The Nesting Dolls Read online

  “Spoiled brat,” Boris mumbled. “Doesn’t get his way, and it’s the whole system that’s to blame, not him. How do we even know the story he told was true? Maybe he didn’t study, failed his exams, and is using anti-Semitism as an excuse. It’s not as if there are no Jewish doctors in the USSR, so someone must get accepted. Maybe he just wasn’t good enough.”

  “Those people have connections. We don’t. I didn’t deserve a three, and neither did you.”

  “They can’t take everyone who applies. Only as many candidates as there are jobs planned. What would happen if everyone was allowed to study whatever they wanted? If everyone wanted to be a . . . an actor, for instance. There aren’t enough theaters or films. Or a writer. They can’t publish everyone. Sure, every city has its own newspaper, but they all run the same stories from Moscow, and we already have plenty of books. They graduate, and then what? Unemployment, like in the West. You can’t have one hundred percent employment if people are left to pick their own positions. Can you imagine what that kind of capitalist competition would lead to? If you don’t assign people jobs, how can you ensure that everybody has one?”

  A week ago, a day, heck, earlier that morning, Natasha would’ve parroted identical rhetoric. But that was when she’d believed her years of study, dedication, and good behavior would lead to being accepted at the university, garnering more academic excellence, rising to the top of her profession, getting showered with accolades, and dying in glory—as long as she followed the rules. Now that Natasha understood it had all been out of reach for her from the start, the idea of keeping her head down and doing what she was told suddenly seemed asinine. If she could see it—if she could, thanks to Dima, suddenly see beyond the borders they’d been raised with, why couldn’t Boris? He’d been right there. He’d heard what Dima said. They didn’t have to settle. “So you’re just going to keep believing and doing whatever they tell you?”

  “When you have a better idea . . .” Now it was Boris’s turn to make fun of Dima. He rocked from leg to leg and hiked his clenched fists to his waist, an ungainly bear stomping around without concern for what he destroyed, performing as apt a mockery of Dima as Dima had earlier of him. Boris patted Natasha’s shoulder condescendingly. “You come find me.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Having found Boris an unenthusiastic audience for her distress, Natasha shifted to her parents. And Boris’s. Their families had split a kommunalka since Natasha was four, becoming best friends out of necessity and proximity. Because the Rozengurts were there first, they claimed the main bedroom, and the tiny room off it. Boris’s room was filled with his bed. His clothes hung from hangers off a metal pipe overhead. Beneath it were makeshift bookshelves nailed into the wall. It was a palace compared to the living room, into which Natasha and her parents were crammed. All six of them shared the kitchen and sole bathroom.

  “About the Jewish problems?” Natasha grilled. “Did you know about them?”

  Natasha’s parents exchanged looks. Boris’s parents exchanged looks. Even Boris looked guiltily down at the floor. Realizing he’d known all along, Natasha demanded, “Why didn’t any of you warn me? And why did you claim they were a myth, earlier?”

  “I didn’t want to discourage you from reapplying next year,” Boris said. “Some Jews are allowed to pass eventually.”

  “We wanted you to study hard,” her mother said.

  “Even though it didn’t matter? My grade was decided before I went in.”

  “No,” her father insisted. “If you had done horribly on all the problems, you would have failed unequivocally.”

  “Not everyone fails,” Boris’s mother echoed her son. “We wanted to give you both the best chance. We didn’t want you approaching your studies already defeated. If you thought there was no hope, why would you try?”

  “An excellent question,” Natasha said, stomping off into their room and slamming the door behind her.

  Mama let Natasha stew for exactly an hour. She couldn’t let it go more than that because there were items in their room she needed. Mama ordered Natasha to hand over the documents testifying to her grade. She told Natasha to wash her hands, put on an apron, and start dinner: they were having Olivier salad. There were potatoes cooking on the stove. Natasha could cool them; peel them; slice them; mix them in with the eggs her mother had hard-boiled earlier; add some canned peas, pickles, and onions; and set the whole thing in sour cream. Mama would be back by the time it was ready.

