond that we saw the Palace Square, the Alexander Column, and the glistening green of the Winter Palace.

We stopped for a few minutes before walking through the arc and just stood. What my father was thinking I don’t know. I was thinking that I had no more place inside me for any impressions, not of beauty, not of pain, not of nostalgia. I was full up.

But the Alexander Column alone was worth some feelings. Built by Nicholas I for Alexander I who saved Russia from Napoleon, it took three years to extract the 700-ton piece of granite from the Karelian Isthmus.

As we walked past it, I touched it with my hands. It was smooth and cold.

“What a square, huh, Papa?”

“Humph,” he said, as in, well, of course, what did you expect?

But it was more than that. The French feel the same way about their Paris, and I know the Italians feel the same way about their Rome, and the British, having fought Hitler practically single-handedly from 1939 to 1941, certainly feel this way about their blitzed but still standing London.

My father and I are not French, we are not Italian, we are not British. We are Russian, and what we feel when we touch the soul of our city we don’t feel for anywhere else in the world, no matter how historic, no matter how meaningful. We feel it for Leningrad, the Calvary of Russia’s war with Hitler.

We walked on to the Hermitage.

As Kevin would say, and did, “What is the Hermitage?”

Only one of the greatest museums of the world, housed inside a palace so opulent as to defy comprehension.

“Nothing on this scale could be built today,” my father told me. The Winter Palace, the Leningrad residence of the Tsars, is an immense rectangular green stucco edifice, built around an enormous interior courtyard. The building stretches nearly a kilometer along the Neva embankment. It was built by Bartolomeo Rastrelli with lavish Baroque gusto for Elizabeth I in the late-eighteenth century, but it was Peter the Great who started the art collection in the early 1700s when he bought two paintings by Rembrandt that still hang in the Dutch Room.

Today, the Hermitage is home to a thousand years of art and collectibles, and 23 more Rembrandts.

“Can we see all of it?” I asked my father.

“Yes. It will take us nine years, and we will only be able to spend thirty seconds on each exhibit, but yes.”

“Huh,” I said slowly. “What if we spend fifteen seconds on each? Listen, some I don’t really want to see.”

“Wait till you see the doors,” my father said. “You won’t believe the doors.”

“Can we see Picasso?”

“We won’t have time. It’s already three. We’ll try. Wait till you see the doors.”

Each handcrafted, gilded 20-foot solid walnut door must have cost a million dollars and there were hundreds of them all over the palace.

We decided to limit ourselves to a couple of halls, a couple of Throne rooms, one coffin room, a little Italian art, and one Rembrandt. “Oh, and we have to see the Fabergé room,” my father said.

“I hear he makes nice eggs.”

My father glared at me as we walked up the Grand Staircase.

He led me to one of the windows in the Catherine the Great Hall on the second floor. “Come, I want to show you something. Do you know why the curtains are drawn?”

“To block out the sunlight?”

He shook his head. “I have been coming to the Hermitage for fifty years, since 1946. Today I haven’t looked outside yet, but I just want to show you that I’m right about this. What do the Americans say? They say, the devil is in the details. Look at the courtyard.”

He pulled open the curtain. Outside in the rear courtyard of the Hermitage I saw dump-trucks with garbage. Old chairs, dirt, mess, weeds, large rusted pipes The decorative lions on the windows were not gilded and restored as they were on the outside. It looked like the backyards of Shepelevo on a slightly grander scale.

“Fifty years and they still haven’t moved those pipes,” my father said. “On one side of the Great Hall, a beautiful garden. A fantastic garden built on the second floor, imagine building a garden with earth and trees on the second floor. But on the other side of the hall, this. That’s Russia for you. Nothing has changed.”

“Why don’t they clean it up?”

“Why? Why should they? They just keep the curtains drawn.”

My father quite liked Catherine II’s second floor garden, “with lilacs!” He had mentioned lilacs a few days ago also when we had passed the Field of Mars, just after he told me he cooked meat over the eternal flame. “It was spring,” he had said. “And the lilacs were blooming.”

My father is partial to lilacs and saxophonists.

In the Italian section we found a sculpture of Michaelangelo, called his “grouchy” boy (crouching boy), two Raphaels and two DaVincis.

The Fabergé exhibit had unfortunately closed an hour early, but the Gregorian Hall was quite a sight with splendid gold columns and veined marble floors.

When we had bought the tickets for the Hermitage, the sign said, if you want to take pictures, please pay now, five dollars per picture. Eight dollars to use video. Well I didn’t know how many pictures I would take. Maybe none. So I didn’t pay. But when I saw the Gregorian Hall, I knew that I had to take a picture for my Natasha to show her that this was the famous hall where Duchess Anastasia danced with her daddy in the animated film Anastasia.

No, my own daddy said. You cannot take a picture. You didn’t pay, so now you can’t.

Thinking he was joking, I turned on the camera to take one picture. My father took it out of my hands and turned it off. “I said no. I told you to buy the use of the camera. You said no. Well, now you can’t take the picture.”

“Papa,” I said, “they wanted five dollars per picture. How did I know how many pictures I wanted to take?”

“No,” he corrected me. “They said, five dollars for use of camera. You didn’t pay. Now you can’t use it.”

It seemed so absurd, standing in the middle of the immoderate Gregorian Hall, arguing. “Fine,” I said. “Wait here. I will go and buy the right to take this one picture.”

He relented, and I took the picture. And then two more. He was all right after that.

“Look at the doors,” he said. “How do you like the doors? I told you about the doors. What do you think about them?”

“The doors are spectacular, Papa,” I said. “But this whole place is something. It’s all made of gold or marble.”

In the Napoleonic Hall we found a portrait of Shepelev, one of the Russian lieutenants who served in the war of 1812 against Napoleon. My dad and I concluded it must have been the Shepelev for whom our Shepelevo was named.

We filed past Peter the Great’s throne and stopped at a solid silver casket made for Alexander Nevsky engraved with intricate sculptures of all his battles. “Wouldn’t you like to be buried in a coffin like that?” My father whispered. “I would.”

“I prefer not to have to be buried at all,” I whispered back. “But Papa,” I said, slowly, thoughtfully. “If Nevsky’s coffin is here …?”

He just looked at me and shook his head.

“I’m just saying.”

“Stop it,” he said.

In the Dutch Art section, a whole room was given over to one painting called Danaë. Finally! A Rembrandt.

Back in 1986 some rotten bastard spilled acid all over the Danaë, ruining it. The museum spent six painstaking years restoring it. Now it was behind glare-free glass.

Danaë was King Acrisius’s daughter. Because the Delphic Oracle prophesied that Danaë’s future son was going to kill Acrisius, the king, having no sense of humor about that sort of thing, had his daughter locked up in a tower of brass, which is where Remrandt painted her, lying on a bed, naked, waiting for Zeus. Sure enough, Zeus, being a god, was not going to be kept away by a flimsy tower of brass, so he broke in, and found Danaë naked. Nine months later, Danaë bore Zeus a son. She named him Perseus. Acrisius, afraid for his own life, set mother and son adrift to sea in a chest.

Zeus rescued them. Perseus upon growing up, did indeed kill his grandfather, by accident and without meaning to during a friendly game of catch. The moral of that story? As the Hindus say, do what you like because the result will be exactly the same.

As I bought some Danaë postcards, I wondered why women were always naked in the old days. No wonder they were having babies all over the place.

I found out that Russian art consisted mainly of icons but also included some dishes. My father said by way of commentary, “Your mother bought better dishes at Karlovy Vary.” (a resort in the Czech Republic.) There were Russian paintings by unknown artists, Russian swords, and some precious stones.

The Malachite room impressed me. I concluded that as a stone, the sparkling vivid green malachite is magnificent, one of the best. Could I get a kitchen counter made of it? That’s right, because that’s how I wanted to live, in a museum made of stone and gold, with rusted pipes and trash outside my gilded windows.

It was nearly five and the Hermitage was closing. Tired, my father sat while I went to get some souvenirs. I bought a book for my daughter and four pastel prints of Leningrad for the breakfast nook of my Texas house.

I wanted to buy an ornate Easter Egg with Nicholas II on it, but it was 95 UNITS, and I decided to draw the line at the egg.

We were on the way out of the Hermitage at 5:30 when Papa announced he was going to the bathroom.

“They have bathrooms here?” Really, only a quarter of a joke.

“Yes,” my father said, deadpan. “I know that for a fact, because I used to drink vodka with my buddies in the bathrooms.”

“Is that right after you cooked the shish-ke-bob in the Field of Mars?”

He looked at me as if he had no idea what the hell I was talking about.

Along the Neva

We spilled out on the granite Nevá embankment and strolled north along the river, sun on the water. Through clouds, the gilded spire of Peter and Paul’s Cathedral across from us was bathed in light. The Romanovs’ sacred remains can rest there now, in peace, the old communists having repented, having begged for forgiveness. Water, stucco buildings, whizzing cars, Winter Palace, Peter and Paul’s, Palace Bridge, the University where my father studied when he was a young man. It was all in front of us and we were flooded with Leningrad. We didn’t speak to each other.

As we walked along the embankment I wondered if at least some of these buildings besides the Winter Palace could have been restored. There was one building on the Neva that was being renovated as we walked past it. The façade overlooking the river had already been re-stuccoed and re-painted pink and yellow. All the window frames were replaced. The doors were new. The Baroque-design window molding was restored to white gleaming ornate beauty. The front of the building looked like it belonged in Kensington Gardens, a ritzy part of London. But the side of the building — well, that was another story. That belonged squarely in Russia.

My father must have read my mind, because he said, “You know, when you and Kevin and the children come back, maybe in five years, you come back to Leningrad, the whole city will look like this. It will be a different city. They will renovate it for the tercentennial celebration in 2001.”

He paused. “But it’s beautiful nonetheless, isn’t it? Look at the Neva, look at Leningrad around it.”

“Yes, Papa,” I replied quietly.

He left me to go talk to two fishermen standing with their lines in the river.

We were at the wrought iron gates of Letniy Sad or Summer Garden. I bought a vanilla ice cream (they didn’t have crème brûlée) and sat down on a bench to rest, while my father remained with the fishermen.

Letniy Sad, alongside the Fontanka canal was a breathtaking Sad, so green and alive with straight paths and majestic canopy trees, and elongated sculptures out of Aesop’s fables. Ice cream in one hand, I bought a photo postcard from a woman named Catherine.

“Where are you taking this photograph?” she asked me. “Back to Moscow?” No, I said; to Texas. She couldn’t believe it. I was happy my Russian was good enough to be thought of as a Muscovite.

One Aesop sculpture in particular impressed me. It was of Saturn devouring his own child. I had always liked that one. I used to have a postcard of Saturn and his half-chewed offspring hanging on my wall at college, a pointed reminder of the French and Russian Revolutions. It hung next to a photo of my baby sister jumping off the diving board in our American house.

My father came to the bench where I was sitting and had a drink of my water. We saw a woman in a wedding dress at the gated entrance to Letniy Sad.

“Papa, look, another bride. They’re everywhere.”

“Yes,” my father said. “The divorced ones are all in bars.”

“Why was there a bride at Lake Ladoga and now one here?”

He got up. “It’s custom. Don’t you know? Every Russian bride and groom go to a national monument on their wedding day. It’s tradition.”

“Where did you and Mama go?”

“To the beer bar.”

We walked along the Fontanka canal to City Court or Gorsud where my father was tried and convicted in three days back in 1969.

“For what, Papa?” It must have been the first time I asked him that question directly. “What were the charges against you?” My mother once told me he was arrested for writing letters. My father once confirmed he was arrested for writing a letter to the newspaper Pravda advocating rule of law. Another time he told me, “For good cause, Paullina, for good cause.” Another time he told me, “I was lucky I didn’t go away for longer, and wasn’t found out sooner.”

Today he said proudly, “For anti-Soviet agitation and propaganda with the aim of undermining Soviet power and workers rights.” Then he laughed.

I photographed him at the wrong building at first. He forgot where it was momentarily. “Paullina, I didn’t go to Gorsud by the front door if you know what I mean. They brought me in handcuffs the back way. How do I know what the building looks like?”

The streets branching from the Fontanka embankment were all deserted. Where was everyone?

We cut across to the red Mikhailovsky Palace built on the locus of Fontanka and Moika canals. I was so busy walking with my father, thinking about Gorsud tummy Romanovs hunger Leningrad Ladoga Lomonosov Shepelevo Schlisselburg that I whizzed past Mikhailovsky Palace without a glimpse at its impregnable red stucco walls inside which Paul I was assassinated by his own men in 1801 so his son could ascend to the throne.

“Take a picture of that palace,” my father said. “It’s worth it.” I trudged back, took a picture.

I saw a sign on one of the passing rusted trams cheerfully proclaiming, “Leningrad Trams! 90 Years Old!”

I wondered if the writers of that sign were aware of the irony.

Moreover, these 90 year-old trams schlepped through Leningrad on rails not embedded in concrete but seemingly suspended above ground because the low-quality concrete around the rails had disintegrated, leaving clefts in the road. You had to be careful while crossing, because your foot, heck, your whole body, could easily get stuck in the gaping hole. You’d disappear and wouldn’t be found again until more of the concrete broke off.

It was amazing — the whole city seemed untouched in 80 years. What was the Soviet government doing for nearly a century? Vacationing in the Crimea?

I say untouched, but the Soviets did build. They built the KGB building next to my father’s prison. They built hotels — obscene industrial rectangular gray concrete boxes. The hotels were the shape — and size, it seemed — of the state of Kansas. Hotel Leningrad and Hotel Moskva were perfect examples of the Stalinist-Khruschevian aesthetic architectural style — Doric Ugly. I thought they could have built one less hotel and with the concrete they saved, they could have fixed all of the potholes on the city roads so the 90-year-old trams could ride on rails fully embedded in cement.

We had nearly stopped, we were walking so slowly, by the time we entered Alexander’s Park at the back of the Church of the Spilt Blood, where we collided with a large gathering about the Romanovs. I couldn’t tell if the priest was for or against. There were many Russian words strung loosely together. I felt like I was listening with my legs. My father didn’t want to listen. He had had enough. Either that or he was hungry. It was after seven thirty in the evening and we had only eaten that little half-sandwich at Café Nord. He was tired of the whole thing.

We walked with agonizing slowness back to my hotel, where he had a shower and I explored dining possibilities.

Our Last Dinner in Leningrad

When I came back to the room, my father was standing outside in the hallway, smoking. “You know,” he said to me, “I think a shower is the key to civilization.”

Nodding, I said, “It’s not the shower, Papa. It’s running water.”

“Well, what is a shower then?”

“A perfect example of running water.”

Though we liked the menu at the European Restaurant, we settled on the Caviar Bar after we found out the elegant European had the same menu as the Caviar Bar but was 30% more expensive. So we could have gone there and paid more, but we decided not to.

In the Caviar Bar we had Russian zakuski, borscht with no meat or potatoes, beef Stroganoff (with potatoes but no noodles). Papa had Kamchatka — lobster with sauce. It was delicious. He said it was the most delicious lobster he’d ever eaten.

Thinking of Leningrad, I said, “Someday, the city will have money. Things will improve. Roads will be renovated. Buildings restored.”

My father shook his head. “It won’t matter. No matter how much money there will be, it won’t matter. Look at Stalingrad. Never was a city more destroyed by war than Stalingrad. There was a heavy machinery factory there, demolished. It was rebuilt after the war from scratch. So what did the Soviets do? They rebuilt it exactly the same. Same obsolete technology, same dated architecture. That’s just how they work. It’s a fallacy to think things would be different. They won’t be any different.”

As we were finishing up, I said, harking back to Maui, “Papa, you know, it’s the beginning of the rest of your life. It’s a very exciting time for you. You go to Maui, get your health back, settle in, see how you like it. But Papa, if you don’t like it, that’s okay too. In a year, two years, whenever, you can always sell your condo and move back to the continent and find yourself another place to live.”

He shook his head vigorously. “I am never leaving Maui.”

“Don’t say never. What if you don’t like it?”

“What’s not to like?”

“What if you get lonely?”

“I won’t. I’ll have Mama. I’m not leaving.”

My stomach pretended to be all right so long as I wasn’t eating, but as soon as we had dinner, I felt awful again. We had had a long day and all I wanted to do was get back to my room, instantly.

But my father asked if I wanted to walk with him to the monument to Catherine the Great just down Nevsky. I could not say no to my father, even though I was nearly falling down.

A few times around the statue I thought I was actually going to faint.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“It’s wonderful,” I said. “Can we go back?”

“Tired, Paullina?”

“Tired, Papa.”

Crossing Nevsky, I lagged behind, and I saw his hand reach out behind him, just as he did when we used to go on our walks when I was little. I extended my own hand and took his. I think he had forgotten himself, how old he was, how old I was, where we were. As soon as I took his hand, he let go.

“Don’t forget,” he said, “tomorrow, we’re going to pick you up extra early because we’re going to the Karelian Isthmus. We have a very big day.”

“Oh, not like the days we’ve been having.”

“Just be ready.”

Back in my room I felt better.

Running water was great so long as it didn’t enter my mouth.

I took off my makeup.

Soon it was two in the morning again.

My Copper Penny

Kevin called. In the movie Somewhere in Time, Christopher Reeve traveled through time from 1979 back to 1912 to be with his beloved, but when he accidentally pulled out a penny from 1979, he was instantly transported back to the future, parted forever with the love of his life.

“Are you thinking of what movie you want to watch when you come back?” Kevin asked.

“I’m sorry, no.”

How far my other life was from me. I was all in my past and here in Russia in my present. There was no Texas, no yellow stucco house, no heat. There was a yellow stucco church, though. Cobblestones. Endless daylight. A river. My father.

“I’ll get back in the swing of things soon,” I said without feeling. When I hung up the phone, I thought, will I?

Outside the lights had been turned on. No more white nights.

I lay in bed and regretted not buying the Nicholas II Easter egg for $95. I would never find it again.

A fly buzzed around. When would it be it three days from now? Flies die in three days. The fly would still be alive, but I would no longer be in Russia.

