When we returned to the apartment, Mrs. Zotov demanded to know where we had been. “I hope you have not made difficulties for us.”
In a bold voice I said, “We have been to NKVD headquarters and to the Kresti Prison.” I could not keep a little pride out of my voice.
She was horrified. “How could you do such a thing? It’s a wonder they did not keep you there. What were you thinking?” Her face was pale.
I pretended that going to those places was the most natural thing in the world. “Everyone was very nice,” I lied, “and we saw Mama.”
At that her face softened. “How is she, and what of your papa?”
I told her of the visit. “But we didn’t see Papa. Even Mama hasn’t seen him.” I didn’t tell her I planned on returning to the prison.
She was quiet, looking at us as if we were curious beetles to be examined for a moment and then stamped upon.
“You two will be nothing but trouble for us. Perhaps it would be best if you found another place to stay.”
I did not want to stay with the Zotovs, but if we left, we would never receive Mama’s letter letting us know where she was. I did not dare say that such a letter was coming, for I knew that Mrs. Zotov wanted nothing more to do with my parents. They would think a letter from Mama a very dangerous thing. I took Georgi’s hand and headed for the door. Halfway there I turned and said, “Mama said you could have everything in our apartment for keeping us. Of course, if you don’t keep us, we must sell everything to help us pay for somewhere to stay.”
Mrs. Zotov’s face took on a greedy look, as if someone had just handed her a box of chocolates.
“Where can two children stay?” she asked. “It would be very difficult for you to find such a place. It’s a great deal of responsibility for us, and cost as well, but I can’t find it in my heart to send you away. Only promise me that you will have nothing more to do with the NKVD or with prisons. You can do your parents no good, and you will do yourselves and us great harm.”
“I promise,” I said, though I had no intention of keeping the promise. After that Georgi and I helped carry all our possessions into the Zotovs’ apartment. The pots and pans were jumbled together with those of the Zotovs. The chair Papa settled into each night to read his books and the table Mama carefully polished each week were dragged into the Zotovs’ apartment and wedged into the vacant spaces. Our quilts were heaped onto the Zotovs’ bed. Our curtains took the place of the worn and ragged ones that had hung over the Zotovs’ windows. All I took for myself were my clothes and my paint set.
As we left the apartment, I longed to reach down for the books, which lay on the floor like wounded birds, their pages torn, their covers ripped. Mrs. Zotov stepped over them. “Let the books be,” she said. “I am sure they are dangerous. Just see how the police took them apart.”
But I could not leave all the books, and when Mrs. Zotov was not looking, I snatched up a few of the ones that Mama and Papa had read to us.
In the Zotovs’ apartment Georgi watched as Mrs. Zotov made up beds for me and for him in a space no larger than a closet. All our things were stuffed into a small chest.
“Where will Mama and Papa sleep when they come back from Siberia?” Georgi asked.
At that the greedy look that had been on Mrs. Zotov’s face all the while she was filling her apartment with our things was replaced by a look of true pity.
“It will be a long time before they return, Georgi,” she said. “You must not worry about such things. Come, have something to eat. There was some jam in your kitchen, and you shall have it spread thickly on a big piece of bread.”
There was a piece of bread for me as well, but the jam on mine was spread very thinly. I was sure Mrs. Zotov did not trust me, for she watched all that I did; certainly I did not trust her.
That evening when Mr. Zotov returned home with his bear cub, he looked about with pleasure at the new furnishings and with disapproval at the two of us sitting on the sofa. “Well, well,” he said, in what I was sure he meant to be a cheerful voice, “so our little guests are still here. You are most welcome.” Seeing the miserable expressions on our faces, he added, “Come, your mama and papa will be with you soon.”
Even Georgi did not believe him. “No they won’t,” he said. “Mrs. Zotov says they will be gone a long while.” But in no time at all Georgi was so taken up with Russ, reaching his hand into the cage where the bear was kept and petting the fat cub, that he said nothing more about Mama and Papa.
All through dinner Mr. Zotov was kind to us, hunting about in the borscht for the best bits of beet and potato to ladle into our bowls. Later, though, after he thought we were asleep, I peeked into the sitting room and saw him try out Papa’s chair, grinning with satisfaction at how comfortable it was.
In the morning Georgi and I set off for school. The moment Georgi was settled into his classroom, I vanished into the hallway and out the door. It took me a half hour of brisk walking to reach the Kresti Prison. I stood for many minutes at the entrance to the great gray building with its barred windows, trying to get up my courage. Let them arrest me, I thought. I wanted to go with Mama and Papa to wherever they were being sent. I did not let myself think of Georgi.
I marched up to the door and entered the prison, where the same soldier, his cap still on the back of his head, his tunic still unbelted, sat at the entrance, scribbling on a piece of paper. When he looked up and saw me, he shot out of his chair.
“You have no business here! We had a call from Comrade Yakir. He said under no circumstances are you to be allowed here.”
Taking a deep breath, I managed to get out, “I only want to see my mother for a moment.”
“You are too late. Your mother was shipped out to Siberia with a trainload of prisoners this morning.”
“But my papa. Where is he? Can I see him?”