  Meanwhile, Mama had roused Natasha’s father to review the list of men he’d served with. She was unafraid to use Papa’s lost eye to guilt men who’d gotten through unscathed. Mama then had him go through the list of men he drank with. Between the two groups—there was overlap—they came up with three solid prospects who, after Natasha’s parents explained the situation, were able to use their assorted influence to get Natasha a spot in college.

  “A teachers’ college?” Natasha all but spat. Her parents had waited until supper before springing the news on her. They thought she might be happier over a small plate of cookies they’d set out to “celebrate” the occasion.

  “Mathematics,” Papa said, handing Natasha a cookie to keep her from crushing the teacup she was holding. “You will be teaching mathematics.”

  “But I don’t want to be a teacher.”

  “You would rather work in a factory?” Mama removed the cup and cookie from Natasha’s hands. If her daughter wasn’t going to be pleasant, she wouldn’t eat. Stalin had taught them that. “Or maybe a butcher shop, sweeping bloodied scraps? I know! You would prefer to wash public toilets rather than take advantage of this opportunity Papa and I slaved to provide you.”

  “You brought a bottle of vodka to one of his friends.”

  “Three bottles of vodka,” her father corrected. “You did not come cheap, my kitten.”

  September 1. First-time first graders hurried down the streets bearing bouquets of flowers—the boys in brown slacks and crisply ironed white shirts, the girls in brown dresses covered with white aprons decorated in as much lace as their grandmothers could beg and bargain, the ribbons in their hair dwarfing the size of their heads.

  The same day, Natasha began her own first year of teachers’ college.

  Two weeks later, she was pulled out of school so its students could be shipped out to the countryside for their patriotic kolkhoz duty. For one month, they would be helping harvest corn alongside the glorious workers.

  When Natasha asked Mama why they didn’t hire locals to help until the season was over, her mother said dismissively, “No locals want to—they get paid so little. Students are free labor.”

  No one cared that Natasha disliked the outside, prone as she was to sunburn in summer, frostbite in winter, and allergies in spring and fall. She expected Boris would be equally reluctant. His idea of a good time was to stay indoors and read, or for other people to play soccer outdoors while he cheered from the safer side of the radio. Yet Boris acted happy to be going.

  That, Natasha ventured, was because Boris didn’t need to worry about a menstrual period hitting him, with no place to buy the cotton balls and gauze necessary to roll sanitary napkins. Natasha was forced to bring her own, and to find a place to hide her indecent supplies among the clothes she was bringing, which included workpants, shirts, shoes, and hats, as well as one pretty sundress. Because a girl never knew whom she might run into.

  The kolkhoz sent a fleet of open-backed trucks to drive them to Krasnoznamensk. There were more than one hundred students gathered at the meeting spot. Natasha looked through them. She always looked through crowds now. Though she wasn’t admitting to herself what—or whom—she was looking for. Boris was so used to her ritual that he waited, hands on his hips, for Natasha to complete her overview, followed by the sigh of disappointment she could not quite suppress.

  “Done?” Boris asked. “Can we get on now?”

  He gestured toward the truck back, indicating Natasha should climb in first and he’d follow. Bu
t instead of hefting herself into the spot he’d picked, Natasha walked away, wandering between the available vehicles parked on the street and the gaggle of exuberant youth who were throwing their duffels onto the truck backs, positioning the bags as seats, jostling for position, and waving goodbye to anxious parents. Natasha spied an empty space next to a boy with hair so light, it might have been white, already unwrapping the butter-and-sausage sandwich his mother had packed for him. He took a huge bite, ripping the bread with his teeth. Crumbs flew every which way, and pink bologna flapped like a bird’s tongue.

  He caught sight of Natasha, swallowed, then grinned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why wait to enjoy yourself, right?”

  “Right,” Natasha affirmed the new life philosophy she hadn’t been aware of until right this minute, and sat down next to him, leaving no room for Boris.