Would I still be alive?

How big was the wall around our breakfast nook? Would the wall in Texas hold my four watercolors of Leningrad?

Sleep, please, merciful sleep.

THE SIXTH DAY, SATURDAY

When I woke up it was raining and cold. 55°F. Was it July or not July? Of course I had overslept.

I jumped out of the shower when the phone rang.

“We’re downstairs,” my father said.

“Um, not quite ready yet.”

“But Paullina,” he said, in his unhappy with me voice. “I thought I told you to be ready.”

“I know you told me that,” I said. “But I overslept.”

“Ellie wants to see your room,” he said without a pause. “I’ll send her up.”

“Papa, wait, what do you mean, Ellie? I’m completely naked.”

“Well, put something on,” he said and hung up.

Two minutes later there was a knock on the door. Ellie looked at me with my wet hair and no make-up and said I looked like the little Paullina from the home movie of our trip to Red Schel.

As she looked around the room, she clucked appreciatively, “Alla would’ve liked to see this.”

Yes, I thought, and my cousin Yulia too, and didn’t I promise your daughter Alla a little caviar with her blini from the breakfast buffet?

“Have you had breakfast?” I asked Ellie.

“Yes. You?”

“No, I just got up.”

“You must be hungry, poor thing.”

“I’m all right.” No time to even eat blini and caviar anymore. No time to write, to call home, to sleep, no time, no time. My last day in Leningrad. No time for anything.

As I put on my make-up, I asked Ellie if my father was tired last night.

“I don’t know if he was tired,” she said.

I said, “When he left me, he was ready to fall down.”

“I don’t know about that. We stayed up till three in the morning talking.”

I did a double-take. “You’re joking. Anatoly, too?”

“No, Anatoly was at our dacha. He came back this morning. Did you see the Romanov funeral yesterday?”

“Well, we were there, as you know,” I replied cryptically, scrunching mousse in my hair.

“Yes, of course I know. Do you have my dress? We saw the whole thing on television. Five hours of uninterrupted coverage. It was beautiful to watch. The service was incredible. Well, I don’t have to tell you. You were there.”

Ellie told me she wanted us on the way to my grandfather’s and father’s friends to stop at her dacha. Her dacha was in the village of Lisiy Nos, twenty kilometers north of Leningrad.

After the Germans attacked Russia in 1941, the Finns came down the Karelian Isthmus, stopping at Lisiy Nos on the outer city limits, and waited for Hitler to take Russia and Leningrad.

“Don’t worry, there are no Finns there now,” Ellie assured me.

“That’s good,” I said. “I still don’t know what Papa is going to say about us stopping there.” Actually, I knew very well what he was going to say about stopping there.

Slyly smiling, Ellie said, “I made you your favorite. Blinchiki.” Blinchiki are rolled-up meat crepes fried in butter. I do love them.

“Mmmm,” I said. My stomach was feeling better. I was hungry.

“If we stop at Lisiy Nos, I will fry them for you and your Papa. We could eat them with some tea.”

“Let’s talk to Papa, okay?” I said. “What’s in the bag you’re holding?”

“Oh, these are presents for you,” she said. “I brought little things for you to take back to your family.”

She took out three giant bags of Russian candy — one for each of my three children, some chocolate for Kevin, and two china cups with saucers for me.

“Ellie, thank you. But why did you do this? You didn’t have to. Why?”

She smiled. “It’s custom. To take back something of us with you. So you don’t forget us.”

“Little chance of that,” I said, hugging her.

When we got outside and I saw my father’s sour expression I thought it was lucky I wasn’t a child anymore because I was sure I wasn’t going to get any ice cream for the rest of the day.

Viktor drove. My father sat in front. I sat in the back squeezed in between Ellie and Anatoly.

Ellie mentioned to my father about our stopping in Lisiy Nos.

My father glared at Ellie as if she were mad. “Go to Lisiy Nos? For God’s sake, why, woman?”

Even Anatoly seemed to think it was a crazy idea, and he usually never sided with my father. Ellie was visibly upset. “But my blinchiki,” she said. “I don’t understand, I spent all day yesterday making them. I brought them for you because you all said you loved them. Paullina told me they were her favorite.”

“Paullina’s favorite is mushroom barley soup,” my father said. “Did you make that, too? You want to warm that up too at Lisiy Nos?”

“Ellie, you never make blinchiki for me,” Anatoly said.

“Oh, stop it,” she said. “I make you food every day.”

It went back and forth about blinchiki for a half hour.

I was amused. I wanted Ellie’s blinchiki.

Then Anatoly made the mistake of mentioning something harmless about the Karelian Isthmus, like, “Karelia is quite a nice place for a Soviet summer.”

My father burst out with, “Oh, the Soviets are all such hypocrites!”

Anatoly fell quiet.

My father said the Soviets were all aflutter when they were forced to give the Crimea back to the Ukrainians because the Crimea is the Russians’ vacation paradise, yet they didn’t want to give to Finland what was rightfully Finland’s, though to the Finns, the Karelian Isthmus is what the Crimea is to the Russians.

I wanted to point out that there was no hypocrisy, that the Russians simply and plainly didn’t like to give back any land, rightfully theirs or not, but I said nothing. It was raining and I wanted my blinchiki.

Conversation about Soviet hypocrisy and blinchiki ruled the small car in which five adults sat, two of them smoking adults. Ellie and I sat next to each other, until the beer store — a small supermarket in the middle of a wet nowhere that smelled strongly of fish, as did many places in Russia. The store smelled of fresh fish and smoked fish and salted fish and fish that was none of the above.

We bought some pastries and some bread, and some drinks. And of course beer.

When we got back in the car, Ellie had on her lap a large bag of ginger cookies and some soft meringues.

“Here. Want a cookie?” She looked sheepish, as she said it. I took a cookie, which turned out to be awesome. But I didn’t understand Ellie’s expression. I took three more cookies.

After a few minutes, Ellie softly confessed to the occupants of the car that it was a good thing we didn’t stop at Lisiy Nos because she had forgotten her blinchiki back at Ulitse Dybenko.

Amid much laughter, we imagined the scene in which we acquiesced to Ellie’s wishes and went to Lisiy Nos so that she could make us her blinchiki. To Lisiy Nos, an hour out of our way, on a day during which we already had two long and difficult stops.

For many miles we imagined loudly and repeatedly what we would have been saying had we gone to Lisiy Nos and discovered there was no blinchiki.

Anatoly said, “She never makes me blinchiki.”

To change the subject I asked my father how it had been for him in Ellie’s apartment without hot water. He told me that every morning he boiled a kettle and diluted the scalding water with cold water in a pan. “First I shave, and then I wash myself piece by piece.”

“Really?” I said. “And how is that for you?”

My father was cheerful, “I’ve discovered you can wash a whole person with one kettle of boiling water.”

“Depending on which parts you wash,” said Ellie

Whirling around, Papa barked, “Stop it, ladies and gentlemen! What’s gotten into you?”

As we drove north up the Karelian Isthmus, I was thinking as I stared out onto the gloomy misty distance that somewhere, on the other side of the Gulf of Finland, was my Shepelevo.

Now that I had seen it with adult eyes, would it ever mean the same to me again? I closed my eyes.

Kilometer 67

“How long is this trip?” I asked my father after what seemed to be about four hours in the cramped car.

“Forty-five minutes,” he replied. “Right, Viktor?”

“Right,” Said Viktor.

“Right,” I said.

After what seemed to be another few hours, I inquired again.

Apparently the trouble was we could not find the town of Orekhovo where my grandfather’s friends, the Ivanchenkos, lived. In trying to find their house, we may as well have been looking for a Corelware factory in the middle of Tunisia, or asking a blind South African for directions to Disney World.

Streets were unmarked, a common thing in Russia, houses unnumbered, roads barely paved, it was raining, people were stuporously unfriendly.

After a week-long observation, I finally concluded that Viktor loved to stop and ask for directions. It was like a hobby, a pastime to him. Like photography, or baseball. Every several hundred feet he would stop and ask.

When he was directed to go straight for two kilometers until he hit the road we were looking for, he would go straight for 250 meters and then stop and ask someone to reaffirm the directions.

He would do this every 250 meters.

Four days ago, on the way to Shepelevo, he asked a man to confirm, “Is the A-121 straight ahead, about one and half kilometers?” And the passerby — because he didn’t know, because he didn’t want to be asked, because he had no idea — said, “Dunno.”

Discomfited, Viktor could not drive further.

“Why don’t we,” I said, “just drive ahead about one and a half kilometers to see if the A-121 is indeed straight ahead. What do you say?”

Viktor tentatively proceeded to drive another 250 meters, then stopped and asked again.

Sentimentally I reminisced about getting lost twelve years ago with Kevin who was not yet my husband on the way to an amusement park in New Jersey. The map had been poorly marked, and we drove around for half an hour missing the exit to the highway, while Kevin would occasionally mutter, “We could stop and ask for directions.”

“No!”

Finally Kevin gave up and started reading a paperback.

He was a third of the way done with his stupid book before I stopped and asked for directions.

He married me anyway.

We drove down a wrong road, drove and drove, stopping and asking for directions every 250 meters. Then we turned around and came back to the highway, and asked someone at an intersection. The man told us we didn’t go far enough. So we turned around and drove back, and drove further than before, without really knowing what we were looking for.

My father and Viktor finally told me they were looking for Kilometer 67.

“What does that mean?”

“Kilometer 67. Just that,” said my father. “The Ivanchenkos live on the 67th kilometer from Leningrad.”

“Oh,” I said. “That’s the directional marker we’re going by? Kilometer 67?”

“We don’t have another one.”

“I see.”

A man and a boy told Viktor we were going the wrong way, and had to go back to the highway, go through an outdoor market and down over the railroad tracks. Why we had to stop at the market, I don’t know.

But we did stop at the market, into which Anatoly up and disappeared — ostensibly to ask for directions. We sat in the car for a few minutes, wondering what to do.

Where was he? Where did he go? And why? “Don’t worry about him,” my mother said. “He always does this.”

“So why did you let him out of the car if he always does this?” I wanted to know. “And what exactly is this?”

“This. This.” My father pointed to the market. “He goes off and disappears.”

Ellie shook her head. I reached for the door handle. “So let’s go find him.”

“Sit right there,” my father said. “He’ll be back.”

“When?”

“Don’t know.”

Ellie shook her head again.

“What’s he buying?”

“How should I know?” replied Ellie in the tone of someone who did not know the man who left the car. “He doesn’t have much money, though.”

We sat — not all of us quietly. Viktor would periodically leave the car and walk over to a passerby to ask him about the street we were looking for.

Sitting in the middle of a Russian market waiting for Anatoly and watching Viktor climb in and out of the car, oh how I missed my own obstinate days of youth.

Because in Russia, though we had stopped several dozen, perhaps even several hundred times, we weren’t any wiser. How could strangers help us when nothing was marked?

Russians can barely tell you how to get to their own house. The directions my father received from the Ivanchenkos went something like this: “Go to the railroad, then turn left. No, wait, right. There will be a sign, no, wait, the sign’s been missing since after The War, just make a left, there will be two roads, I think it’s the one closest to the railroad tracks. Make that left, then drive. We’re on a street on the right. You can’t miss it.”

Feebly, my father had asked, “Will it be the only right?”

“No, there are many rights, but our street, it has the tall trees and the purple lilacs in the spring. You’ll know when you see it.”

“But it’s not spring. What’s the name of the street?”

“It doesn’t really have one. I think it used to be called Sireneva Street.” Siren is the Russian word for lilac tree.

“What’s the number of the house?”

“Seventy-four. Or forty-seven. Can’t remember. Wait, it’s three. Yes, three. But you won’t know that. The number fell off a long time ago.”

“Let me guess. After The War?”

We sat idly and waited for Anatoly to return. “Papa,” I asked, “how does mail get to these people?”

“It doesn’t,” he snapped, puffing on another cigarette. “There is no mail here.”

Viktor saw another passerby and jumped out of the car to ask for directions.

At last Anatoly returned — without any purchases. Everyone in the car yelled at him. He said he had found a local street map and now knew exactly where to go. Apparently we needed to go over the railroad tracks straight ahead and Sireneva Street would be right there.

We drove to the railroad station, half a kilometer away. Viktor stopped and asked for directions three times. No one knew where Sireneva Street was. This did not inspire us with confidence. Finally near the station we stopped in the middle of the street blocking the road and sat with the engine running and rain hammering outside.

Russians filed past us fresh from the train. Anatoly and Viktor kept getting out of the car and asking people where Sireneva Street was. No one knew. But we got plenty of dirty looks from people who had to go around our car in the rain.

Finally a man told Viktor to turn around and go back. This was precisely what Viktor wanted to hear so we turned around and went back — to the outdoor market. My father kept smoking and shaking his head. Ellie was trying not to laugh. I had to go find a bathroom — of course.

I was a little concerned the way Viktor kept tailgating, keeping barely six feet between himself and the car in front of him in the slick rain, at thirty miles an hour. Leaning forward, I said, “Viktor, I don’t know if you’ve ever had a chance to brush up on the immutable laws of physics, but the laws clearly state that two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time.”

Papa laughed. Viktor, sensing the joke was at his expense, slowed down ever so slightly. The outdoor market loomed ahead.

“Can we really afford Anatoly disappearing into the market again?” I asked.

After a glare in my general direction, my father said, “I see that I have to take matters into my own hands. This time I’m going with him.”

So my father, Anatoly, and Viktor — who could not keep still — set out to look for another street map. Five minutes later when they came back, my father was yelling at Anatoly and shaking his head. “The man doesn’t know how to read a map! Did you read it upside down? It was clear as daylight where the street was. We went completely the wrong way. One hundred and eighty degrees from where we were supposed to go. Mother of God, what am I going to do with these people?”

Anatoly looked sheepish and said nothing except, “I got us here, and now everyone is yelling at me.”

We drove away from the market and the railroad. Viktor stopped four times to ask directions. The last time he stopped to ask where Sireneva Street was, the man stared at Viktor briefly, then pointed directly to the left of us and said, “Right here.”

We made a left and found a green house.

“I can’t believe we’re here,” I said. “What the hell time is it?” It felt as if we had been in the car for weeks.

“Two,” said Ellie.

It had been three hours.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” my father said. “A fair word of warning. We can’t stay long. I told Radik we would be at his house by two. We’re running late.” He glared at me again. “If only you had gotten ready on time like I told you.”

“Of course,” I said. “It must be my fault it’s so late.”

They were waiting for us, my grandparents’ old friends, Nikolai and Valia Ivanchenko.

The Ivanchenkos lived in a small dacha with a large wet yard full of tall wet pines and birches. They had a vegetable garden, and a little hammock. The hammock reminded me of the one I used to play on with Yulia in Shepelevo when we were children.

Valia and her husband Nikolai were so happy we had come, I knew immediately it had been the right thing to do. Apparently though there had been some confusion. My father had originally told them we were coming four days ago on the 14th of July, so Nikolai went back to the city from the dacha and spent all day by the phone waiting for my father’s phone call. When my father didn’t call, Nikolai thought we weren’t coming. When my father did call — on the 15th July — confusion again. Nikolai thought we were going to arrive to his dacha yesterday. I wanted to tell him that we might have — had it taken us less time to find him.

To me it sounded for a moment as if they didn’t know we were coming.

Yet, when I walked inside their house, I saw that the table on the veranda was set for ten people. “Oh, no. Please,” my father said. “We can only stay for a little while.”

“Well, then, let’s hurry and eat,” Valia said.

Their dacha was very small. I don’t know where Valia and Nikolai slept but with them also lived their daughter, their daughter’s husband and their daughter’s two children, a 3-year-old boy and a shy 16-year-old girl.

“Is there an upstairs?” I asked.

“Yes, but we only have the downstairs,” said Valia. “Somebody else lives upstairs. Are you looking for something in particular?”

I had learned my lesson well and in the morning had no water, no coffee, no liquid of any kind. But feminine demands being what they are, I desperately had to use the facilities. Every three hours or else. Or else the laws of hydrophysics pertaining to liquids taking up all available space and then flowing elsewhere would instantly follow. Unlike Viktor I’ve learned to respect the laws of physics over the years.

What kind of modern woman plans a trip to Russia during the most inconvenient time of the month? The kind who says I will have mastery over my body. I will not be ruled by centuries of discomfort and subservience, I will act as a man, undaunted and free. Well, here I was. Free. Undaunted. “Toilet?” I inquired.

Valia Ivanchenko’s face struck the same expression as Svetlana’s had in Schlisselburg at the Diorama museum. As if they all knew it was going to be awful, but there was nothing they could do about it, and frankly wished I hadn’t asked.

Valia pointed to a green wood structure in her yard. In the rain, I walked across the soggy ground.

I had to hold my breath and hoped it would take me less than four minutes to do what I had to do because I absolutely could not breathe out and then in again.

The toilet in the outhouse was a wooden platform at thigh level with a hole in the middle. In Shepelevo we had one of these too, except ours was an outhouse in the house. We were so hip and with it.

What disturbed me here was not the hole in the ground which I had expected, but the brevity of time between liquid leaving my body and making a thudding, dense sound below me. I couldn’t help but look because it sounded uncomfortably close. Usually the hole in the outhouse was dug three meters in the ground.

This time it actually was close. Two feet below me stood a bucket filled with human waste.

Yet inside the house there was running water. Cold running water. I was able to wash my hands.

As Valia got lunch ready, I quietly asked Ellie why there would be nothing but a canister in the outhouse.

Ellie loudly explained that in many villages when the canister got filled up, they took it out and used the contents for fertilizer. “Oh,” I said, wondering — very silently — if feminine dressings made good fertilizer.

The Ivanchenkos’ half of the house included the veranda, where we were to be eating, a small kitchen/hallway, and one bedroom. Maybe there was another bedroom somewhere? It all was so small.

What did I mean when I said small? Small compared with what?

With my house in Texas?

With my dacha in Shepelevo?

With any other dacha I’d ever seen?

The Winter Palace?

