Sergei and Petya watched the troika go by, and continued on past The Moscow, where the bitter smell of beer and stale tobacco smoke hung in the air. A couple of infantry officers in green uniforms with high, stiff feathers in their caps stood outside the door, talking loudly and smoking.
“I don’t understand why Mikhail skates with Rachel every week,” said Sergei.
“Maybe because she’s kind of pretty and laughs a lot.” Petya pulled his collar up higher around his neck. “Do Mikhail’s grandparents know he spends so much time with her?”
“He’s never said.”
“My father would kill me if I took up with a Jewish girl,” said Petya, shaking his head. “We have lots of Jewish friends, like our neighbors, but my father pretends he doesn’t know them if he sees them in the square. He says people complain to him, because he’s the mayor, about how crowded Kishinev is becoming from all the Jews.”
Sergei frowned. “My father says Jews are taking away all our jobs, that Kishinev is going to be controlled by Jews if we don’t watch out.”
Petya shrugged. “They do good work; my mother buys all of our shoes from a Jewish shop.”
“Pretty soon there won’t be anything but Jewish shops here,” Sergei said. “That’s why we have to make sure Jews know their place.”
He and Petya walked in silence, heads down to avoid the cold wind cutting into their faces. On the corner where they went their separate ways, a tea seller was closing up for the night. The light from the gas lamps made his silver samovar shine.
Sergei could hardly feel his fingers by the time he arrived home, the second floor of a four-story building divided into flats. Hot air from the stove and the aroma of salted pork enveloped him when he opened the door. He removed his boots and hung his coat on an iron hook in the vestibule, then he crossed himself in front of the icon of the Madonna and infant Jesus that hung on the wall beside the door.
“Good heavens, Sergei, it’s almost dark,” exclaimed his mother, rushing over to him.
“I didn’t realize it was so late.” Sergei smiled down at her.
“Carlotta, would you come and stir the soup?” his mother asked her sister, who lived with them.
From a dimly lit corner, Carlotta emerged with a childlike smile on her plain face. Her long, gray-streaked hair hung in a loose braid down the back of her dress, which fit snugly over her podgy belly. Taking the spoon, she began humming an indecipherable melody.
“Come,” said Sergei’s mother, pushing him toward the fire. “Get your wet clothes off, put them by the stove, and have some tea. Make haste, before you catch a cold.”
“Stop fussing over the boy,” ordered Sergei’s father in a voice that resonated throughout the room. Sitting on the chintz-covered sofa, he inhaled his cigarette, filling a ceramic dish with ashes, and read the Bessarabetz, the local daily newspaper. As his father stroked his chin, Sergei smiled, thinking about how his friends called his father “The Beard” because his whiskers were so long.
Sergei’s mother poured a glass of tea from the copper samovar. Sergei put a beetroot sugar cube in his mouth and took a sip. He savored the bitter tea as it passed through the sugar. Feeling warmer instantly, Sergei cupped his hands around the warm glass.
“When will Papa be home, Tonia?” Carlotta asked as she stirred a pot of hot cucumber soup.
Sergei’s mother gently took the spoon from Carlotta. “You know that Papa is gone, Carlotta.”
“Gone!” cried Carlotta. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and cried into it. “The tongue speaks but the head doesn’t know,” she said through her tears.
Sergei’s mother sighed and did what she always did when her sister had an outburst. She put her arm around her and led Carlotta to a rocking chair by the table. Then, wrapping her distraught sister in a shawl, she asked Sergei where he had been.
“I was skating with Mikhail on the river.”
“Can I come next time?” asked Natalya, Sergei’s eight-year-old sister. She was curled up on a chair in the corner playing with her wooden doll. A kerchief partially covered Natalya’s long, black hair. Her eyes, nose, and mouth were so delicate, they looked as if they’d been drawn on her face.
“Natalya, you’re too young to be out skating with your brother on the river. Anyway, there’s enough around here to keep you busy,” said Sergei’s mother. “Now go and get the lace tablecloth from the trunk and lay it on the table. And Sergei, when you’ve finished your tea, put another log into the stove.”
Sergei shrugged his shoulders at Natalya, who made a face when told she couldn’t go skating. He took a birch log from the wood box by the door and fed the tall, black stove in the middle of the room.
“I’m famished,” he said. “When will supper be ready?”
“If you’re so anxious to eat, pray for patience,” said his father, his face riveted to his newspaper.
“Glory hallelujah!” exclaimed Carlotta suddenly and loudly.
Sergei bit down on his bottom lip to keep from laughing.
Sergei’s father turned and glared at Carlotta. “Tell your sister to be quiet,” he ordered his wife.
Sergei watched as his mother cowered under his father’s disapproval. He took one last sip of tea and walked over to the eastern wall of the flat where religious icons from many generations of his family hung, softly illuminated by the oil lamp. He liked the icon with the yellow background, which reminded him of the sun, even on dark days.
“Come everyone,” called his mother. “It’s time to eat.”
Carlotta stood up, filled the bowls with soup and carried them to the table. She sat down in her spot and bent her head in prayer.
Sergei’s father got to his feet, patting his ample stomach with one hand and rubbing his stiff lower back with the other. “Ah. All day I’ve been thinking of this food.” He sat down heavily in his chair across from Sergei, Carlotta, and Natalya.
“Here it is,” said Sergei’s mother, bringing to the table a wooden platter filled with boiled pork, followed by a plate piled high with rye bread. She tied her apron and sat beside her husband.
Sergei’s father folded his hands in prayer. “We thank thee for the food you have so graciously provided. Amen,” he said.
“Amen,” proclaimed Carlotta, as if she was addressing a crowd.
Sergei exchanged a smile with Natalya and began loading his plate with the boiled pork.
“Papa, Sergei is taking so much food. There won’t be any left for us,” Natalya whined.
“He’s a growing boy, almost a man. Soon he’ll become a police officer like I am.” He beamed at his son. “And in a few years he’ll get married and have his own family to clothe and feed.”
Sergei almost choked on his meat as his father spoke. He didn’t want to be a police officer, and he certainly didn’t want to get married soon. Tomorrow, he vowed, he’d tell Mikhail that they had to leave soon, before his father stuck him in a uniform.
Two
Mikhail skated toward the bend in the river and thrust his face into the wind, not yet ready to go home. He wanted to clear his head, but he couldn’t stop thinking about what Rachel had said, how they could never be together… yet he wanted her more than any other girl. It frustrated him, wanting something he could not have.
He pumped his legs until he was skating briskly against the wind. He loved moving fast; it made him feel free, like the fish underneath the ice. No cares or responsibilities, no grandparents expecting him to live the life they had chosen. Mikhail’s brow wrinkled into folds of annoyance when he recalled the disagreement he’d had with his grandfather earlier that day.