Tatiana and Alexander

“Never liked her,” put in Jane, sipping her vodka. “I think she is sick in the hospital. She was old, Alexander.”

“Mom, two young men in suits are living in her room. Are they going to share that room with Tamara when she returns from the hospital?”

“I know nothing about that,” said Jane firmly, and just as firmly poured herself another drink.

“The Italians have left. Mom, did you know the Italians have left?”

“Who?” said Harold loudly. “Who is disappearing? The Frascas have not disappeared. They are on vacation.”

“Dad, it’s winter. Vacation where?”

“The Crimea. In some resort near Krasnodar. Dzhugba, I think. They’re coming back in two months.”

“Oh? What about the van Dorens? Where have they gone? Also the Crimea? Someone new is living in their room, too. A Russian family. I thought this was a floor only for foreigners?”

“They moved to a different building in Moscow,” said Harold, picking at his food. “The Obkom is just trying to integrate the foreigners into Soviet society.”

Alexander put down his fork. “Did you say moved? Moved where? Because Nikita is sleeping in our bathroom.”

“Who is Nikita?”

“Dad, you haven’t noticed that there is a man in the bathtub?”

“What man?”

“Nikita.”

“Oh. How long has he been there?”

Alexander exchanged a blank look with his mother. “Three months.”

“He’s been in the bathtub for three months? Why?”

“Because there is not a single room for him to rent in all of Moscow. He came here from Novosibirsk.”

“Never seen him,” Harold said in a voice that implied that since he had never seen Nikita, Nikita must not exist. “What does he do when I want to have a bath?”

Jane said, “Oh, he leaves for a half-hour. I give him a shot of vodka. He goes for a walk.”

“Mom,” said Alexander, eating cheerfully, “his wife is coming to join him in March. He begged me to talk to everybody on the floor to ask if we could have our baths earlier in the evening, to let them have a bit of—”

“All right, you two, you’re having me on,” said Harold.

Alexander and his mother exchanged a look, and then Alexander said, “Dad, go check it out. And when you come back, you tell me where the van Dorens could have moved to in Moscow.”

When Harold came back, he shrugged and said, “That man is a hobo. He is no good.”

“That man,” said Alexander, looking at his mother’s vodka glass, “is the head engineer for the Baltic fleet.”

A month later, in February 1935, Alexander came home from school and heard his mother and father fighting—again. He heard his name shouted out once, twice.

His mother was upset for Alexander. But he was fine. He spoke Russian fluently. He sang and drank beer and played hockey on the ice in Gorky Park with his friends. He was all right. Why was she upset? He wanted to go in and tell her he was fine, but he never liked to interrupt his parents’ fights.

Suddenly he heard something being thrown, and then someone being hit. He ran into his parents’ room and saw his mother on the floor, her cheek red, his father bending over her. Alexander ran to his father and shoved him in the back. “What are you doing, Dad?” he yelled. He kneeled down next to his mother.

She half sat up and glared at Harold. “Fine thing you’re showing your son,” she said. “You brought him to the Soviet Union for this, to show him how to treat a woman? His wife, perhaps?”

“Shut up,” said Harold, clenching his fists.

“Dad!” Alexander jumped to his feet. “Stop!”

“Your father has abandoned us, Alexander.”

“I’m not abandoning you!”

Squaring off, Alexander pushed his father in the chest.

Harold shoved Alexander and then hit him open-handed across the face. Jane gasped. Alexander swayed but did not fall. Harold went to strike him again, but this time Alexander moved away. Jane grabbed Harold’s legs, yanked, and sent him down on his back. “Don’t you dare touch him!” she yelled.

Harold was on the floor, Jane, too; only Alexander was standing. They couldn’t look at one another; everyone was panting. Alexander wiped his bleeding lip.

“Harold,” Jane said, still on her knees. “Look at us! We’re being destroyed by this fucking country.” She was crying. “Let’s go home, let’s start over.”

“Are you crazy?” hissed Harold, looking from Alexander to Jane. “Do you even know what you’re saying?”

“I do.”

“Have you forgotten that we gave up our U.S. citizenship? Have you forgotten that at the moment you and I are citizens of no country; that we’re waiting for our Soviet citizenship to come through? You think America is going to want us back? Why, they practically kicked us out. And how do you think the Soviet authorities are going to feel once they find out we’re turning our backs on them, too?”

“I don’t care what the Soviet authorities think.”

“God, you are so naïve!”

“Is that what I am? What does that make you? Did you know it was going to be like this and brought us here anyway? Brought your son here?”

He stared at her with disappointment. “We didn’t come for the good life. The good life we could have had in America.”

“You’re right. And we had it. We’ll make do with what we have here, but Harold, Alexander is not meant to be here. At least send him back home.”

“What?” Harold could not find his voice to say it above a whisper.

“Yes.” She was helped off the floor by Alexander as she stood in front of Harold. “He is fifteen. Send him back home!”

“Mom!” said Alexander.

“Don’t let him die in this country—can’t you see? Alexander sees it. I see it. Why can’t you?”

“Alexander doesn’t see it. Do you, son?”