What was I comparing it with? I was ashamed. It wasn’t small. It was their life, and they seemed happy in it.

Valia was bubbly and despite being 78, looked like a young energetic girl. Nikolai was 82 (“a baby,” my 91-year-old grandfather called him), and reminded me of my grandfather. He just sat with quiet dignity and watched everyone. Much like his 3-year-old grandson.

I gave the little boy Eugene the T-shirt I had brought him from Texas. He immediately took it, mumbled a thank you, and disappeared into his bedroom. When he emerged seconds later, the T-shirt was no longer in his hands.

Where did the boy play? I wondered. Where were his toys? Outside there was a hammock, but today was cold and raining. There was nowhere to go. He sat silently on his father’s lap. His father was about two heads shorter than his mother. They made for an odd looking couple.

Sunny and animated, Valia moved quickly, carrying large pots of food. Nikolai just sat and watched, as if he were above the fray. I saw why my grandfather liked him so much.

We had black caviar on bread with butter, beef Stroganoff, cucumbers and tomatoes. We also had hot potatoes with dill, sardines, some ham, and then coffee with unchewable stale waffle cake.

“I didn’t know you liked sardines, Paullina,” Ellie said when she saw me ladling the sardines onto my plate.

“Love ‘em.”

“I would have opened up two cans for you. We have so many. Too bad you’re leaving tomorrow.”

“It is too bad, isn’t it, Ellie?”

“Next time you come you have to stay for longer. You can stay at our dacha. Bring your whole family and stay for as long as you want.”

“Thank you.”

Nikolai said to me, “I am so glad and proud you are sitting next to me. I should be so lucky as to have a writer, a real-life novelist, sit to my left. But Paullina, your books, they’re theoretical, aren’t they? I’ve never seen one in Russian. Are there any in Russian?”

My father promised he would send Nikolai my books in Russian as soon as he returned to Prague.

Then he raised a glass of vodka to Nikolai. “I just want to say that I am so glad we came here today to see you. I remember you so well from when I was a small child, and it means so much to me …” He couldn’t finish the toast. He just downed his vodka.

Nikolai turned to his wife and said, “Is there anything for me to drink, Kotik?”

Kotik is a Russian endearment literally meaning kittycat, but the connotation is one of great tenderness, like my sweetest beloved darling. You would not say kotik to anyone you did not completely and unconditionally adore. It was inspiring to hear a husband call his wife kotik after 50 years of marriage.

After the savory food, we had tea and coffee, the stale cake and some cookies. The Russian way was to finish everything on your plate, because of The War, but I just didn’t know what to do with my stale cake. When Ellie wasn’t looking, I slipped it onto her plate. Now it was her problem.

Viktor finished the film in my camera, taking pictures of us by Nikolai’s house, outside in the cold rain. Just as I was thinking that my grandfather would love all these pictures with Nikolai and Valia, and of their house, I opened my camera wanting to load a fresh roll, thinking — erroneously — that Viktor would have rewound the film. He hadn’t. I had inadvertently exposed the film How much of it would be lost now? And what would I tell my father when he asked for photos of the Ivanchenkos in front of their green dacha?

We said our good-byes and drove to Radik’s house, also on the Karelian Isthmus but closer to the Gulf of Finland. I was afraid to ask. “Papa,” I said, “So about how long to Radik’s house from here?”

“Like I know,” he said.

“Forty-five minutes,” Viktor told me.

“Paullina, you’ll be happy,” said Ellie. “Radik’s house has a toilet inside the house. You’ll see.”

“Paullina,” Anatoly said, “I promise you that when you come back to see us in Russia, my dacha in Lisiy Nos will have a toilet that flushes. I’m working on that right now. You will have it when you come.”

My father promptly said that the key to civilization is a shower. Ellie, who never forgot anything, said, “But Yura, you just said you can wash your whole self with a kettle.”

My father grunted and fell asleep.

On the way to Radik’s dacha, Ellie talked to me only of Radik. The gist of it was: “Radik when he was young was the most handsome man you ever saw. Now he is older, you know he is nearly 60, or is 60. He has gained weight, but still. Yes, still, but not like before.”

“Before what?” I ventured.

“Before he was just, you could not stop looking at him. Well, you tell me what you think.” She stopped. “How can you not remember him?”

“I was very young,” I said. “I was nine. What did I know of handsome? I had my own father. I remember Radik’s son, though, Korney.”

Korney

Korney was born in August to my November of 1963. My mother and his mother Lida, Radik’s wife, were pregnant girlfriends together. We grew up knowing each other. My parents had only one child — me, and Korney’s parents had only one child — Korney. But in 1973, we left Russia, and they stayed behind.

And that had made all the difference.

In 1984 Korney died of acute alcoholism. He had remained Radik and Lida’s only child and when he died, they were childless. Rather than tear them apart, Korney’s death brought Lida and Radik closer together; at least that’s what Ellie told me.

Ellie told me that no one could ever understand what Radik saw in Lida, because as he is extraordinary, she is plain and apparently has always been on the heavy side.

“I don’t know if he’s ever been unfaithful to her, but I think so,” Ellie said, “because women threw themselves at Radik all his life.”

“They did, huh? All women?”

“Without exception,” she said.

We sat quietly.

“You know the famous story of Radik, don’t you?”

“No,” I said. “I know no story. I don’t even know who Radik is.”

“When Marilyn Monroe was in Russia with her husband Arthur Miller, shooting a film—”

“What film?”

“I don’t know what film. Her latest film. Radik was one of the people working on the set. When Marilyn Monroe saw him, she said, ‘Oh yes! I want to act with him in my next movie.’”

So there it was. A man wanted by Marilyn Monroe. “Really?” I said. I wanted to say that Marilyn Monroe had never gone to Russia with Arthur Miller, that it was Arthur Miller’s third wife Inge Morath who had gone to Russia with him in the mid-sixties, and Inge was no actress, but a photographer, and in fact, Marilyn Monroe had been years dead by this point. But I said nothing, except, “Oh.”

“Paullina,” Ellie said, as if I hadn’t understood. “He was handsomer than Alain Delon.” As if saying Alain Delon ended the entire matter of the debate on Radik’s looks. That was a barometer that was to be understood by everybody.

“Of course, Alain Delon,” I said, smiling only slightly. Ellie with her little round face and youthful freckles was contagiously enthusiastic.

She could not stop talking about Radik. Even I, with my overwhelmed feelings of exhaustion, affection and heartache, discovered that I had room for one more emotion — curiosity.

Now the conversation I overheard my father have with Radik a few days ago on the phone made more sense to me. My father was trying to be coy and wouldn’t answer Radik’s questions directly, because I was standing next to him. All he would say was, “You’ll see for yourself on Saturday. You’ll see for yourself.”

After what Ellie just told me about Radik, I could only imagine what his question might have been.

All this in the crowded backseat of a Volkswagen, traveling on a country road, with the Gulf of Finland through the birch trees and the pines. We passed a beautiful old-style Russian, tall-spired, round domed church in Zelenogorsk. A little further north, in Ushkovo, we made a left onto an unpaved road. We didn’t ask anyone how to get to Radik’s. We just found him.

Radik

He was standing out in his front yard in the rain, waiting for us, and on his face was the biggest smile I ever saw.

He was extremely happy to see my father. They hugged, and then he came to me with open arms and said, “Plinochka, let me look at you!” After giving me a bear hug, he pulled away to look at me again, and as he scrutinized me the smile never left his face.

I didn’t remember Radik even from pictures when he was young. I didn’t have Ellie’s memories or any of my own. I only had 18 July, 1998, and on that day he was fifty-nine years old, and he was still striking. He was tall and tanned and broad-shouldered and brown-happy-eyed. He didn’t at all look like a hobbled man whose only son had tragically died. Aside from his physical presence, he had a confident manner that had obviously charmed many over the years. A well-used, smiling, casual manner that said, “I know what I am. I don’t have to even try. I’m just going to smile.” He was so happy to see me. It lifted my heart to know that despite all the things I had wanted to do on my sixth and last day, we had done the right thing by coming to visit the people who loved us.

We were still outside getting soaked when Radik’s wife Lida came down the porch steps, a huge smile on her face also. She came to me fast, hugged me tight, pulled away, and then both she and Radik stood very close with their arms around me, and Lida said to Radik, “Look at her, Papulya, isn’t she something?”

She said it, as if they had talked about me many times before, as if they had seen me before, but how could they have? What were they expecting? What were they looking forward to when they told my father they would never forgive him if he didn’t spend one sixth of our trip to St. Petersburg coming to see them at their rented dacha?

I was confounded.

Confusion reigned inside the house as well.

For one, it was chock full of people.

Ellie’s daughter Alla and her husband Viktor were there, without their kids. Anatoly’s brother Viktor and his wife Luba were there. I barely gathered my verbal skills together to grunt in their direction. And, I was still puzzling over the glance Radik and Lida exchanged as they pulled away to look at me and Lida touched my hair.

And three, the men started talking about going to the public baths.

“The what?” I said.

“The public baths,” replied Radik, as if that was explanation enough.

“Papa, are you crazy?”

“Why? Why do you say this?” he asked.

“Has anyone noticed it’s raining and cold?”

“So? In the baths it’s warm and hot.”

“And wet.”

“How far are these baths?”

“I don’t know. Radik? How far?”

“Not far. Maybe half a kilometer. I go all the time in the rain. Paullina, it’s refreshing.” He smiled. “It makes me feel young.”

“Hey, girls,” I said. “Maybe we should go swimming in the Gulf of Finland.”

“You’re welcome to do it,” exclaimed Radik. “Have you brought your bathing suit? What a pleasure it is to swim in the Gulf, am I right, Lida?”

“Yes, Papulya. But we’re not going swimming,” she said, frowning. “It is raining.”

But the men, Anatoly, Viktor, Viktor, Viktor, and Radik did indeed leave and walk half a kilometer in the cold rain, got naked, went into the steam room and beat each other with bundles of birch twigs.

Meantime us girls sat in the warm glow of a little ceramic wood-burning stove, and chatted. The first thing Lida did was take me into her bedroom to show me a picture of her son at age 20 with their family dog. Both were dead now.

She said that to me. “Both are dead now.” And sighed, showing me another picture on her desk of Korney as a child.

“He is a very good looking boy,” I said.

“Yes,” she said sadly. “He was.” And then she smacked her lips and looked upward as if to say, “Ah, life.”

Lida was coarse around the face and her features were broad, but there was an air about her that was alive and funny and natural that I instantly liked. She was a true woman — beaten by life but not defeated, and still apparently in love with her husband. Whatever it was Lida gave Radik she had given it to him for thirty-five years because he had remained steadfastly married to her.

“Lida,” I said, “I hate to ask, but do you have a bathroom?”

“Do we have a bathroom? What do you think, we live in the woods?” And she gave a hearty laugh as she took me to a room behind the kitchen. Because they did in fact live in the woods.

Maybe once upon a time Radik’s toilet was flushable. Lida didn’t tell me when, and in any case, I doubted very much the veracity of the flushable toilet story. For that you would need running water.

Lida showed me the toilet, the bucket of water next to the toilet and a small metal pot in the bucket. “You do your business, and after you’re done, you take the pot and use it as a ladle, all right? Fill it with water from the bucket and pour it into the toilet.”

Grinning, I said, “All right.”

So that’s what Ellie had meant by flushable.

The toilet paper could not be thrown away into the toilet but into a receptacle provided with a helpful note attached, “For paper.”

The look of the note suggested to me permanence.

To wash my hands I pressed on a short metal nozzle that was attached to a quart-size tank above the sink. Cold water poured on my hands.

To give credit where credit was due, the toilet paper, first existed, and second was soft. Also, the bathroom tried to smell clean. There were cleaning supplies in the bathtub, the first I’d seen all week.

I went out on the covered veranda to look at the dinner table that was set for us.

“Hungry, Plinochka?” Lida asked, carrying the wine and cognac to the table.

“Starving. And I am so happy you have marinated mushrooms. They’re my favorite.”

“I wish I had known!” exclaimed Lida. “I would have opened another jar. But I’m going to put them in front of you, and I want you to eat all of them.”

I walked into Lida’s kitchen, saw the dog on the twin bed in the kitchen, and just as I was about to go to the dog, and also to inquire about the twin bed in the kitchen, my nose got a whiff of something so wretched that I needed to get out of there instantly.

Before I could move, Ellie cornered me near the bed and the odor. I held my breath, but I didn’t want her to think I didn’t want to smell her so I exhaled. Bending me to her four foot ten inch frame, she whispered to me, “Plina, don’t laugh, but I brought my blinchiki after all.”

I laughed.

“Don’t laugh,” she said. “They’ll laugh me out of the house when they come back from the baths and find out.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “How did you miss them the last time you looked?”

“I don’t know,” Ellie replied. “They must have fallen in the trunk behind the ginger cookies.”

“What are we going to do with these blinchiki now?”

Ellie asked Lida if she could fry the blinchiki after dinner for me to take back to my hotel.

Of course, said Lida.

The men came back, wet and flushed. Everyone was wearing their coats; everyone but Radik, who strolled in wearing just his shorts and no shirt, exposing his wet tanned body as he stood in the doorway laughing. A blurred picture could not do justice to the life Radik breathed into that small kitchen when he walked in.

Lida gazed at him with a delighted expression and laughed with him, saying he was just crazy for being half-naked in this cold. “I always come back from the baths like this,” Radik said to me. “It’s so rejuvenating.”

It was time for dinner. Radik demanded that I sit next to him, cattycorner. That’s how Radik wanted it, so that’s how it was.

I wanted to be next to my father, who sat several people away at the rectangular table. I was becoming acutely aware that after this dinner, I was going to get into the car and Viktor was going to take me back to Leningrad, and my trip with my father would be over.

We ate canned herring and tongue with horseradish.

Radik spooned the horseradish onto my plate himself. He made sure I had some tongue and some herring and all the cucumbers I wanted. Lida must have told him about my affection for marinated mushrooms, because every ten minutes, he would ladle some more on my plate, with the words, “Eat, eat.”

He poured me the cognac, glass after glass, as he made the toasts and we all drank with him.

Alla sat on the other side of me, and Lida next to Alla. Alla’s husband Viktor was next, then my father, and on the opposite side of the table from us was Ellie who watched us hawkishly, and Anatoly. Viktor and Luba sat by him. Alla tried to talk to me. She would start, “Plinochka, my daughter Marina wrote your Natasha a letter in English.” And Radik would tap on my shoulder and say, “Plinochka, a toast, I would like to say a toast.” After he would say a toast, we would drink, and then Alla would say, “Plinochka, I hope Marina wrote the letter correctly. She is learning English and she wanted to make a good impression on Natasha. I asked her if there were any mistakes, and she said no. It’s hard for me to tell.”

Radik would tap me on the shoulder and say, “Plinochka, I have a story, listen to this story.” And I would turn from Alla to him. Toast after toast after toast, anecdote after anecdote, he talked and we listened and laughed and commented. My father talked too, but less than usual. Radik ruled that table.

We ate cucumbers, tomatoes, warm boiled potatoes with dill and garlic, marinated mushrooms. I ate plenty of those.

My driver Viktor, who sat on Radik’s right, hung on to his every word and laughed loudly at every small joke Radik made. Viktor didn’t just hang on Radik’s words, he could not take his eyes off Radik. Finding this amusing, I looked at Luba who was also glued to Radik, and then at Ellie, who was also glued to Radik, and then at Lida, who was heartily eating potatoes, glued to them. Smiling I turned to Alla, who was glued to Radik, and asked her what she was planning on doing with the kids at her dacha for the rest of the summer. Before she could answer, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

Radik addressed my father, and he addressed me. Occasionally he and his wife exchanged a small remark about food. “Lidochka, this borsht is very good. Very good. Let me drink a toast to this soup,” he would say. Or she would ask, “Papulya, do you think it’s time for the stuffed peppers yet?” Papulya, a diminutive of Papa, must have been what Korney had once called his father. It was a vestige of the old days, and fourteen years later, Lida couldn’t go back to just Radik, as if calling him something other than Papulya would remind them both of something they wished to God to forget.

Alla mentioned how handsome Radik had been. I studied Radik. He shrugged with an unimpressed face. “Ah, youth,” he said.

I turned to Lida and asked her what she thought, and she said, getting up for her stuffed peppers, “You’re asking the wrong person. I’m biased.” Which I thought was an easy going response. Not sexy, not sexual, not suggestive, and not really in love, more like, “This is my life and it’s all I know.”

Viktor could not stop staring at him. Ellie never glanced at anyone else, certainly not at her husband, who sat next to her. Every time Radik cracked a joke, Viktor was the first to laugh. Sometimes Ellie beat him to it. Anatoly finally went out for a long smoke.

I went out with him to use the bathroom. As I was coming back to the dinner table, Anatoly cornered me on the veranda. “I’ve been thinking that I want to show you something,” he said.

“Oh, yeah?” I said, staring longingly at the door.

“Yes. I want you to read my novella. What do you think?”

“I’ll be happy to.”

“Your father is in it also.”

“That’s fine.”

“As a young man.”

“I’ll be glad to read about my father as a young man.”

“And as a grown man too.”

“That’ll be fine.”

“Yes, but,” he stumbled on his words and stopped.

“What is it?”

“It’s just that …” He paused again. “I hope it doesn’t make you uncomfortable …”

“What kind of stuff is in there?” I smiled. “Something saucy?”

“Well, I don’t know if you know this, but before Ellie and I got together your father had quite a crush on her.”

“Really?” I didn’t know that.

“Yes. How do you feel about that?”

“It’s all right,” I said, wondering how he wanted me to feel about it. He was obviously bothered by something.

“When I found out he liked her, it almost ruined our friendship. We didn’t talk for two years. He didn’t want to talk to me either.” He spoke about it as if it happened last week. The discomfort was all over his face.

“Tolya,” I said, patting him on the arm. “It’s in the past now. Ellie married you.”

“Yes,” he said. “But I wonder how your father feels about it.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. “I’m sure,” I said slowly, “that it’s in the past for him too. Has he read it?”

