But she knew that she had to see Andrei. One evening, she put on the red dress and told Leo that she had promised to call on her family.
“May I go with you?” he asked. “I haven’t seen them since my return and I owe them a visit.”
“No, not this time, Leo,” she answered calmly. “I’d rather you wouldn’t. Mother is ... she’s so changed ... I know you won’t get along with her.”
“Do you have to go tonight, Kira? I hate to let you go and to stay here alone. I’ve been without you for such a long time.”
“I’ve promised them I’d come tonight. I won’t stay late. I’ll be back soon.”
She was putting on her coat when the door bell rang.
It was Marisha who went to open the door and they heard Galina Petrovna’s voice sweeping through the room, approaching: “Well, I’m glad they’re home. Well, if I thought they were visiting others and neglecting their old parents and ...”
Galina Petrovna entered first; Lydia followed; Alexander Dimitrievitch shuffled in behind them.
“Leo, my dear child!” Galina Petrovna swept toward him and kissed him on both cheeks. “I’m so glad to see you! Welcome back to Leningrad.”
Lydia shook hands limply; she removed her old hat, sat down heavily, as if collapsing, and fumbled with her hairpins: a long strand of hair was falling loosely out of the careless roll at the back of her neck. She was very pale and used no powder; her nose was shiny; she stared mournfully at the floor.
Alexander Dimitrievitch muttered: “I’m glad you’re well, my boy,” and patted Leo’s shoulder uncertainly, with the timid, frightened look of an animal expecting to be hurt.
Kira faced them calmly and said with cold assurance: “Why did you come? I was just starting for your house, as I promised.”
“As you ...” Galina Petrovna began, but Kira interrupted:
“Well, since you’re here, take your coats off.”
“I’m so happy you’re well again, Leo,” said Galina Petrovna. “I feel as if you were my son. You really are my son. Everything else is just bourgeois prejudices.”
“Mother!” Lydia remonstrated feebly, hopelessly.
Galina Petrovna settled down in a comfortable armchair. Alexander Dimitrievitch sat apologetically on the edge of a chair by the door.
“Thank you for coming,” Leo smiled graciously. “My only excuse for neglecting to call, as I should have, is ...”
“Kira,” Galina Petrovna finished for him. “Do you know that we haven’t seen her more than three times while you were away?”
“I have a letter for you, Kira,” Lydia said suddenly.
“A letter?” Kira’s voice jerked slightly.
“Yes. It came today.”
There was no return address on the envelope; but Kira knew the handwriting. She threw the letter indifferently down on the table.
“Don’t you want to open it?” Leo asked.
“No hurry,” she said evenly. “Nothing important.”
“Well, Leo?” Galina Petrovna’s voice boomed; her voice had become louder, clearer. “What are your plans for the winter? This is such an interesting year we’re entering. So many opportunities, particularly for the young.”
“So many ... what?” Leo asked.
“Such a wide field of activity! It’s not like in the dying, decadent cities of Europe where people slave all their lives for measly wages and a pitiful little existence. Here — each one of us has an opportunity to be a useful, creative member of a stupendous whole. Here — one’s work is not merely a wasted effort to satisfy one’s petty hunger, but a contribution to the gigantic building of humanity’s future.”
“Mother,” Kira asked, “who wrote all that down for you?”
“Really, Kira,” Galina Petrovna drew her shoulders up, “you’re not only impertinent to your mother, but I think you’re also a bad influence on Leo’s future.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that, Galina Petrovna,” said Leo.
“And of course, Leo, I hope that you’re modern enough to outlive the prejudices we’ve all shared. We must admit that the Soviet Government is the only progressive government in the world. It utilizes all its human resources. Even an old person like me, who has been useless all her life, can find an opportunity for creative toil. And as for young people like you ...”
“Where are you working, Galina Petrovna?” Leo asked.
“Oh, don’t you know? I’m teaching in a Labor School — they used to be called High Schools, you know. Sewing and fancy needlework. We all realize that a practical subject like sewing is much more important to our little future citizens than the dead, useless things, such as Latin, which were taught in the old bourgeois days. And our methods? We’re centuries ahead of Europe. For instance, take the complex method that we’re ...”
“Mother,” Lydia said wearily, “Leo may not be interested.”
“Nonsense! Leo is a modern young man. Now, this method we’re using at present.... For instance, what did they do in the old days? The children had to memorize mechanically so many dry, disjoined subjects — history, physics, arithmetic — with no connection between them at all. What do we do now? We have the complex method. Take last week, for instance. Our subject was Factory. So every teacher had to build his course around that central subject. In the history class they taught the growth and development of factories; in the physics class they taught all about machinery; the arithmetic teacher gave them problems about production and consumption; in the art class they drew factory interiors. And in my class — we made overalls and blouses. Don’t you see the advantage of the method? The indelible impression it will leave in the children’s minds? Overalls and blouses — practical, concrete, instead of teaching them a lot of dry, theoretical seams and stitches.”
Lydia’s head drooped listlessly; she had heard it all many times.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying your work, Galina Petrovna,” said Leo.
“I’m glad you get your rations,” said Kira.
“I do, indeed,” Galina Petrovna stated proudly. “Of course, our distribution of commodities has not as yet reached a level of perfection and, really, the sunflower-seed oil I got last week was so rancid we couldn’t use it ... but then, this is a transitional period of ...”
“... State Construction!” Alexander Dimitrievitch yelled suddenly, hastily, as a well-memorized lesson.
“And what are you doing, Alexander Dimitrievitch?” Leo asked.
“Oh, I’m working!” Alexander Dimitrievitch jerked as if ready to jump forward, as if defending himself hastily against a dangerous accusation. “Yes, I’m working. I’m a Soviet employee. I am.”
“Of course,” Galina Petrovna drawled, “Alexander’s position is not as responsible as mine. He’s a bookkeeper in a district office somewhere way on the Vasilievsky Island — such a long trip every day! — and just what kind of an office is it, Alexander? But, anyway, he does have a bread card — though he doesn’t get enough even for himself alone.”
“But I’m working,” Alexander Dimitrievitch said meekly.
“Of course,” said Galina Petrovna, “I get better ration cards because I’m in a preferred class of pedagogues. I’m very active socially. Why, do you know, Leo, that I’ve been elected assistant secretary of the Teachers’ Council? It is gratifying to know that the present regime appreciates qualities of leadership. I even gave a speech on the methodology of modern education at an inter-club meeting where Lydia played the ‘Internationale’ so beautifully.”
“Sure,” Lydia said mournfully, “the ‘Internationale.’ I’m working, too. Musical director and accompanist in a Workers’ Club. A pound of bread a week and carfare and, sometimes, money, what’s left after the contributions each month.”