  Chapter 21

  Three trucks in their nine-truck convoy broke down. The two-hour ride to Krasnoznamensk ended up taking five hours. A personal best, their teachers assured. Soviet technological expertise was progressing in leaps and bounds, wasn’t it, boys and girls? Furthermore, the waits while their drivers fiddled with engines and traded spare parts in the spirit of Communism gave them a chance to appreciate the roads laid, the electrical lines strung, and the pipes run, thanks to the local soviet, bringing modern conveniences to formerly oppressed serfs. Wasn’t it lucky the pipes and wires stopped before reaching the town, so they could see the work in progress? And the cracks and pits in the road? Did they notice the cracks and pits? Proof how desperately this road was needed, as evidenced by the traffic it received! People came miles out of their way, in cars, on carts, even on horseback, to use this road. Their own villages had yet to be so blessed. Did they realize how lucky they were to be seeing such beneficence in action?

  Luck was again invoked when they arrived at their destination—parched, their eyes, ears, mouths, noses, and hair full of dust—and saw the lean-tos in which they’d be sleeping. Wooden barracks, with bunk beds, three to a wall. Natasha heard Mama asking, “For this I left Siberia?” At least these barracks had mattresses, sheets, even pillows stuffed with protruding chicken feathers. Did they realize that other kolkhozniki had no more than canvas tents to sleep in? Tents they had to pitch into the hard ground themselves? This group was so lucky! They must know some powerful people!

  At least here came the food. Fresh chicken not trucked for days. Milk straight from the cow, still warm and foamy. Carrots not cut into the shape of metal cans, and potatoes and onions without rotten brown spots or budding eyes that made a spud look like a matron with pin curlers. Suddenly, Natasha could see the attraction of kolkhoz service. Even if they had to work for it. Especially once she realized the work wasn’t that bad. They weren’t picking the corn. That was done by men with machines who shook their heads when they looked at the soft city dwellers imported to help them. The students were merely sorting corn into burlap sacks. And nobody cared how fast—or how well—they did it. By the second week, there was more gossiping and flirting than farming. The boys tossed ears of corn back and forth, ganging up to pelt the day’s arbitrarily chosen victim. The girls egged them on, taking breaks to run behind the lean-tos and apply lipstick, or the latest mascara, spread with a tiny brush, which solidified so quickly into a gelatinous lump that you had to spit in it before every application.

  “Enough,” announced Natasha’s sandwich-chomping seatmate halfway through their tour. Seryozha flung down the ear he’d been holding and smashed it with his heel until kernels popped like a sunburst. “Let’s go.”

  “Where?” Natasha asked.

  “The village. Have some fun.”

  “What kind of fun do you expect to find?” Boris continued sliding stalks into their sacks.

  “The kind that doesn’t involve corn.” Seryozha bopped Boris on his sweaty black curls, though without enthusiasm. Ever since he’d grasped Boris’s unflappable nature, the fun had gone out of teasing this target. There were plenty of better sports willing to get indignant and demand a fistfight. Boris somehow managed to keep his dignity, even while being provoked.

  “We’re not supposed to leave until after dinner,” Boris reminded.

  “Do you always do what you’re supposed to?” Seryozha sang in a schoolmarmish voice that made Natasha wince, even as she admitted that her childhood friend attracted such queries at above-average rates.

  “Yes,” Boris replied, as if it had been a legitimate question.

  “I’ll go with you!” Natasha piped up, only partially to draw attention from Boris. From the moment she’d ditched him and climbed into Seryozha’s truck, Natasha had steeled herself to be the kind of girl who did these kinds of things. While in the country, she planned to go along with whatever was suggested, even—especially—if her instinct was to reject it out of caution. If no one else was going to follow the rules, Natasha didn’t see why she should. What had that ever gotten her? Taking chances would make her a more interesting person. She’d steeled herself to believe that, too. And if it backfired, well, then at least Boris would be the only one who knew. Natasha expected Boris to forgive her anything. And to keep her secrets.

  “Me! I’ll go!” A dozen others chimed in, making Natasha feel like she was finally the trendsetter she’d always intended to be, instead of just another follower, the way she feared she was. Even if the sensible side of her remained aware she was courting danger in the safest way possible.