Shrugging, Anatoly said, “He did, or not. I don’t know. Maybe he read some of it, maybe most of it. I don’t think he read the whole thing. He didn’t seem to like it. I think it’s because of the Ellie stuff. He thought it was too personal.”

“Well, the more personal the better. Personal makes for very good drama,” I said. “I’ll be glad to read it. Now let’s go back to the table.”

Pensively looking out onto the wet yard and stepping away from me, Anatoly said, “I’ll stay here for a minute.”

I went back to the table.

Radik quickly poured me another drink, made a toast to my father’s and mother’s good health, and we drank.

Radik did not talk to Ellie once, he did not talk to Alla, or to Luba. It was as if they were not at the table. The other men, Anatoly and the three Viktors were, if possible, even more invisible.

The subject of the Russian Revolution came up. My father said, “Yes, my wife was due to give birth to Paullina on November seventh, the anniversary of the Bolshevik uprising. I told her if she gave birth on that day, I would have no choice but to leave her.” He laughed heartily. “I was only half-joking,” he added. “But my wife took me very seriously in those days, and gave birth the day before.”

“The day before what?” Radik asked, filling my cognac glass.

“The day before November seventh,” replied my father.

“Oh my God,” Radik said to me, “What day were you born?”

“Umm, November sixth.”

“No,” he said. “Can’t be. So was I.”

I had never in my life met anyone else who was born on 6 November. I studied him for a moment. “Well, well,” I said. He raised his glass and we drank to our birthdays.

“Plinka,” Radik said, smiling, “I will always think of you now on my birthday. We will have this bond because we were born on the same day.”

Sometime before the stuffed pepper was brought to the table, Radik leaned over to me and said in a quieter voice but not a whisper, “Plinka, no, but you are very beautiful.”

What could I say? I smiled politely. My father sat across the table, Radik’s wife was just one other wife away.

“Thank you.”

“You are. You are,” he said. “Do I embarrass you by talking like that?”

There was nothing I could say. “No, of course not.”

Lida served the stuffed pepper.

Radik drank a toast to the stuffed pepper.

Then Radik and Papa drank a toast to fishing together tomorrow on Birch Island.

Lida served us all, getting up, going around the table, hardly sitting down. She was lovely.

She did everything while Radik sat and drank and ate and presided. No one could fault him for that. As if anyone had ever faulted him for anything. He certainly acted like a man whom no one ever faulted.

He poured me another glass. “Radik, please,” I said. “I can’t drink any more. How many have we had?”

How many had we had? We drank to me first, then to my father, then to my mother, then to my father and me, then to the borscht, to the stuffed pepper, to our birthdays, to fishing. And to my parents’ good health. Perhaps I was leaving some toasts out.

“Please,” Radik said. “You have to drink to this one. Yura, please, you too, where is your glass?”

My father carefully poured himself half a glass.

Radik stood up. “I want to drink to my beloved friends, my old friends.” He sat down, and teared up. The way my father had teared up at Nikolai Ivanchenko’s house, and for the same reason: for the passing of time, the loss of those he loved, for sentimentality, nostalgia, love, heartache. For Russia.

Some of us needed to leave Russia to have a life, but the rest of us stayed and took our hits and went to our rented dachas. We fished and picked berries and our wives cooked our food, and we worked without getting paid, and we cried for old friends that had flown to all corners of the globe.

My father raised his glass. “We are all getting old. We have known each other forty years. Who knows when we will all be together again. Who knows if we will ever be together again. This could be the last night we are all together. Tonight I drink to my lifelong friends, Radik, Anatoly. Let’s promise to bury each other when we die.”

There was not a dry eye at the table.

“Yura?” said Radik. “Do you remember New Year’s Eve, 1971?”

My father rolled his eyes. “Do I remember New Year’s Eve, 1971. I never forget anything.”

My ears immediately pricked up. “What happened New Year’s Eve 1971?” In the chronology of my life, it was my penultimate New Year’s in Russia.

Radik said, “Plinochka, listen to this story. It’s a good story, and it’s about your father. New Year’s Eve, 1971, I took my son Korney to a pioneer camp for New Year’s school holiday week. The camp was in Tolmachevo, a hundred and one kilometers south of Leningrad.”

“So you would say that Tolmachevo was on the 101st kilometer?” I asked.

“That’s exactly what it’s called, the 101st kilometer,” said Radik. “Now listen.”

I smiled at the droll way Russians measured distance.

Radik continued. “It was about twenty degrees below zero Celsius, and I was wearing a long wool coat with an Astrakhan fur collar. As I was slowly coming back to the train station, I ran into a man in a torn, dark coat with god-awful black and injured hands. On his head he wore a shabby black hat.” Radik looked at me. “It was your Papa.”

“Yes, yes,” my father said. “My hands really were terrible looking. I hurt them.”

Radik went on. “‘Yura!’ I said. ‘What a coincidence! What are you doing here?’” Your papa told me he was in exile on the 101st kilometer, working and living in a factory that made the concrete and steel telephone posts. We hugged. He showed me his injured hands all blue from the cold. I asked him how he hurt his hands. He said he worked as a cutter of reinforced steel fittings for the concrete posts and cut himself.

“We went to a local cafeteria where they were serving three selections for dinner and some wine. After we had plenty to drink, your Papa asked if I could take him with me from Tolmachevo, so he could spend New Year’s with you and your mother. ‘Let’s try,’ I replied, and together we went to speak to his parole officer, the captain of the local militia.

“But we couldn’t go empty-handed, so first we went to a store and bought bottles of cheap wine that we put in a mesh carry bag, so that the captain could see what we had brought him.”

Lida interjected “And you should have seen Radik then, oh, my. The militia man took one look at him and stood up. Radik was so tall and his coat was so beautiful. He looked like a captain in the army.”

I glanced at Radik to gauge his reaction. He was utterly unmoved. Yes, that was me, his expression said. What of it? Can we get on with the story? I know what I am.

He continued. “Your Papa’s parole officer sat behind a desk in a dark, dirty, extremely well-heated small room, in the middle of which was an iron cylindrical wood-burning stove. The room was poorly lit which cast the officer’s expression in a pale, mournful tone. It was 31st of December and he was on duty behind an empty desk probably all night. He was not a happy man.”

“But when Radik walked in,” Lida said, “looking so handsome and tall in his coat, the man stood up.”

“Lida, wait,” said Radik. “Can I?”

Lida just smiled and waved him on. I could see most people in the room had heard the story before. Radik was telling it for me.

“So I said, ‘Hello to you,’ to the parole officer, standing before him and holding out my hand to him. In my other hand I held the bag of the cheap but delicious wine, Rubin.

“Because it was I who extended my hand to him and not vice versa, he was impressed and perceived me as someone who occupied an important post. People who come into a stranger’s office to ask for favors never do that, because they already feel themselves dependent on the stranger’s goodwill. It’s a very important psychological moment, and as a rule, the supervisor won’t even think to ask who is this self-important bird who just walked in to see him. I was counting on that, and that is what happened. I shook his hand and said to him, ‘Sit down, sit down.’ He sat down.”

Everyone laughed.

“I handed him the bag with the wine and said, ‘This is my present to you for New Year’s.’ Then I pointed to your Papa. ‘You know this man?’ The officer said, ‘Of course I know him. It’s Gendler.’

“I said, ‘Well, this man is my brother, and I have come here especially to take him home with me. He would like to spend the holidays with his family. Say five days or so. I hope you will let him go. If you want, I can leave you my passport as a guarantee of his return.’

“The parole officer opened my passport and read my last name. ‘Tikhomirov,’ he read. “Why is Gendler your brother?’

“‘Our mothers were flesh and blood sisters.’

“The captain immediately hid the bottles of wine under his desk and returned my passport to me. ‘Take him,’ he said. ‘But make sure he is back at work by January second!’

“As soon as we left the man’s office, your father and I bought some more wine for ourselves and went to wait for the steam train, on which we cheerfully rode to Leningrad, drinking wine and talking in English so that your father could get some practice in. He already knew he wanted to go to America. So — happy end,” finished Radik.

Thus my father spent New Year’s Eve 1971 with us. My mother had been happy beyond belief to see him. Her happiness was a faint memory. The only thing I clearly remembered was her saying to me, “Look how our poor Papochka hurt his hands.”

My father raised another glass of vodka and with a stricken face said, “To my old friends, still in Russia.”

“Forever in Russia,” said Radik resignedly.

Lida told a joke over tea and cognac. “A man’s wife has left him for his best friend,” she said. “Both his children have died and he lost his job. Finally he felt he had had enough, and decided to kill himself. He went to a hotel room, planning to hang himself in the bathroom. When he stood on the edge of the bathtub to tie the rope to a hook in the ceiling, he saw on top of the cabinet a hidden bottle of vodka. There was a little left at the very bottom. He took off the cap and drank what was left. “Better,” he said. “Okay, now I’m ready.” He jumped back up onto the edge of the bath, tied one end of the rope to the ceiling hook and the other to his neck. As he was about to jump and hang himself, he saw on the floor near the bath a cigarette butt. Getting down, he picked it up, found a match in his pocket, and lit the butt. Sitting down on the edge of the bath, with the noose still around his neck, he inhaled the smoke from the cigarette butt into his throat, and said, “Yesss … life is slowly returning to normal.”

And then Lida took a swig of cognac and laughed uproariously and everyone laughed with her.

“Yura, why aren’t you drinking?” Radik asked my father indignantly before we were served dessert. “Why are you drinking like a woman?”

My father, refusing more drink, said, “Forget it. I don’t want to get drunk in front of my daughter. Wait till she leaves. Wait till tomorrow.”

Radik threw back his head in laughter.

For dessert Lida made blueberry cobbler and raspberry meringue pie. Radik asked his wife to pass him some dessert. I thought, how nice, he enjoys sweets. But he spooned it all onto my plate and poured himself some cognac instead.

When I lifted the jug with the blueberry compote to pour myself a glass, Radik practically ripped it out of my hands to do it for me.

As he was enthusiastically spooning the blueberries onto my plate, some of the blueberries fell and stained my cream-colored pants. I was to be traveling back to the States in these pants the next day, so I wished he hadn’t done that.

Minutes later, Radik stood, motioning me to come with him.

The two of us got up and left the table. The rest of the guests continued to sit, everyone continued to chat and no one said anything, as if no one had noticed.

Radik took me into one of the bedrooms, the one with his son’s photo in it, and told me to sit down on the bed. Before I could ask him why, he took out something from his closet. It was a laundry stick. “This will get the blueberry out. This is the best thing for stains. It’s from the west,” he said. “You’ll see. I’ll get the stain out for you.”

He knelt down in front of me and rubbed at the blueberry on my thigh with this stain stick. After five minutes of this, he got up, left, came back with a wet rag, knelt back down and rubbed my thigh with a wet rag.

We talked about the stain stick, and about how it was supposed to remove all the blueberry, if we scrubbed hard enough. “It’s from the west,” Radik kept repeating. “You’ll see. It’ll work.”

Outside the bedroom, Viktor. Ellie, Anatoly, and Lida started to mill around, bringing dirty plates into the kitchen.

Needless to say, the blueberry did not come out but the stain did become much larger and wetter.

Radik shrugged, got up off the floor, threw the stain stick emphatically into the garbage and went to get more cognac.

Lida came to me, holding a large glass jar of marinated mushrooms. “This is for you,” she said.

“Lida, I can’t take this.”

“You can and you will.”

“Where am I going to put it?”

“In your suitcase.”

“What if the jar breaks?”

“Then carry it onto the plane.”

That opened everyone else up. Suddenly Alla out of nowhere procured gifts for me and my family. There was a letter for my daughter from her daughter written in perfect English, and there were coloring books for my young boys, and there was a LARGE box of chocolate covered prunes. Then Viktor and Luba gave me rocks to take home with me and a book of poems. Anatoly stuffed a manuscript of his novella into my coat pocket. “This is for you,” he whispered.

I wanted to cry.

I didn’t know if I wanted to cry because they had nothing and I must have seemed to them as someone who has everything, and yet here they were giving me things while I couldn’t even buy enough T-shirts for everyone. Or did I want to cry because I couldn’t tell them about my garment bag, the only piece of luggage I had brought that could not properly fit even my seven pathetic little skirts, much less chocolate covered prunes.

Anatoly hadn’t been paid in four months. They got vouchers for the apartment they couldn’t afford to live in, and because Anatoly hadn’t been paid they lived on Ellie’s pension. Her 360 rubles a month pension.

She told me she felt happy until she spent all her money and then she was miserable until the next check came. I understood that. Living check to mouth when the check did not last a month. As she fried the blinchiki for me to take home, Ellie told me Alla and Viktor were in better shape financially. They were considered middle class in Russia, whereas Ellie and Anatoly were considered poor.

And here she was, giving me gifts.

Meanwhile my father handed out my T-shirts from Texas to the few people who merited them (a list that did not include Alla’s husband Viktor).

Radik gave me his business card, and told me that if I needed anything in terms of research on the Russian book, he would be more than happy to help me. That was his gift — his business card. Radik, I decided, was more used to others giving him gifts. That was all right with me. I had bought him a T-shirt with a cactus on it from Dallas.

It was time to go, but Alla and Viktor wouldn’t let me. They kept talking about coming to visit me and my family in Texas, how we would go about it, what kind of visa they would need, who could come, what I would have to do.

Anatoly pulled on my sleeve and said, “Read it, read my novel when you can, but soon, and tell me what you think, write or call and tell me what you think, whatever it is, but tell me the truth.”

I promised him I would read it.

Ellie continued to fry the blinchiki.

Anatoly’s brother Viktor read aloud to me one of his own poems out of the poetry book he had given me.

Lida cleaned up.

Lida’s dog lay on the twin bed in the kitchen and growling bared his teeth at anyone who got within a foot of him. Since the kitchen was only 7 feet wide and there were ten of us, that was pretty much everybody. Finally the mongrel bit one of the Viktors. Lida came to the dog and in the tenderest of tones said, “Darlinkin, Vasia, what’s the matter, bunny rabbit? Too many people for you?”

Viktor rubbed his finger and stayed away from the bed.

It was nine in the evening.

I didn’t want to leave.

Eventually we walked outside and took a few pictures. A whole roll of pictures. Some with Radik, standing next to me, beaming. Some with Radik and Lida. Some with my father.

The good-byes proceeded ever so slowly: too many people to say good-bye to. When you haven’t seen your friends in twenty-five years, you are saying good-bye promising to write to call to visit soon, but you can’t help thinking that it may well be another twenty-five years before you come back, and who is going to be alive then?

Radik walked around filming with his video camera.

Everyone else was leaving too, except for my father who was staying. Lida said, “No one leaves before Plinka. She leaves first.”

Viktor and Luba wanted me to get in touch with their son who was in Princeton. I knew it was because in the Russian mind, Princeton was just over there from Dallas. A car ride away.

Several times Viktor and Alla reminded me not to forget to give my daughter their daughter’s letter.

I looked behind Alla. “What’s that?” I pointed.

She turned around. “It’s a well.”

“A what?”

“A well. Have you never seen a well?”

“In movies,” I said. “In my children’s Hansel and Gretel book.”

“There was a well in Shepelevo,” Alla said.

“Really? I don’t remember.”

“Where do you think you got your water from?”

“I don’t know,” I confessed. “I never thought about it. Is this a working well?”

“Of course. Didn’t you notice there was no running water in the house?”

Oh yeah.

I asked them to take a picture of me by the well. Unfortunately I had used up the last of the film with the endless permutations of Paullina with him and with her and with them. And I had to give my father back his camera, anyway.

Anatoly looked at me with moist eyes as he hugged me. He loved me. All the pictures of me as a baby I have only because of Anatoly. I have a film of my parents falling in love. Anatoly is the recorder of my life.

As Ellie said good-bye to me, I could tell she wanted to ask me something.

I thanked Lida for the dinner and for the mushrooms which I was carrying along with the other gifts in a heavy plastic bag. “Are you kidding me?” she said. “You’re like our family. We feed you for life.”

There were only my father and Radik left to say good-bye to. Radik put down his video camera, waved everyone else away and opened his arms.

He hugged me and kissed me, and shaking his head without letting me go, said, “Plinka, I can’t believe it, not only are you beautiful but you smell great too.”

I said nothing. He still wasn’t letting go of me. How far that charm must have gotten him in his life.

Stepping away, I patted him gently on the chest. When I glanced at our audience, they were singularly and completely unfazed. They all knew him.

I saw Ellie’s sparkling eyes. I felt stabs of pain for Anatoly. Could he help that he was wracked with misery? Why wasn’t Radik? Anatoly still had his only child with him. Why didn’t the death of his only son hunch Radik’s shoulders and make him weak in the world? Why did he still entertain on a grand scale in his rented dacha without running water as if he were still Marilyn Monroe’s first choice?

Finally I hugged my father. He actually hugged me back. Maybe he was moved too. I could not tell with him.

I was about to get into the car, everyone was waiting for me to leave when Ellie pulled me aside. “So what do you think?” she whispered.

I played dumb. “What do I think of what?”

She lowered her whisper a notch. “Of Radik.”

I nodded. “What can I say? You’re right. He is handsome.”

“I told you,” Ellie said. I thought she might start to giggle. “He is really something, isn’t he?”

“He certainly is.”

Slowly Viktor drove away, honking. I rolled down my window, kept waving. It was gloomy and cold. I saw them waving back in the distance.

In the half-kilometer drive to the paved highway, Viktor stopped twice to ask for directions. It was a straight line to the highway, but he wanted to be sure. The second time was merely to confirm the first set of directions.

I wanted to give the blinchiki Ellie gave me to Viktor with whom I’ve spent all this time, but then I said, hey, instead let’s eat them tomorrow morning together. My flight was early and we wouldn’t have time for breakfast.

He agreed.

We drove quietly in the rain.

I was unspeakably sad. I turned away to my window, to glimpse a peek at the miraculous Gulf of Finland, but all I saw was white. The Gulf was white. The sky was white too. White gray. I didn’t see the horizon. The sky and the sea were one, the sky, the water, they were all gray, just like me.

On the way back to the hotel, Viktor expressed regret for not taking me to the Inform Bureau, a radio station that reported during The War, using a generator from a sunken ship. He said it would have been invaluable for me to see. “Oh, well,” he said. “Maybe next time?”

“Viktor, do we have time to go to Nevsky Patch?” I asked. “It’s on the way, isn’t it?”

He almost laughed. “It couldn’t be farther away from us. It’s on the southeastern shore of the Nevá. We’re up northwest.”

“We have time,” I said. “Papa’s not here.”

“Have you packed?”

It was ten at night. “Not really,” I said. Not at all, actually. “Hey, maybe next time?”

We talked about the importance of radio during The War. The radio station would get reports from the front and broadcast them daily; that’s how everyone knew what battles were being fought, “with a spin on them, of course,” said Viktor, “and a spin on who was winning.”

“Were there war lists of the dead?”

“Of course,” Viktor said.

“Wounded? Missing in action?”

“Of course.”

I fell quiet.

“So many dead,” Viktor said, “that sometimes the news didn’t get to families for a long time.”

“I’m sure.”

Viktor had treated me so well. I was grateful to him. I gave him one of the four blinchiki.

I got back to my room around eleven. It took me two and a half hours to pack one garment bag. Don’t ask.

The mushrooms were in my purse, right underneath my journal and my Siege of Leningrad book.

Last Night in Leningrad

The sponge of my heart had been filled up sometime last evening and had begun to drip.

I couldn’t remember anything. I was going back to Texas tomorrow. I remembered that.

Kevin called. “Are you looking forward to our routine?” he asked. “To Cici’s Pizza?”

I was so far from that life.

“I feel a little bit bad,” he said, “because you’re having this incredible experience, and I’m not part of it.”

“I wouldn’t describe it as incredible,” I said.

“How would you describe it?”

“It hard for me to tell you over the phone. How can I?”

“You’ll show me the pictures,” he said. “It’ll be great.”

Yes, great, I whispered, lying down, looking at my suitcase.

After we hung up, it was nearly two in the morning. I was supposed to be getting up at seven to leave Russia.

Truth was, I didn’t want to leave Russia. I didn’t want to stay in Russia, I was just afraid I was going to leave me in Russia.

“Sit on my lap,” said my grandmother, crying. “Sit, Plinochka.”

I was nine years old, nearly ten. I stayed with them on my last night in Leningrad. The next day we were flying to the new world, to a new life in America. “Babushka,” I said, “you told me I was too big to sit on your lap. You told me that two whole years ago.”

“Please sit, darling,” she said, pulling me onto herself. “The last weight is never heavy.”

I sat on her lap through the whole movie, a black and white film about The War. She tearfully kept patting my back. I did not get up.

Jumping up I put on my coat and went out. I hoped it wasn’t raining.

It wasn’t. It was cold and wet and dark, and the streetlights were on.

I walked down Nevsky Prospekt to the Neva. There was no one on the street. Occasionally a car would pass by. I remembered my father’s admonition about not going out by myself late at night but I didn’t care. I wanted to see the Neva one last time when I could imagine that it was still a shiny white night and the sun was setting down on my father’s university and rising on the final resting place of the Romanovs.

On the embankment in front of the Winter Palace, I found a damp bench and sat down. I was cold, but it was nothing compared to what I was feeling inside. Tightly I wrapped my arms around my chest and rocked back and forth. The Nevá was dark. The embankment was poorly lit.

The beginning of my trip seemed so long ago. A lifetime ago. Six days ago I was an American but with a dim memory of my Russian childhood. I had come to Russia with an academic interest. I came to do “research” for my Russian book, looking for fact and inspiration. When I left Dallas, my mind was filled with brass knobs and carpeting and handscraped floors.

It took one flight on Aeroflot to forget all that. And then I, like Dorothy in the subsequent Wizard of Oz books, went back through the wet dark tunnels, by boat and by foot, standing waist deep in cold underground water, until I was underneath the Land of Oz. But my fairytale was all cramped into one room on Fifth Soviet and into one dacha in Shepelevo, into one smell, and another, and into the sidewalk. I was embedded in the wet sidewalk of Leningrad, on the street I used to walk home with my sullen mother, on the Concert Hall concrete steps where I played as a child as the polar sun set on Grechesky Prospekt. I became a child again now — broken and patched together from the pieces into a fractured whole.

Broken, I would be returning home. I didn’t have a deeper understanding, I had lesser understanding. I didn’t have greater appreciation, I had greater shame.

I didn’t want for it all to be different. It all what? I wanted for me to be different.

I wanted for Alla to have a future. I didn’t want Anatoly to be hunched over by his life. I didn’t want Ellie to keep an empty bottle of Tressor on her nightstand.

I couldn’t fix this. I couldn’t fix any of it, not even my insides.

How could so many Russias be flying inside me all at once? There was the Russia of my childhood, the nearly forgotten, small-child Russia, mute mother, absent father, Shepelevo, Fifth Soviet.

There was the Russia of my grandparents, the impoverished, war-torn Russia, full of death, Stalin, purges, soldiers, evacuation, starvation.

There was the Russia of my parents, Dzhubga in the Caucasus Mountains where they first met, before I was even a gleam, my mother and father falling in love by the Black Sea. Me and your mother, we had a great love.

There was the Russia of Anatoly, of the tenement halls and the flowers wrapped in newsprint, and the wallpaper from Europe, and the lack of hot water for three weeks in the summer.

There was the Russia of Shepelevo, of the village life, without chocolate, without clothes, without laundry or running water. Still. Ever.

There was the Russia I saw now, by turns exquisite and stupefying, the glory of the northern river emptying out into the cold Gulf waters, the colorful stucco buildings lining the river for centuries, since the days of Peter the Great, standing with dignity by the river, bent, bowed, broken, just worse for the wear, their crumbling exposed brick a testament to the ages.

There were the white nights, an astonishing act of God, and then even a more astonishing act of God, there was me, coming from Russia and ending up in Texas, on the prairie. How did I, of all people, come to be blessed by my life? Why wasn’t it Anatoly and Ellie’s life? Why wasn’t it Alla and Viktor’s? Radik and Lida’s? Didn’t they deserve it too?

Certainly if they didn’t, I didn’t.

That’s what it was. I had been given something I absolutely did not deserve. And only here in coming back did I realize what I had been freely given.

Why was I given it? What was I going to do with it now that I knew I had it?

I didn’t want to go to sleep. I didn’t want this to be my last night. I didn’t want to go home. I wanted to understand, and after I understood, to feel better.

In the last Wizard of Oz book, before she goes back to Kansas, Dorothy asks the Good Witch if she will ever come back to the Land of Oz, and the Good Witch replies, no, child. You will never come back. Dorothy starts to cry. The Good Witch says, don’t worry. Soon the pain of it will fade, and the memory of it too. Eventually it will become so distant, and then it won’t even seem like yours any more. You won’t even remember you had lived through it. It will be just like a fairy tale.

It was so cold. I was shivering.

By the time I stumbled back to the hotel, and fell asleep fully dressed, it was after three in the morning — outside, inside.

LEAVING LENINGRAD

I hadn’t eaten breakfast — my blini and caviar — in three days. Who had time for breakfast when I couldn’t even see Yulia? I didn’t have time for blinchiki either. They lay in the hotel room refrigerator until I grabbed them at the last minute to bring them to Viktor. I carried my overstuffed garment bag downstairs myself. Conveniently, I was already dressed, with my day-old make-up a suit of armor on my face. My stomach felt better, while the rest of me felt worse, but there was no time to feel anything, because I was late, it was 7:30 and I hadn’t checked out yet.

Viktor was waiting for me outside in the rain.

“Take this,” I said, handing him the blinchiki. He chivalrously took my suitcase first, then he took the blinchiki.

“You want to share them?”

“No, I want you to have them all.”

We passed by the Triumphal Arc on the Moscow Prospekt, by Moscow Square lined with government buildings of the old Communist Party, punctuated by a statue of Lenin in the center, we drove past The Monument to the Heroes of the Defense of Leningrad.

“We should stop here,” said Viktor. “So you can see. It’s a very nice monument.”

I saw that from the car. It was raining. Each dreary drop of rain was falling into my heart. I said, “We’ll stop for just a sec. But we really must hurry Viktor. It’s eight.”

“I know,” he said, as we got out of the car. In the rain we walked up the steps to the eternal flame in front of the sculpted victors — soldiers, workers, women.

Silently we got back in the car, but before we took off, Viktor said, “I have a small gift for you. I know you were looking for some Russian music. I got you this.” He pulled out a CD. “It’s all Russian marches. I think you’ll like it. Listen to it on my CD player while we drive. Here are the earphones.”

I was afraid I was going to cry. “Thank you, Viktor.”

“It’s nothing,” he said. “Just a small gesture.”

Yesterday, before we got to Radik’s, my father told me to give Viktor a Dallas T-shirt for his small son’s birthday but when we got to Radik’s, he promptly forgot and gave the T-shirts to someone else.

I asked him if my father had given him that T-shirt, and Viktor shook his head. Shaking my own head, I said, “Viktor, after you drop me off, please call my dad and casually ask, ‘Yuri Lvovich, remember you promised my son a T-shirt?’”

Laughing, Viktor said, “No, it will torture your father his whole remaining life.”

“That’s the point,” I said. “That’s the point. What did my father say to you at Lake Ladoga when I desperately needed to go to the bathroom and you were driving over potholes the size of T-rex footprints? He said drive a little faster, Viktor. Drive a little faster. He doesn’t mind torturing me. In fact, he revels in it.”

Viktor laughed.

Closing my eyes, I put on the earphones. “Tell him Viktor. Call him.”

The rest of the ride to Pulkovo I listened to Russian military march music. I would open my eyes and see Russia, and then close them again, retreating into the cymbals of Soviet war.

Pulkovo International’s tiny parking lot was full. We pulled in to a taxi rank spot.

“Write down your address for me, Viktor, will you? I want to send your kids some T-shirts from Texas.”

“Oh, no,” he said. “You absolutely don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t have to. I want to. Please.”

He wrote down his address for me but forgot his zip code. “Viktor, you don’t know your own zip code?”

Smiling sheepishly, he said, “You know, my wife handles all that stuff. She knows everything.”

“Well, where is she when you need her?”

“Call me for a sec from Texas, can you do that? Call me at home or at the office, and I’ll give it to you. Better yet, don’t send anything.”

“I’ll call,” I promised.

I opened the car door and got out. He went to get my bag out of the trunk. He looked into my face in the rain and said, “Paullina, you don’t want to leave, do you?”

I wanted to say not really, but I was filling up, so I said nothing, just shook my head and looked at the ground.

“You should’ve come for longer,” he said.

As if that would have solved anything.

“Maybe next time?”

“Maybe.” I smiled. “Let’s go. We’re so late.”

The airport inside buzzed like Dallas-Fort-Worth on a Sunday afternoon. It was swarming, positively amass with people.

Everyone inside looked as if they wanted only one thing — to get on my flight. Moreover, they behaved as if they wanted to get on my flight ahead of me. There were long lines everywhere and a lot of pushing and shoving. It was 8:20 in the morning. My flight was scheduled for 9:50.

Patiently Viktor and I stood and waited, I wasn’t sure for what. To find out what to do next? Good way to describe me too.

“Viktor, what are we waiting for?”

“I don’t know,” he said calmly. “They’ll let us know.”

“Who’s they? And when?”

“I don’t know.”

We waited for thirty minutes. Finally I understood: we were waiting so that my bag could pass through a metal detector control point while a man impassively studied my customs declaration, decided to keep it, and waved me on.

Hurriedly I said good-bye to Viktor and rushed through the metal detector.

“I’ll send you the T-shirts,” I called out to him one last time, but he didn’t hear me.

To the metal detector man, I said, “Can I get on the plane now?”

I was only joking, but he looked at me as if I had just insulted his mother. “You go stand over there,” he snapped. “In the check-in line.”

I got in the check-in line.

In front of me on the digital display board, the end of check-in time flashed on the LCD screen as 9:10 AM. I glanced at my watch. It was 8:50.

9:10 came and went, in Leningrad, Russia.

The line did not move. I stood and watched two enterprising Russian men wrap suitcases in plastic wrap for twenty dollars to protect the luggage. They asked me three times if I wanted to protect my bag from unnecessary nicks and cuts. Three times I told them no, each time wanting to ask what kind of a sharp and pointed instrument I would have to use to cut through the plastic wrap, and what that sharp and pointed instrument was going to do to my bag.

I looked up at the LCD display that now boldly proclaimed that the end of check-in time was 9:40 AM. It dawned on me that the end of check-in was simply 30 minutes ahead of whatever time it was now. How convenient.

The woman standing behind me was beginning to get on my nerves. She wore black platform shoes with tight black nylon pants and shirt and she had absurd drooping big breasts. That’s not what got on my nerves. What got on my nerves was that she kept inching her way in front of me and trying to use her ridiculous breasts to influence the passport checker to let her check in her luggage right now, even before her passport was stamped.

Despite her boobs, he was not swayed.

It was now 9:40 AM. I looked up at the LCD display. The end of the check-in time for my flight had completely disappeared and the display now carried a check-in time for a flight to Portugal.

Finally — my turn. I had a choice: aisle in non-smoking or window in smoking. Idiotically I asked, “Could you put me at the very beginning of the smoking section?”

“Yes,” the check-in woman said in Russian. “You are at the beginning.”

I don’t know what I could have been thinking. That all the smokers would be behind me, far away? That the non-smoking air would fill my close-to-non-smoking seat?

She handed me my boarding pass. It had no gate number on it.

“What gate?”

“Gate?”

“Gate, yes. Where is the plane departing from?”

“Oh.” She waved me over to the central terminal. “Ask passport control. They’ll tell you.”

My brain cloudy, I went and waited on the passport control line so they could stamp my passport and take my visa.

I waited fifteen minutes. It was 9:55 AM. “It’s five minutes past my scheduled flight time.” I said to the passport lady.

“It is?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” She looked at something on her desk. “Yeah,” she said slowly. “I hope they’re holding the flight. I’d hurry.”

“Great,” I said. “What gate please?”

“Gate?”

“Yes, gate.”

“Didn’t they tell you at check-in?”

“No, they said you would know.”

“I don’t know why they would say that. I don’t know. Go and check the departure and arrival board. It should be up there. You have a few minutes. Don’t worry.”

“It’s past departure time,” I said. “They’re holding the flight, right?”

She shrugged. “I hope so.”

I had to go through yet another metal detector, this time for my carry-on luggage.

I went to the off-duty shop because my father had told me to. He said, “Take the remainder of your rubles, how many do you have?”

“Six hundred.”

“Take them and buy yourself black caviar in the duty-free shop at the airport.”

“But, Papa,” I said, “doesn’t caviar need to be refrigerated?”

“Yeah? So?”

Russians were not big on refrigeration.

“Eat it as soon as you get home,” he said.

Eat 600 rubles worth of Beluga when I got home. Through the glass door of the refrigerator I stared at the caviar, squinting to read how much I could buy for 600 rubles. Ellie lived on 360 rubles a month. Six hundred rubles was almost two months of living expenses for her. I could buy six ounces of Beluga for six hundred rubles. An ounce for a hundred rubles. Sixteen dollars. I opened the case to take a jar, but I couldn’t stop thinking of Ellie who kept my mother’s empty bottle of Trésor on her nightstand. Knowing my mother, I bet she didn’t even buy the Tressor for Ellie but gave her one of her gently used dozen since she had eleven more at home, fuller and newer.

I closed the refrigerator. Somehow it didn’t seem right that I should buy six hundred rubles worth of caviar when I hadn’t bought a “I’ve been to St. Petersburg” T-shirt for my husband and kids.

Rushing, I bought four T-shirts. I didn’t get myself a souvenir. Time was ticking. It was after ten. I couldn’t be sure how long the flight would be “held.” Neither could anyone else, I suspected. After the T-shirts, I still had over 300 rubles left. This duty-free would be the last place I could spend the Russian money.

I looked at the caviar one last time and instead decided to buy a bottle of Trésor perfume for Ellie.

I would still have 200 rubles left.

I couldn’t spend another second thinking about it anymore.

As I was paying for the Trésor, I asked the duty free clerk when my flight was. She looked at her schedule. “Nine fifty.” She eyed me with some alarm. “I think you’d better hurry.”

It was 10:03 AM.

I ran out of the shop to the flight information board.

The board had information about other flights, just not mine. I wanted some mention, any mention, that a flight such as mine even existed. I rushed to a representative sitting behind the metal detector and asked him. He spoke no English and refused to help.

Don’t ask me why I didn’t ask him in Russian. Because I thought, what if I didn’t speak any Russian? My husband doesn’t. My friends don’t. What would they do? I don’t know why I felt now was the time to stand on linguistic principle, but the fact of the matter was I didn’t ask him in Russian. Besides, some Russians only respect an English-speaking person, though clearly not he.

I went to another Pulkovo employee. He said in Russian, “No English.” I gave up and asked him in Russian.

He replied, in his most apathetic Russian “Dunno.”

“Who knows?” I asked feverishly.

“Dunno,” he said.

Seconds later, he lazily pointed to the flight information board. “Ask over there. People are walking there.”

That was without question.

People were certainly walking. None of them were actual representatives of an international airport, Russian or English speaking. Not that I didn’t try to ask them in my desperation. Needless to say, no one had any idea that there even was a LED–JFK flight.

I ran up the escalator. I would describe my state by now as three notches above frantic. I flew up the escalator. There was no sign of any gate information. I ran down the escalator, past the metal detector and finally asked someone at passport control.

“Oh, you’re on the New York flight!” the woman exclaimed.

I didn’t like the panic in her voice.

She talked quickly into the walkie-talkie. “Sergei! We have another one!” Then to me, “Hurry, hurry, upstairs to the left.”

I airlifted myself up the escalator, sprinted through double doors on the left. At last a hundred yards down the hall I saw a small sign above an actual gate “New York.”