  Seryozha sneaked a token look around, though most of their supervisors had already taken off for the afternoon. The one who hadn’t was asleep under a tree. Seryozha grinned and gestured with his arm for everyone to follow. About half the group did, Natasha among them. She even sped up her pace and elbowed her way to the front.

  Of course, once she got there, she had no idea where they were going. And, once they’d been walking for over a half hour, Natasha realized there was nowhere for them to go. They’d left the fields behind, but it was tough to tell where farmland stopped and village began. Ramshackle houses popped up, along with cows grazing in pastures, chickens fenced in by wires, rabbit hutches, and small plots of vegetables. Women in dresses so faded it was impossible to tell what the original pattern or color had been, kerchiefs on their heads tied behind their necks, trudged from place to place, some carrying buckets of milk, others tubs of steaming water brimming with laundry. Their towheaded children ran underfoot, boys and girls wearing nothing but underpants.

  Natasha asked Seryozha, “Where are we going?”

  “Don’t worry”—he winked—“I know a guy.”

  The guy in question turned out to be one of their absent field supervisors.

  “We pretend to work; they pretend to pay us!” the supervisor pronounced, leading the group down a steep flight of rickety stairs into pitch darkness beneath the house he shared with his parents.

  Natasha heard the strike of a match. A kerosene lamp illuminated the tiny room. Besides the burlap sacks scattered in lieu of furniture, hay protruding through ripped seams, the only other object was a haphazard monstrosity of three wooden buckets, rusty pipes running through each, and smelling so strongly Natasha was amazed it hadn’t blown up the second a match was lit.

  “Samogon!” came a triumphant cry. “Still!” Natasha watched as rubles changed hands and her companions charged forward, despite the lack of cups, dipping their hands right into the pervach.

  “What’s the matter, afraid of germs?” Seryozha teased, noticing Natasha hanging back.

  Natasha wasn’t germaphobic. She had no problem stopping by a public drinking kiosk, throwing in one kopeika for a cup of seltzer water or, feeling flush, a three-kopeika coin to add a splash of syrup. There was one glass for everybody (chained to keep from being stolen). Natasha didn’t hesitate to drink from it. Besides, thanks to family lore, she knew that pervach was the initial step of the distillation process, so strong it would kill even the germs of a dozen youth sticking their grubby hands in it.

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bsp; Except Papa had regaled Natasha with stories of how, during the war, his unit had stumbled on a peasant with a still. In spite of the 100 grams of vodka rationed per Soviet soldier per day (“How do you think we kept warm at the front while Germans froze?”), the soldiers fell on the still, sucking up every drop, despite the peasant’s warning. They assumed he was hoarding and shot him. Except the alcohol had been mixed with methanol. A third of the unit died from poisoning. Another half was blinded. Natasha’s father escaped. Having been young—too young to join up, but no one was checking passports when the fate of the Motherland was at stake—he didn’t drink much. Then. Since that day, Papa stayed away from moonshine. If he wanted to get drunk, he either drank at home or, when Mama chased him out, scraped up two compatriots to share a three-ruble bottle of vodka in an alley, using a matchstick to make certain not a drop remained. Papa was a good drunk, a happy drunk. He never hit either Natasha or Mama. He simply started speaking too loudly. Which terrified Natasha’s mother. She couldn’t predict what he might say. Or who was going to hear it. She’d wait an hour or so. If Papa fell asleep, she’d drag him to bed, cover him with a blanket, and consider it another crisis averted. But if he went on and on, growing louder and louder, moving from talking about how much he loved her and Natasha and the entire human race that he’d saved from fascism, and started ranting about the government and how they treated veterans and what they’d promised (“Housing, they promised! For those who served! As a reward! Where is it, I ask you? Where’s the housing they promised us?”), then Mama would shove him out the door to get lost in the throng of drunks weaving through the streets and into random courtyards. If they were making too much noise, a housewife might fling open her curtains and threaten to douse them with boiling water. The dvorniki shooed them away perfunctorily, out of respect for their service. “Go home, Uncle, sleep it off.” It was too dark to tell one drunk from another. Mama gambled that if Papa did utter treasonous sentiments, eavesdroppers wouldn’t know whom to report.