There was no one at the gate. There was, however, a soldier on the gangplank. He checked my passport. Then the woman who had checked me in at 9:50 a.m. took my boarding pass, ripped it in two and impatiently pointed me to the plane, where the stern stewardess demanded to know where the other half of my boarding pass was.

My seat was 35K — five rows from the very back. Didn’t the check-in woman tell me I’d be sitting at the start of the smoking section?

I felt in Russian, I did everything else in English. Right then, I was feeling tense — in any language. I couldn’t find the words for tense in Russian. Hyperventilating, breathless, shaking, nerve-wracked, none of them were coming to mind.

I sat down and the electricity switched off. I find it a bad sign when the electric power goes off on an airplane waiting for take off to fly four and a half thousand miles. Don’t they need electricity for their black box or something?

By 10:20 AM we still hadn’t taken off. The captain informed us that the baggage handlers were having a difficult time loading all the luggage onto the plane. Apparently the crew had underestimated the quantity of luggage on an international flight from St. Petersburg to New York. The baggage personnel needed five or ten extra minutes to load the luggage.

Outside my oval window was incessant, driving rain. Not driving the people loading the luggage to move any faster, of course …

The captain helpfully announced it was 10:30 in the morning, and 55°F; already the day seemed two hours too long and 30 degrees too cold.

The young man in the aisle seat next to me was dark, extremely hirsute, and busy drawing in a notebook. Then he was busy snoring, with his hairy elbow on my armrest. I longed for my own armrest. But at least I had a window. When he woke up he chain-smoked.

When I had asked to be put at the beginning of the smoking section, it didn’t occur to me that the man sitting next to me would smoke. Duh, I thought, coughing up nicotine into my sleeve.

I wished I had Viktor’s zip code. I wanted to send his sons T-shirts. But I didn’t have it, and to get it I would have to call him. Months would go by, the impetus would fade, and then, instead of my father, it would torture me the rest of my life that I promised and didn’t deliver. I knew we should have told my father.

The artsy guy with black eyes sitting next to me smoking was deeply irritating me, so I excused myself, and he had to get up and move his cigarettes that fell and his charcoal pencil that smudged his seat and his coat and notebook. The lighter dropped under the seat. I smiled sweetly as I squeezed past him and went to wait by the OCCUPIED lavatory.

Between Russia and America

When I came back to my seat, I read Anatoly’s novella.

Anatoly thought his wife was beautiful. She was, and still is.

I was only interested in my mother and father, but there was disappointingly little of them in the book. The story, if you could call it that, had only one main character, and that was Anatoly’s heartbreaking nostalgia for a youth long gone. Everything else was subordinated to this thread of loss for the past that eventually wound into my own throat too.

Though Anatoly had told me that he and my father were both in love with Ellie when they first met, I would not have gleaned it from his book. It was too impenetrable for such clarities as a love triangle. Ellie had chosen Anatoly over my father, and this created a rift between the three of them during which for two years they did not speak. Eventually things got back on track. Again, I knew that only from what Anatoly had told me; these details were murkily invisible in the pages I read. What was clear though, absolutely perspicuous, was Anatoly’s jealousy about the episode to this day, some forty years later.

I put his manuscript down and closed my eyes. Maybe youthful hurt never mends. How can it not? How can it not mend? How can you still feel pain about a forty-year-old incident?

Bet I know how. I have my own youthful hurts, and though they don’t feel raw anymore, I still carry them with me.

As I carry Leningrad with me. I carry Leningrad with me in a little box near my heart. The smell of Shepelevo, my bed, my mother and me having dinner alone, my father taking me to the movies on Saturdays as if I were a child of divorce. I have that inside me.

Shepelevo is with me whenever I walk outside and smell the air. What I want to smell is smoking fish and fresh water and burning firewood and nettles. But In Texas I smell hardly anything but heat. That has its own, somewhat limited, appeal. Texas carries no history for me.

In New York, on wet days, I smelled Leningrad. And in Fort Wilderness in Disney World, lying in the hammock by Bay Lake, I smelled fresh water and pine cones that momentarily would remind me of Shepelevo and my box would be opened. Then we would leave. I ache to smell it everywhere I go.

The smell of childhood.

In Russia I didn’t live a life of constantly wanting something I didn’t have, of wanting something else, something new. As Sinead O’ Connor wisely wrote, I do not want what I haven’t got. I just lived and breathed in the air. I was a child with no dreams. Except for France and D’Artagnan, but that’s another book.

That’s what Russia and Shepelevo meant to me. I wanted the child back in my heart. I wanted the sunrise and the fishing on the gulf. I wanted to be happy again, not ashamed, not anxious, not worried about money and jobs, or about how to pay for this and how to live without that. I wanted to ride my rusted wobbly bike and smell the fish and the pines and believe I was lucky.

Too much time to think; the last thing I needed. I opened my eyes and turned to my smoking companion.

The stewardess gave us a hot wet napkin and beef or salmon.

The scruffy artist next to me shook my hand, announcing he was Andrew.

Andrew was a chain-smoking 24-year-old unkempt artistpaintersculptor with fingers permanently blackened by his charcoal pencil or tar from the cigarettes; I wasn’t sure.

He offered me a cigarette. “No, thank you,” I said, suppressing a judgmental cough. He smiled. “Your bad luck to be sitting next to a chain-smoker, huh?”

“No, no, it’s fine.”

Andrew was Catholic and an art dealer, not that the two had some kind of conjoined significance. He was the middle son of an Atlanta businessman, engaged to a Russian woman named Olga, who apparently spoke perfect English. Andrew told me he didn’t care about money and was eventually going to live in St. Petersburg with Olga because he didn’t like government, any government, but especially the U.S. government. His three-month visa had just expired and he was reluctantly returning to his art gallery in the hated U.S. “Russia is so pure,” he said. “There is no pretense.”

“Well, they can’t afford it.”

“Yes, but that’s the beauty of it. The people have to make up their own reality.”

I laughed, perhaps too loud. He looked at me very seriously, and then half-chuckled. “I was totally serious.”

“Of course you were.”

Andrew loved Michaelangelo (“he’s a god”) and Florence. He hated working at an art gallery. “I’m not meant to work there, I know. Soon I’ll be fired, and then I’ll have to go back to Russia. I’ll be fired because I can’t stand the bullshit. People come in and they want to buy paintings to go with their furniture. It drives me crazy. Once a lady came in and said, ‘Do you have anything blue? I’ve got a blue couch I’m trying to match. I want that blue painting.’ I said to her, ‘Lady, get out of here. Don’t buy something blue from me. What’s going to happen when you get tired of your blue couch? The painting is still going to be on your wall.’ I got into a lot of trouble with my boss but people just don’t understand art. They don’t understand real art doesn’t go with anything. It has to be something that you walk by every day and see. Every day. Every time you walk by. If you never forget to look at it as you walk by, then it’s art. Forget the couch,” he laughed. “I almost got fired.”

“Really?” I said. “For a painting? How much was it?”

“A hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars.”

After an hour and a half, I was done listening to him, so I read my Defense of Leningrad book in Russian, then slept, really slept, waking after a dream with a hurting neck. I dreamt about giving my cleaning lady a raise. I woke up groggy at 10:20 in the evening Leningrad time.

Time to come home to Grand Hotel Europe.

They fed us a second time on the flight. Oily fish. Ham, same salad we had for dinner, same little rolled-up cake, poundcake with chocolate fondant. Coffee. Ginger ale for my funny tummy.

Actually they forgot to feed Andrew and me. They were going around with coffee when Andrew and I looked at everyone else eating, and went, huh. There was a grumbling non-apology and some food.

When we landed, Andrew got up, walked off and didn’t even say, see ya. He was too busy smoking.

I went to the bathroom at Kennedy Airport. I couldn’t believe how clean the toilets were, how they flushed, how soft the toilet paper was. This was in Kennedy airport, for God’s sake, where thus I marveled.

Made beautiful time getting to LaGuardia. Almost, almost made the earlier flight to Dallas, but didn’t get to the clearly marked gate fast enough. It was okay. I had time to sit and stare out the LaGuardia window. Three hours to sit and stare.

I sat at the airport Marketplace, having spent $40 on GNC pills and a pair of fantastic Walkman earphones. I was back home.

Everyone spoke English.

I spent $20 on a kids travel CD and another $10 on Chinese food of dubious quality. I was happy to be back in America. In the Russian duty-free I couldn’t spend $70. Here in LaGuardia I spent $100 in five minutes.

I wished I had time to go see my grandparents on Long Island.

WPLJ played Nimrod’s Good Riddance (Time of Your Life) from their Green Day album. Not exactly in the Russian spirit but the song got stuck in my throat.

Sitting again.

Before I left Russia Kevin told me that lightning had hit our Texas house, or near it, and knocked out our phone lines. Our babysitter instantly called our construction supervisor Phil. When our customer service contract expired with the builder what would we do without Phil at our beck and call?

Point was, I couldn’t call home; the phones weren’t working. It felt all wrong, that any part of our modern house should not function.

In Leningrad during the war, in December 1941, the authorities had to turn off the electricity. Russian winters are brutal and dark. Without light, the winter of 1941 must have been unbearable. The only thing that took people’s minds off the darkness from morning to night was the relentless hunger and impending death by starvation.

Every rat, every mouse, every dog and cat in the city had long been eaten. People sat in the dark and starved. That’s how it was. But every apartment had a little wood-burning ceramic stove, by which they could heat their small rooms, not quite seven meters for every man, woman and child.

The men were at war, the women and children were dying. If there was soup, they could have heated it up on the ceramic stove. There was no soup, and there was no firewood either. The Leningraders burned furniture and their clothes, they ripped apart abandoned homes in the villages to make firewood. Then they started cutting down trees in Leningrad. The city council by emergency decree protected the Summer Garden, but everything else was cut down and burned.

After the war, new trees were planted, but few. I walked through patches of Leningrad where there was no vegetation at all, like on the Neva embankment. There was only the wondrous river with its granite walls and the asphalt sidewalk. Nothing green. Now I knew why they had burned all the trees. To keep warm.

That’s what I needed. A little Russia. Every time I thought how hard it was to live without a phone for three days, I could think of Russia. We should all be so lucky as to carry a little Russia inside us in a box near our heart.

I stared out the window in LaGuardia, noticing that in the flat of green between one runway and the next the grass had been cut. Someone had paid for a mower and a person to cut the grass. Not a lot of money, just enough to get the grass cut. This fiduciary allocation was not superceded by air traffic control, or electricity or payroll. There was money left over to get the grass cut.

In Russia, there was no money at the grass level. And no money to fix the roads, to renovate the buildings, to clean up the Neva, to filter the water, to plant trees.

Or to fix the broken stucco on their walls, or get the garbage out of the courtyards of the Winter Palace or even polish the lions over the palace windows that didn’t face the street. Hell, there was not enough money to pay their own people or to replace the metal doors on their toilets.

The grass has never been cut in Shepelevo. Maybe the grass has never been cut in Sabinal, Texas, or Yazoo, Mississippi, but I doubt it. In any case, I didn’t grow up in Sabinal or Yazoo. I grew up in Leningrad, I grew up in Shepelevo, and I wish their grass were cut and their fences repaired, and their houses not held together by cardboard.

The sight of poverty — stucco falling off the walls, cracked glass panes, rotting window frames, loose doors, holes in the roads. People walking by the new stores with Western merchandise and having not a kopeek to buy the new mascara from Revlon, let alone Lancôme.

Gostiny Dvor, Leningrad’s premier shopping mall had never been renovated. Actually, that was not exactly true. The block that faced Nevsky Prospekt had indeed been repainted a delightful yellow. But as soon as you turned the corner on Mikhailovskaya, 80 years of Soviet rule faced you. Gostiny Dvor looked like an outdoor flea market in the poorest part of Tampa, Florida, but less clean.

Who was going to restore Gostiny Dvor?

Who was going to cut the grass in Shepelevo? And with what?

My sandpaper eyes hurt from being up, from reading, from being alive.

COMING HOME TO THE BLUE SILENCE

An uneventful American Airlines flight back to Dallas, a flight marked only by my ravenous hunger. The entire platter of Southwestern chicken plus two cookies was gone. I didn’t know how I kept myself from asking the woman next to me if she was going to eat her chicken.

She didn’t.

Kevin was supposed to pick me up at six in the evening by the gate with all the kids. I was waiting for the sign made by my daughter that said, “MOM.”

Not only was there no sign, there was no family either. I tottered over to the baggage claim, where I stood dejectedly for 15 minutes, until the luggage started coming out, and then my family appeared too. Apparently there was some confusion over scheduled arrival time. I was feeling so tired, I just wanted to be done with my day.

I was happy to see my husband and kids. We went to Rainforest Café for dinner.

My three year old son said, “Mom, do you know what we had for breakfast? Ice cream! And do you know what we had for lunch? Cookies! We had popcorn for dinner and we watched TV all day!” He laughed joyously.

Playing along, I furrowed my brow and turned to Kevin. “Dad!”

Smiling, Kevin shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know where he gets this stuff.”

I didn’t know how I kept myself upright.

Talking While Driving

“So tell me about Russia,” Kevin said in the car on the way back home.

The thought of relating my Russia to Kevin in the car in between street lights filled me with tired dread. We were driving past McDonald’s, a Mobil station, a Boston Market. I tried.

The children interrupted us like a stutter as I rushed to tell him about Russia, staving off exhaustion and sorrow. I used the same words to discipline the children and the dogs. Russia through staccato sentences with no internal structure. “Shepelevo, border patrol, Misha stop yelling at your brother, give him the toy, Natasha stop whining, smell, poverty, wait I can’t hear myself talk you kids are screaming so loud, okay, Fifth Soviet, the toilets, Radik, Misha stop scratching the window with your rake, sit down, don’t take your seat belt off, okay if you kids don’t stop it, we’re turning right around, and there will be no Magic School Bus tomorrow. Kevin did you get that? Did you get what my Russia meant to me?”

We didn’t get home until ten in the evening, which was seven in the morning Leningrad time, which meant that I had been up for 24 hours less that hour nap next to the stubbly smoking inky artisté.

I don’t think I fell asleep as fell unconscious — detached and incongruous — around midnight.

My First Day Back

The next morning we woke up at seven and exercised. My husband walked into our bathroom and found me gazing at our toilet.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Nothing. Look how nice it is.”

“What? The toilet?”

“I mean … well, yeah. Clean. And white. I’m so happy we didn’t get a black toilet.”

I felt Kevin staring at me. Turning around I said, “It’s just so clean, don’t you think?”

“Yeah … sure,” he said. “You want to go and look at the other five toilets?”

“I guess not,” I said. “Let’s go get our kids.”

We went to get our sons dressed and ready for the day. The babysitter came and Kevin went to work.

I trudged upstairs to my office. Phil the foreman called on the cell phone, because the regular phones still weren’t working. I had to call the phone company, and the alarm guy came to tell me that if lightning struck my house and ruptured the alarm signal, they would have to charge me $300 to fix it. Our home owner’s insurance was being cancelled, and the landlord from our old rental house hadn’t sent us our security deposit back. Kevin hadn’t listened to the phone messages the whole week I was gone, and there was one from my mother telling us that she was going in for gall bladder surgery and panicking, asking Kevin to please call her as soon as possible. Not only did he not call her, but my father hadn’t called her either. We were too busy dissecting the real estate situation in Schlisselburg to call my mother who was having gall bladder surgery.

I was too scared to call her right away, so I called my grandparents in New York instead and then called my mother at the hospital. She was groggy and recovering, but even I could tell, she was not happy not to have heard from us.

That took the whole morning. In the afternoon I made Russian beef soup and blinchiki that opened up like tacos. It took me three and a half hours to make dinner. My house was quite beautiful. I tried not to look at it. Granite island, white cabinets, brass hardware, handscraped floors, crown mouldings, tall ceilings. Lots of large rooms with solid-core doors. Two staircases. Three-car garage. My head deeply bent, I tried not to look at any of it.

Kevin came home, and we ate my taco blinchiki, and went swimming, and put the kids to bed, and watched some TV.

The next day we got up and did it all again. And the next day. Life continued as if I hadn’t been to Russia, hadn’t been to Shepelevo, hadn’t been to Leningrad.

Except … I couldn’t lift my head, my eyes, my heart to my house.

I said I would tell Kevin about Russia after I got my photographs developed, but when I had the photos developed, I didn’t want to tell him yet without putting the photos in order, and after I put the photos in order, I didn’t want to tell him yet without putting them in context.

This book is that context.

It took me eight months to write it. I wrote it when I should’ve been writing The Bronze Horseman, the book three editors in three different countries were desperately waiting for, the book that was egregiously late.

In the photos, Leningrad doesn’t look quite so drab. The kind lens softens the peeled paint, flattens the broken stucco. Rust looks like a ray of light, dirt becomes the street. The Nevá is gorgeous, and so is the sky, and there is no smell of communism.

No smell of subway or Shepelevo or crème brûlée, or wet trees, no azure sky, no white Gulf of Finland as if it was covered by snow.

Wet Dogs

I had a hard time talking about it to Kevin. I had trouble reducing Russia to a pithy phrase over the non-stop chattering of my children on the way to Baskin-Robbins. What sound bite can I give over the dinner table? What will be my quote of the day about Russia?

My six days didn’t fit well into our life, and I knew it when I was flying home. I knew there would be no time in our daily ritual to stop and talk about Russia, and I was right. The not talking about it became both a solace and a disgrace.

Let’s just get through the day, our lives said, and then put the kids to bed. Talking involved a break from ritual because it involved animate objects — thoughts, words, emotions, reactions colliding against one another and morphing into a different reality than our Texas reality, which seemed less and less real by the hour. Who needed that?

We would clean up, maybe unpack some books, go to bed, read for a few minutes, kiss and fall asleep, and in the morning we would once stumble out of bed. Kevin went to work, and I was left home with my life and my insides.

He would come home for dinner. Sometimes there would be swimming and sometimes we would just putter, all tense from the day and stressed. Never a moment to break free of life and think about another life, another time when I lived and felt things I had never felt in my life, when I didn’t chase wet dogs who were running around my brand new carpet.

I came home one afternoon to find a message on my answering machine. A female Russian voice was saying, “Misha, is this you? Pick up the phone, Misha, I want to talk to your mommy.” All of this was in Russian, like Misha could speak a word of it.

I went up to my office and the phone rang. A woman’s voice in Russian said, “Plinka? Plinka is this you?”

I didn’t know quite what to say. Was it me?

I said yes.

“Plinka, do you know who this is? It’s Yulia! Yulia. Oh, Paullina, how could you have? How could you have come to Russia and not called me, and not seen me? How could you have done it?”

Thank God I was sitting down. Yulia cried and cried.

“I’m sorry, Yulia.” I said. “I’m really sorry. We had no time. We only had six days. Six lousy days, Yulia, I’m sorry.”

But she didn’t understand. She talked and talked, railing at the injustice, at my callousness. Her voice, high-strung and emotional carried with it such regret, such sorrow. “I would have come to the airport to see you off,” she said. “I found out only on Friday and I called Anatoly the whole day Saturday but no one picked up. You were leaving Sunday, and I would’ve come to the airport to see you; I was so desperate to see you, I must have called Anatoly seven hundred times, that’s all I did Friday and Saturday, I dialed his number over and over, but no one picked up. But I couldn’t come to the airport, do you know why? Because I was going into labor! Labor, Plinka. I had another child, can you believe it? The day after you left, I had my little girl. So now I have two children, can you believe it, two, a boy, and a girl. I named the girl Maria. For our Babushka. She liked it. I just talked to her. She was very happy.”

I was mute.

“How could you not have come to see me, Plinka?” she repeated mournfully.

“Yulia, I didn’t even know where you lived.”

“I live in the same place, Plinka! Where else am I going to live? The same apartment I shared with my Mama. I still live there on Prospekt of Veterans! But who cares where I live, I would have come anywhere to see you, anywhere, you tell me where and I would have come, you have no idea how I think of you every day of my life, how I think of you, I’ve never had anyone who was a sister to me. You were my only sister. I love you so much, how could you have not come and seen me?”

She cried again.

We are swinging in the hammock in the afternoon. We are with our bare legs in the stream our hands trying to catch the little fish that swim by, we are staring in wonder at Dedushka’s bleeding foot, Yulia running to our grandmother yelling, ‘Babushka, Babushka, Plinka split her leg open, Babushka come!”

Here we are, here we are.

“How are you, Yulia?” I said, my voice catching. “How have you been?” I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t see my swimming pool and the prairie out of my window. What was she seeing when she talked to me? Did she see the Prospekt of Veterans outside her window? Did she see the Khrushchev buildings blighted by her tears as she cried to me on the phone.

“I know nothing about your life,” Yulia said. “What are you doing now? I don’t even know how many children you have. How many do you have?”

“Three,” I said. “We’ll come to Russia again, Yulia. We will come again, all of us, my husband too.”

“Well, next time you come don’t you even think of staying in a hotel. You stay with me. I have room. I have room. All of you stay with me. You don’t have to worry about anything, about food or anything. You just come, and I’ll feed you and take care of you. I’ll do everything. Just come and see me next time, Plinka.”

“Okay, Yulia.” I wiped my face.

“Oh, dear one,” she said. “If only you knew how much I love you.”

We talked for a half hour. She told me the new baby was from her current husband, who wasn’t living with her. Then she told me he wasn’t her husband either.

“But I really like the baby,” she said. “Haven’t had one in nearly eleven years.”

I promised to write and send pictures of my family.

I couldn’t look at my house the same way anymore, or my pool or my hardwood floor, or my dogs, or the view. I didn’t feel the same about my house anymore. I didn’t feel the same about my life.

Maybe if I burned wood and smoked some fish and grew nettles in my backyard and got a tub full of warm water that would slowly evaporate, maybe I could sit in an old wicker chair by the tub and breath in the air and recreate Shepelevo right in Texas.

But I still had a life, and I had to continue living it because it was the only life I had.

I thought about Anatoly. What if he had looked at his own life and found it wanting? What could he do about it?

In America, we could do something. We could move, get a new job, divorce the skunk, have another baby, or we could just shake our heads and call in that Prozac prescription at Rite-Aid before our psychotherapy session on Friday.

In Russia, Anatoly could find his life to be unsatisfactory on every level that defines success in a man’s life, yet he could not get another job. He could not moonlight, could not declare bankruptcy. There was no room for another baby, which is why most Soviet couples only have just the one. And even if he wanted to get divorced, he and Ellie would have to continue to live in the same apartment because there was nowhere else to move.

There was nothing else but the life he had, and after a while, after a whole lifetime of having nothing else, many of us might look like Anatoly, the lines in our faces etched out by grim determination to face his days unexamined.

There but for the grace of God go I. That life would have been mine, too, and I would have lived it and shrugged my shoulders just like they do, and gone on and put out my china and crystal when the guests came, and every shrug of my shoulders meant another gray hair, another line in my face.

That’s how I felt inside. On the outside, I was in my glorious spacious home, seven square meters times sixty-six. A home in which there are five and a half working, gleaming white indoor toilets, and five bedrooms, one for Radik and Lida, one for Yulia and her baby, one for Anatoly and Ellie, one for Alla and Viktor, and one for me and my family. I can’t believe I’m saying that, me the communal apartment critic. I guess you can take the girl out of the Soviet Union but you can’t take the Soviet Union out of the girl.

Inside, I hunched my shoulders and held my breath as I walked into the bathroom at Fifth Soviet that had not been cleaned in years and never would be, and as I squatted down, I knew I was squatting in my old life. Outside I was in America, but inside I was in Russia. Who said memory is kind? Memory is merciless. My father was right. “All the things you want to remember, Paullina, I want to forget,” he said to me as he stood smoking outside Fifth Soviet.

Faulkner was right. The past is never over, he said. It’s not even the past.

When would the Good Witch Glinda be right?

Would she ever be right?

When we were in Russia, sometimes I would catch my father smoking and I wanted to smoke too, I wanted to start, to relieve the aching, to soothe my soul, to smoke and see him again as I remembered him when I had been so small and he was taken away from me.

We moved to America. He made that happen for us. It was worth it. I was going to be all right in the end, as long as I could somehow stop myself from thinking of the life that would have surely been mine had we stayed behind, had he not learned English in the Gulag to get us out.

Why can’t I just say, so what? So what, it’s not my life. I don’t care.

Yes, they stayed. But we didn’t stay.

It’s not my life. I don’t care.

But the soldiers smoked it in the walls and burned it in the ashes, and died consecrating the earth on which we walk.

Did they die so we could have the Fifth Soviet life? The Ulitsa Dybenko life? Are the bones of their bodies and the metal from the bullets that killed them lying in the ground for fifty years so that we could have a life of daily privation, a life of no hope?

Twenty million Russian soldiers and civilians dead, and today everyone can say, and does, I had an uncle, a brother, a father, a beloved boy who died, was shot down, blown up, starved to death, got pneumonia in evacuation. Every family is touched by grief. Multiply that by a geometric factor of the incomparable propensity of the Russian man to drink and suffer to suffer and drink, and what you’ve got is a nation of bereaved alcoholic failed poets.

Drinking was a languid vice I could ill afford. I was a mom, I had kids to take care of, I had a house to run and dinner to make every night for five starving creatures.

So I did what we all do to give ourselves relief, to keep ourselves from going mad. I took my unresolved feelings and opened a drawer in my desk and I put them inside and I closed the drawer, and then I left the room.

The best thing for me, really, putting the elephant that was Russia into a drawer in my desk and opening it only when I didn’t have too much to do.

Thank God I had too much to do.

NEW YORK IN AUGUST

Two weeks after I returned home from Leningrad, we flew out to New York in August to visit our families. My grandmother was turning 87. My father had retired from Radio Liberty at the end of July and was making a pit stop in New York on the way to Maui to begin a new life with my mother, who, despite her health, also came to visit for a week. We all gathered together in our family home on Long Island.

“So how was your trip?” asked my 20-year-old sister Liza.

“Fine,” I said. “What can I say, Liz … It was …”

“Why won’t you tell me about it?” she said impatiently. “Papa did.”

“Oh yeah?” I said. “What did he say?”

“He said it was the best trip of his life.”

“He said that?”

“Was it?”

“He said that?”

“Yes. Was it?”

“It was a good trip,” I said.

When I came inside the house and saw my father, I did feel that there was now something new between us, and only us. As if there wasn’t enough there before.

My mother slowly came down the stairs to greet us. I put on my best smile. “Hey, Mama! How are you feeling?”

“As if you care,” she said as she walked past me to hug my kids.

A little later, before dinner, I tried again. “So, Mama, how are you feeling? You look good.”

“How I look is no indication of how I’m feeling. I feel terrible. Absolutely awful. I was dying all alone in the hospital while you and your dearest father were gallivanting all over Leningrad.”

I was eager to show my grandparents my six hundred photos. After all, at 91 and 87, they would never see Leningrad again. “I can’t wait to see the picture of Lebed!” my grandfather said. “I’m really interested in him.”

Not understanding for a moment, I said, “Who? Oh. Deda, I don’t have a picture of Lebed.”

His face showed acute disappointment.

“You mean at the Romanov funeral? No, I couldn’t get him. He was hidden by other people.”

“Oh.” My grandfather looked so dejected.

“But I have other pictures!” I said brightly.

“Oh?” he said, but I could tell nothing else really interested him. He looked through them but didn’t become enthusiastic about anything else.

I sat with my grandparents at our kitchen table while we leafed through my two albums. “Deda, Baba, look — our lake in Shepelevo; it’s called Gora-Valdaisko.”

“How were the Likhobabins?” asked my grandfather. “Vasili Ilyich, how was he? Did you ask Yulia why she doesn’t go to the dacha anymore?”

“No, I didn’t ask her.”

Before I could say another word, my grandmother busted in with, “We talked to Yulia, you know.” She stared at me with stern disapproval. “Why didn’t you go visit her when you were in Russia? You had time for Schlisselburg. But no time for Yulia?”

“Babushka, please,” I said weakly. “Let’s just look at the pictures.”

When I showed them the pictures of my grandfather’s cucumber supports in the garden in Shepelevo, my grandmother said, “No, they’re not his. Yulia must have built them.”

“Yulia built them? What are you talking about? She didn’t build them. She doesn’t go there. They’re Dedushka’s.”

“That can’t be,” she said, shaking her head. “It was twenty years ago.” She looked at the pictures. “They can’t still be his.”

“Babushka!”

My father walked by, glancing at the picture said. “Of course they’re his. As if Yulia would build something.”

It was impossible for us all to believe that these lives, houses, mailboxes, blueberries, brown doors, hinges, concert halls, buses, buildings, cucumber supports could be the same. Our lives had changed so much, how could Russia be standing still? How could it have been so frozen in time, as if the VCR player remained on permanent pause — for me for twenty-five years, for my grandparents since the war that cleaved the world into before and after.

Looking at me dourly my grandmother said, “Why did you take those things you took from our dacha? I think you were wrong to take them. Like you stole them. Yulia might need them, and you took them without even asking.”

“Babushka!” I exclaimed. “What are you talking about? Yulia abandoned that house.”

“Well, maybe she will need Dedushka’s notebooks about when and how to plant vegetables.”

“His notebooks on weather patterns in 1978?”

“Maybe,” she said gruffly.

I had no response, except to shake my head in amazement. I could see she was upset at me. I was upset at myself. I said nothing.

“Listen, Plinka,” my grandfather said. “This relates directly to your trip to Shepelevo. When I was in the army during The War, I went to visit my brother Semyon who was serving on the Volkhov front as an aviation engineer.”

“Where were you?”

“On the western front,” he said. “When I came to his airstrip, I had a little trouble getting in to see him because the border patrol kept me for a long time near the checkpoint, making sure my passport and credentials were valid.”

“How long?”

“How long what?”

“How long did they detain you?”

“I don’t know. It seemed like two days. It was probably two hours. Apparently an airplane had recently been stolen from the airport hangar by an army man who wanted to eat. If you were a pilot with a plane, the army gave you more food than if you were just a soldier. So the guy stole a plane to barter for some food, and because of that I was held up at checkpoint.”

“The ironic idiotic Soviet thing,” Dedushka continued, “and this is the part that relates directly to your Shepelevo experience, was that through this airport ran an unpaved road by which all the locals walked on foot to the fields and forests to pick berries. Paullina, the road ran right through the airport and they walked on this road by the dozens and no one stopped them. But at the entrance to the airport, I was stopped for several hours.”

“Deda, how far away from the checkpoint was this road the people walked on?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Five meters.”

I laughed.

“That’s Russia for you,” said my grandfather.

During dinner it became quickly obvious to me that my father had already told his stories about our trip; there wasn’t much for me to do, except pass my Russia pictures around and clean up. Everyone asked me what I thought. Did I think St. Petersburg was beautiful? Yes, I said.

My father had told them all the stories. The Romanovs, the Diorama, the metal doors of the toilet, the caviar I ate every morning.

It was a mixed relief for me not to have to recount to Kevin, to my grandparents, to my sister, to my mother, who didn’t want to hear anything at all, things I couldn’t put in perspective for anyone — most of all me.

They didn’t want my perspective, what they wanted was for things to go back to just the way they were before I had left, peaceful, untroubled, unexamined, nice, nice, nice. While all I felt was shame. Profound shame and regret and fear. Put that into perspective.

“Did we have a good trip, eh, Paullina? Did we?” my father asked.

What could I say to him?

“We did, Papa,” I said. “We did.”

He wasn’t writing a book. But he did tell the stories. That’s what life’s twists represented to my father. Another good story to be told over vodka and herring and potatoes and cigarettes with a raptly listening and appreciatively laughing audience. He barely could get through the experience before he would start forming the story in his head. Sometimes in the middle of the experience he was already thinking how he was going to tell it so that it would be the funniest, the cleverest, the most touching story he could create.

Feelings, those were extra. Actual pain, sentimentality, nostalgia, that was all extra. And it wasn’t what he was interested in. He was not interested in his own feelings. He was interested in ours. He wanted us to feel something when he told his story to us. Privately, he may have been tremendously affected. I know he was. But publicly, he simply made every facet of his life a story and then waited for us to react.

My father affected the people who knew him. All his friends, all his colleagues felt like he was the brightest, the funniest storyteller they knew. His skills as a storyteller were legendary.

Because he was also a romantic, during our first family dinner he told the story of our coming back from the Russian restaurant Sankt Peterburg and hearing the street jazz musician play “Speak Softly Love” from The Godfather.

I waited for him to finish. “That’s so interesting, Papa, because what I also remember from that evening is some homeless drunk striking up a friendship with you and then following us down the lovely Griboyedov canal, reciting a Pasternak poem over and over.”

My father shook his head. “You would remember that, wouldn’t you?” We laughed.

Sometime during dinner, I stood, raising my vodka glass and was interrupted by my Russian family seven times before my mother said, “What do you want to say, Plinka?”

And my father, knowing already, said, “That she likes me. That she likes me very much.”

“I want to drink to my father,” I began.

My mother said, “What about me? What about me?”

“Alla, could you wait?” my father said.

“What about drinking to me?” she repeated. “Who gave birth to you? Who taught you how to read?”

“Who got us out of Russia?” I quietly asked.

My mother sneered bitterly. I raised my shot glass higher and said, sighing, “But first, let us drink to my mother. Had she not given birth to me, I would not be standing here tonight.”

“That’s right,” she said, nodding fiercely. “That’s exactly right. You don’t even know how right you are.”

With abortion being the primary form of contraception in Communist Russia, the average Soviet woman had anywhere from four to seven abortions in her lifetime. “I know, Mama,” I said. “I know how right I am.”

We drank. I poured myself another. “Now I’d like to drink to my father.” My mother managed to keep quiet. “When we were in Leningrad, sometimes I looked at Papa,” I began, “and wondered how in the world did he ever get us out of Russia in 1973? Yet, he did. He learned English in prison because he knew with absolute certainty that without English we would have no hope. He wanted to go to America, he had known that for a long time. If we came here, we might fail, but without his English, we would fail for sure. We’d be part-time hot dog vendors on the streets of Brighton Beach, or driving cabs, complaining about the government not taking better care of us. Furthermore,” I continued but my voice did break, “I raise this glass to him, because if not for him, we would be still back in Russia, living the life of Alla and Viktor, of Anatoly and Ellie, of Radik and Lida. We would be there in a dead-end life, me and Liza. Papa gave us our future. With his English, he pulled us out of Russia,” I said, turning to my sister. “Tonight, I drink to him for giving Liza and me our life.”

Choked up, everyone drank. My mother stood and stormed outside.

When she came back she said to my sister, “Paullina doesn’t love me.”

“What are you talking about, Mama?” said Liza. “She is your daughter. What are you talking about? You’re crazy.” That’s my twenty-year-old sister.

When I was still in Texas, my grandparents kept saying on the phone how they couldn’t wait to talk to me about Russia. But when I got to New York, they didn’t talk to me about Russia at all.

I thought it was a product of too many people, too much food, too much to do, so one night, at Kevin’s suggestion, I left my family at the hotel and came at 10:30 in the evening to talk to my grandparents all by myself. My parents had gone out to the movies.

My grandmother didn’t get up from the armchair for two hours because she was too busy watching a Mexican soap opera translated into Russian. My grandfather — an engineer, a shipbuilder, a war hero, a chess player, a genius — was too embarrassed to watch in front of me so he made tea and we chatted idly about nothing, biding time until my grandmother got unglued from her Mexican soap opera. It was well after midnight when she came into the kitchen, and we looked over the copies of the photos from Leningrad and bickered about which ones they could have and why I couldn’t give them any of my negatives. I left at one. We had not spoken about Russia.

My father’s old friend Mark came to have dinner with us one night and while he ate he asked me what I thought of Russia. I shrugged. I said by way of reply, “Have you gone back?” He has been in America with his family since 1977. My father got him and his whole family out. They lived with us for months when they first arrived in New York. Shaking his head, with his mouth full of my father’s shrimp, Mark said, “I don’t want to go back. I’m not interested in seeing it. It hasn’t changed. I left because I didn’t want to live that life. Why should I go back and see it’s all the same?” He looked at me. “And I can see by your face, it is all the same, isn’t it, Paullina?”

Radik again

One evening, not long before we returned to Texas, my mother was looking listlessly through copies of my photos and stumbled upon pictures of Radik and Lida. Holding a photo in her hand, she jumped up to run to my father, then sat back down and said, “Is this Lida? Paullina, do you know? Is this Lida?”

“Of course, I know,” I said. “It is Lida.”

“Oh my God,” my mother said. “She got so old. She got so old. Oh my God.”

Having finished his smoke, my father came back inside, and my mother shoved the picture of Lida into his face. “This is Lida, Yura?”

“Yes,” he said, taken aback by my mother’s fervor.

“Yura, do I look this old? Oh my God, do I look like this?”

He moved the picture further away from him, and stepped away from my mother. “No. Stop it, Alla, what are you talking about?”

My mother slumped down, defeated by Lida’s photo. “She was never very beautiful,” she said. “But this just shocks me. Shocks me.”

“Not beautiful like Radik?” I teased her.

“Oh,” she said. “Nobody was beautiful like Radik.”

“Of course not,” I smiled.

She looked at a photo of him. “He got old now, he’s lost some of his shine, still he’s not bad, right?”

“Right,”

My mother told me that when Papa and she had first met—

“During or after Dzhubga?”

My mother looked at me as if I were speaking Armenian. “After,” she said slowly. “But before we were married. And what do you know about Dzhubga, anyway?”

“I saw you,” I said. “Saw you being painted. You were so beautiful.”

“I was, wasn’t I?” She looked so sad when she said it.

“Tell me what Papa said about Radik, Mama.”

Sighing, she continued. “Your Papa, well, he was not your Papa yet, said, ‘I’ll introduce you to all my friends, but one of them, you will stop loving me, leave me and go with him, because he is just incredible.’” My mother had assured my father, that that would never happen, but when she saw Radik for the first time, she told me that her breath did stop.

My grandfather chimed in. “Radik,” he said, “was the most handsome man you ever saw. Men and women both thought so. You could not stop looking at him. You could not even if you wanted to.”

“Well, he is old now,” my grandmother said.

“He may be old, but Babushka, you didn’t see what I saw, the way our whole table at dinner at his house could not take their eyes off him,” I said.

Always a cynic, my grandmother snorted dismissively.

My father, embarrassed by these personal discussions of his friends, mumbled, “Ladies and gentlemen …” trailed off and left to smoke outside.

I was amused at the way 60-year-old people and older did not forgive the aging process in other 60-year-old people.

Particularly Radik.

Almost singularly Radik, I decided. As if, they all — Ellie, my mother, grandmother, grandfather were all happy in their secret souls that a star like Radik dulled, that old age did not spare him either. We were all beautiful, they seemed to say, we were all young and beautiful, and he most of all, but we got old, and he got old, too, thank God.

Once I had it figured out, I said, “Well, I didn’t know Radik when he was young—”

“Oh, you wouldn’t have been able to resist him,” interjected my grandfather.

I repeated, “I didn’t know him then, but I think that for a 60-year-old man, he still looked pretty good.”

My mother studied his picture again for a long time. “Not bad,” she finally said. “But not like before.”

Oh, the pitiless old age.

SIX HUNDRED PHOTOS

I shot sixteen rolls of film. 600 photos. To reflect on the events of six days, that’s a 100 pictures per day. Surely that was enough to show what I had seen, to show a small measure of what I had felt. But I found that the pictures subtracted from rather than enhanced my memories. Each photo, taken at an average speed of one-sixtieth of a second. The shutter was open for a total of ten seconds. Of those ten seconds, I have six hundred photos.

Ten seconds out of six days. They conveyed nothing, not the pain of Shepelevo, not the sadness of Fifth Soviet, not the crumbling stucco that I saw for hours and hours, not the marble halls of the Hermitage. And what about all those seconds, those minutes, those hours I didn’t take pictures of? What happened to them? I regretted not taking a photo of Ellie’s floors. I regretted not taking pictures of any of the toilets I visited or avoided. Why didn’t I take a photo of the outside of the Diorama Museum or of Mariinsky Bridge? Where was the mezzanine in the Grand Hotel Europe, where were my blini and caviar? Where were my memories? Where was the smell of Shepelevo? The smell of the metro? The smell of my old apartment’s toilet near the back door of the kitchen? Where did the six days go?

They sat right in my chest. They filled me from morning to night, and when we came back to Texas I was so glad I had my wood blinds and my Irish Cream colored walls and my satellite television service, so I didn’t have to close my eyes and think of Shepelevo, of my apartment, of the life that I would have continued to live just like many of the people I loved. No, let me swim in my pool instead to get my heart away from Leningrad.

Except I couldn’t look at my house either. No place for me there, and no place for me here.

Blink and you miss it. Forget. Regret. Salt in a little napkin that we pour on our tomatoes in Lake Ladoga as we sit on a plastic drop cloth, on grass and eat bologna and Russian bread. Where was a picture of that?

And the smell of fresh water from the canals of Leningrad. Arguably fresh may not be the best term for it, but the scent flowed through the city and everywhere it rose up to meet me, attaching itself permanently to my insides.

Russia was like a hard dream from which I could not wake up. When I was young I used to have a recurring nightmare in which I was being chased by a cow on railroad tracks. Every time I turned around, the cow was behind me. I’d speed up, run with a dreamer’s ineptitude, tripping, falling, slowing down. Then I’d turn around, and there was that cow, just a few railroad ties behind me.

“Kevin, what am I?” I asked him one evening after the kids had gone to sleep, not, may I say, willingly. “When you have to describe me to people or in your own head, how do you describe me?”

“Well, first and foremost, you’re my wife.”

“Okay, and then?”

“Then you’re … well, you’re …”

“That’s what I thought,” I said. “I can’t describe myself either. What am I? Am I an American? Am I Russian?”

“Yes!” he said triumphantly. “I got it. You’re a Russian-born American author who also happens to be my wife and the mother of my children.”

“Okay, good,” I said.

I decided I have lived in too many places. When we came to America, we lived in Woodside, Queens, then in Kew Gardens, Queens, then in Ronkonkoma, Long Island. I lived at Stony Brook University, in one dorm, another dorm, another dorm, then in a house in Port Jefferson, then in a university in England. I lived in an apartment in Lawrence, Kansas, back in one dorm in England, another dorm in England. A house in Ilford, a house in Birmingham, a house in Dagenham, then back to the States. I lived in one apartment in Forest Hills, another apartment in Forest Hills, a third apartment in Forest Hills, then a house in Lake Ronkonkoma, a rented house in Texas, and finally here, in my yellow stucco home. That’s nineteen different places since the time I left Russia. About one a year.

But before I was ten, I lived in only one place and that was our apartment on Fifth Soviet, and I spent my summers in only one place, and that was Shepelevo, and when my spirit can’t find any solace, that’s where I return, because it’s the only place I can call home.

I walked into my dream and kept walking with my Leningrad in front of me and behind me and all around me.

I wasn’t carrying Russia with me. It was carrying me.

I tried to settle back into my life. How lucky I was that I had one and didn’t have to make one up from scratch. In this life there was no time and no place for feelings of raw displacement. The brass weather stripping outside my balcony door had been ruined by paint thinner, and the blower above my cooktop made a racket when it was turned on. One of the bathroom door handles broke, the garage door would not close, the Texas prairie wind blew through the gaps in my warped front door and made the cavernous formal living areas cold. I made time for these details. I didn’t make time to cook blinchiki or think about Yulia or figure out who I was. Who I was didn’t matter anymore because the black Texas clay dirt was getting in the dog kennel when it rained and something had to be done about that.

I kept the rubles from Russia in a cubby hole in the mud room. Finally I couldn’t stand looking at them anymore, so I sent them to Ellie and Anatoly, along with the bottle of Tressor.

It was tough for Ellie before, but now that the ruble had been devalued by half and half again, how much was going to be left for her tomatoes and her borsht and her blinchiki?

I sent Viktor’s sons new Dallas T-shirts. To get his zip code, I miscalculated the time difference backwards instead of forwards. I thought I was calling him at nine in the morning but it turned out to be two in the morning. Big difference. Viktor’s wife must have been thrilled that some woman from America was calling her husband at that hour of the night. “Oh, but honey, she is going to send our boys T-shirts.”

Television news one night carried a picture of a well-dressed man from Leningrad. He was in his fifties, and he was wearing a suit and tie. He lived in Leningrad, but on this particular evening, he left his job at five o’clock, a job at which he had not gotten paid in six months, and he took a tram to the outskirts of the city. At the last stop, he got off and rode the electrichka to a town near Leningrad called Kolpino, where he went to a local cafeteria and stood in line. Back in Leningrad he had heard that in this cafeteria in Kolpino they were serving soup. So he stood in line that evening to get some soup to bring home to his family. The picture on the news was of him standing in this line. He could have been in 1941 Leningrad with the food storage warehouses having just been burned by the Germans and mass starvation weeks away. It was agonizing to see his face.

The War was not in the past, it was everywhere you looked, just as communism was everywhere you looked. War was the baggage we all carried with us: every heartbreak, every longing, every job, every neglect, every happiness, and we went forward into the future with the wounds of communism on one shoulder and the wounds of war on the other. We went to our outhouse and we hoped that our cucumbers wouldn’t have bitter skins this year, that our chicken was not going to get worms and die because then we wouldn’t have eggs.

We hoped for perch, and we hoped that the men who came to clean the outhouse did not ask for more than a liter of vodka because it was all we had. And when, upon leaving, all they asked for was what we had, we thought we were lucky.

And then with our heads bent, we went to get a loaf of bread from the lady near the metro and coming back we said, let me just walk once more among the graves of my brothers, my soldiers. Let me bow my head and let the tears in my eyes not spill over because I don’t have a hand to wipe them. Maybe Yuliy Gneze and I had more in common than I realized. Maybe he walked through Piskarev every day because he too couldn’t believe he had lived.

You’d think that Russians would be more in need than Americans of artificially induced stupor, and vodka certainly did take care of the edges. In between shots, or even during, they read books and tried to write themselves; they baked blueberry pies, they had children, they grew their vegetables, they caught their fish, they fixed what they could and left what they couldn’t. Every once in a while someone went overseas and brought back perfume or make-up or perhaps a leather jacket. They continued to live the best they could even if it meant going to Kolpino for some soup in your best suit.

It was only too right that nothing could grow on the small square of land at Nevsky Patch. The soldiers are still crying, turning in their graves, shouting, is this what we died for, what we stood on the dark Neva for? Is this it? Their tears wash away their bones, but not far enough away, while we shrug, pulling at our gray hair, and walk on.

I walk onto my balcony in Texas. Alla goes back to the Prospekt of Five-Year-Plans. Svetlana haltingly sings, Shine Shine My Star as she stands in the kitchen crying into the bowl of ground beef for stuffed cabbage, thinking about St. Petersburg, Florida, singing arias through the palm trees.

Ina continues to rejoice that she got two large rooms for her family. She’s in those two rooms till the end of her life, and she thanks God.

The Likhobabins go to Babushka’s grave, pulling out the weeds, putting some fresh flowers on it, and then stroll arm in arm to the Gulf of Finland, to their boat.

Yulia pulls the curtain closed over the Prospekt of Veterans where she has lived since 1968 and goes to take care of her infant girl, hoping that she can get the baby’s father to move in with her one day. He does eventually, and then she hopes that if he sticks around long enough maybe he can help her bring the dacha in Shepelevo to fighting form.

Anatoly stands on his balcony over Ulitsa Dybenko, stubs out his cigarette, and goes back inside, slowly closing the door. He sits on the couch and says, “Any more of that blueberry pie, Ellie?”

I walked out onto my balcony, thinking about the Likhobabins and their 35-year-old couch. Yes, but they smell Shepelevo every day. Do they even know what they have? What I would give to walk out on my balcony and smell Shepelevo. Smell anything.

Heat kills all in Texas. I breathed in the air. There was no smell.

But I am ashamed to say I like the sunshine.

I walked back inside, reminded of the words by Russian writer Alexander Kushner: “Only those who have not paid a high price for the gentle joy of living and breathing can allow themselves feelings of melancholy, denial and lofty disdain of life.”

I had been given more than I deserved. I hoped the angels didn’t recognize that fact. Any minute now I would blink and I’d be in Kolpino standing in line for soup.

The doorbell chimed. It was the landscaper who wanted to know what two trees I wanted him to plant in the front yard, a red oak or a live oak. I walked outside with him. It was 110 degrees. The prairie stretched in every direction.

“A red oak,” I said. “I like my trees deciduous. A live oak with those permanent rubber leaves just doesn’t cut it. It looks too fake, don’t you agree?”

“Well, yeah, in the beginning,” he said. “But give it a little time and when it grows tall, a live oak looks very beautiful. Rich and green and colorful. Not at all rubbery.”

“Oh, yeah?” I said, thinking about Shepelevo’s oaks standing over the neat simple grave of my great-grandmother who gave my grandfather her last potatoes she had dug up from the fields during the blockade so he could live. “How much time?”

“Twenty-five years or so,” he replied.

I looked at him. I was thinking about seeing the sun set and rise on the Neva. I was thinking about 240,000 dead and their bones and their bullets on the banks of the dark river, dying for me, dying for Anatoly. We died so that you could live.

“I can’t think that far ahead,” I said. “I’ll take the red oak. The leaves will turn beautiful in the fall, right?”

“Right,” he said. “Now, what about your winter flowers? We’ll plant some pansies? They’re very hearty, will withstand any kind of weather. Even with severe frost, they’ll die down a bit, and then as soon as it thaws, they’ll come back more vibrant than ever. How would yellow pansies be?”

I am thinking about my father who learned English in the Gulag to get us out, to get me to America so that I could stand in front of my stucco house in Texas, smile blithely and say, “Yes. Yellow pansies would be very nice in the winter.”

THE END

Me at the Neva embankment with the Peter and Paul Fortress in the background.

Day 1: Dinner at Anatoly and Ellie’s. Clockwise from left: Viktor, Alla, Papa, Ellie, Anatoly, Anatoly’s brother Viktor and his wife Lyuba.

Day 1: My childhood friend Alla (centre) with her husband, Viktor, and daughter, Marina.

Day 2: My dacha at Shepelevo.

Day 2: Shepelevo, on Lake Gora-Valdaisko. When I was little I would row across this lake to the shore in the distance to go mushroom and blueberry picking, on a boat much like the one behind me.

Day 2: A Soviet bus on the way to Shepelevo.

Day 3: My school and schoolyard, and Papa standing outside the school doors.

Day 3: Tauride Park and the elms under which Tatiana sat and ate her ice cream when Alexander saw her from across this street in The Bronze Horseman.

Me next to a sign on Nevsky Prospekt left over from the Blockade of Leningrad, 1941–1944. It says, “Citizens! In the event of bombing, this side of the street is more dangerous".

Day 4: The Broken Ring at Lake Ladoga, the memorial at the start of the Road of Life.

Day 4: The mouth of the Neva emptying out into Lake Ladoga at Schlisselburg. The strip of land is where the Germans entrenched during the blockade.

The mass graves at Piskarev Cemetery.

My Fifth Soviet apartment building.

The stairs to the communal apartment on Fifth Soviet, where I lived as a child.

Our kitchen in the Fifth Soviet apartment, which had two kitchens, shared by 13 families.

The corridor in the Fifth Soviet apartment leading away from our two rooms to the front door.

Day 4: Diorama at Schlisselburg, the Breaking of the Blockade

Day 4: Schlisselburg,the city pivotal in the defense of Leningrad battles, at the mouth where the Neva empties out into Lake Ladoga. The fortress island is Oreshek, and in front of it is the Catherine Canal on which the Germans dug their trenches.

Day 4: Schlisselburg Main Street

Me in the Summer Garden, eating ice cream. Crème brûlée, perhaps?

Day 5: In the courtyard of Peter and Paul’s Cathedral on the morning of the Romanov funeral.

Day 5: Papa at the Neva, after the Romanov funeral

Day 6: Radik, Lida and me

Day 6, Papa and I, saying goodbye.

The Bronze Horseman.

ALSO BY PAULLINA SIMONS

The Bronze Horseman

The golden skies, the translucent twilight, the white nights, all hold the promise of youth, of love, of eternal renewal. The war has not yet touched this city of fallen grandeur, or the lives of two sisters, Tatiana and Dasha Metanova, who share a single room in a cramped apartment with their brother and parents. Their world is turned upside down when Hitler’s armies attack Russia and begin their unstoppable blitz to Leningrad.

Yet there is light in the darkness. Tatiana meets Alexander, a brave young officer in the Red Army. Strong and self-confident, yet guarding a mysterious and troubled past, he is drawn to Tatiana-and she to him. Starvation, desperation, and fear soon grip their city during the terrible winter of the merciless German siege. Tatiana and Alexander’s impossible love threatens to tear the Metanova family apart and expose the dangerous secret Alexander so carefully protects-a secret as devastating as the war itself-as the lovers are swept up in the brutal tides that will change the world and their lives forever.

Bellagrand

“Never forget where you came from.”

At the turn of the century and the dawning of the modern world, Gina from Belpasso comes to Boston’s Freedom Docks to find a new and better life, and meets Harry Barrington, who is searching for his.

The fates of the Barringtons and Attavianos become entwined, on a collision course between the old and new, between what is expected and what is desired, what is chosen and what is bestowed, what is given and what is taken away.

As America races headlong into the future, much will be lost and much will be gained for Gina and Harry, whose ill-fated love story will break your heart.

COPYRIGHT

HarperCollinsPublishers

First published in Australia in 2013

This edition published in 2013

by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited

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Copyright © Paullina Simons 2013

The right of Paulina Simons to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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