The soldier’s face became hard as a plank of wood. “No” was all he said, but his way of saying it made me hold on to the desk to keep from sinking to the floor. I felt tears start up.
When he saw my tears, the soldier said in a kinder voice, “Your papa is alive. Now, quickly, get out of here and nothing will be said.” His voice hardened once again. “If you are not gone in sixty seconds, I’ll call Comrade Yakir, and you will find yourself in prison.” He reached for the phone.
I turned and fled.
I did not know where to go with my worry over Papa. I could not tell Mrs. Zotov, who would only scold me for going to the prison. Sleepwalking, I turned toward school. It was nearly noon when I warily opened the door to my classroom. At the sight of me, the whole class became quiet. Comrade Tikonov stared coldly at me.
“So, here is our little troublemaker. Here is the girl who would destroy the revolution and all the great work Comrade Stalin has done. You honor us with your presence rather late in the day. No doubt you have been lolling about in the palace having coffee with the tsar and his family—that is, if they have risen from their graves.” At this she gave a cruel laugh. “As you see, your desk is where you put it last week, and there it will stay. As long as you are in this room, I will see that no other pupil will have anything to do with you. It is people like you who are responsible for Comrade Kirov’s death.”
I ran from the school. Out on the street I buttoned my coat against the cold and pulled my cap down over my ears. I didn’t care about missing school. We had to spend hours learning the speeches of Comrade Stalin. All the books I loved most were forbidden. We studied only Russian scientists. It was Mama and Papa who read to us from the forbidden authors and taught us about the great scientists from other countries.
I wandered along the prospekt, past the Kazan Cathedral and the old Stroganov Palace, past the students selling their paintings, past the women sweeping up the snow. Someone called out, “Marya!”
There was Mr. Zotov with his cap pulled down over his ears and his coat collar turned up against the cold, stamping first one foot and then the other. Russ prowled about at the end of his leash, the wind ruffling his black fur.
“Why aren’t you in school?” Mr. Zotov asked.
In my misery I poured out the truth. “My teacher hates me and shames me in front of the other students, and anyhow, I don’t learn anything.” After making my sad little speech, I saw how foolish I had been. When Mr. Zotov told his wife, she would be more sure than ever that I was a troublemaker. Now that she had all our things, she might turn Georgi and me out onto the street. Anxiously I asked, “You won’t tell Mrs. Zotov?”
Mr. Zotov regarded me with narrowed eyes and a sly smile. “You are right to keep your little secret to yourself. I don’t believe my wife would want such a mischief-maker under our roof. I’ll tell you what: If you stand here and hold on to Russ while I warm myself in the café for a half hour, I’ll keep your secret.”
I had nothing better to do, and I was fond of the little cub. Mr. Zotov thrust the tin cup at me, first shaking out all but one of the coins into his hand.
“I’ve left a coin in the cup so that you can rattle it,” he said. “Don’t stir from this spot. The space belongs to me, and if you move, some pushy student will take it. To make the cub dance, you must pull at the leash like this.” He gave several harsh tugs at the leash, and the little bear lumbered this way and that. It was no dance but a desperate shuffle to escape from his tormentor.
As soon as Mr. Zotov was out of sight, I knelt beside Russ and whispered into his ear that I would not pull on his leash. I felt under his collar where the fur was matted and rubbed gently. I scratched behind his ears. Russ made little grunting sounds and swiped playfully at me with his front paws.
A toddler and his mother were watching me. The toddler asked, “Can I pet the bear?” He reached down and patted Russ gingerly on the top of the head and then hurried back to his mother. The mother smiled and dropped a few kopecks into the cup. Some people passed, taking no notice of Russ. A few looked angry, as if they knew the streets of Leningrad were no place for a bear.
A man came by who said he had once lived in Siberia. “The bears there are a thousand pounds,” he said, “and when they rear up, they are as big as a house.” He shook his head sadly. “To see a wild beast like that on a leash is a terrible thing.” He dropped some coins into the cup. “Promise me you will get him a nice fish for his dinner.” With one more regretful look at the bear he walked away.
The half hour stretched into an hour and then another. I hardly noticed the time passing or the cold breezes off the Moyki Canal. I could think only of Mama being sent away and not knowing what had become of Papa. I had to find them, but I did not know how to take the first step.
My nose was like a chip of ice. I couldn’t feel my toes. Only my hands were warm, for I kept burying them in Russ’s fur. At last a young man in the neighboring stall took pity on me. He had started a small fire in a little metal burner.
“You with the bear,” he said. “Warm yourself.”
Gratefully I held my hands and face near his fire.
“My name is Igor. What’s your name?” he asked.
“Marya.” I stole a look at him. He was thin, with high cheekbones and eyes that turned up at the corners. His long black hair hung about his shoulders. His black jacket was nearly green with age, and his fingers poked out of his gloves.
“That old man has left you to stand in the cold while he has his vodka in a warm café. Why don’t you let that poor beast go and take off?”
“My brother and I live with that man and his wife. Anyhow, what good would it do to let Russ go? He couldn’t get along by himself in the city, and someone would only steal him. They might even eat him.” Mrs. Zotov had poked Russ’s fat belly and announced he would make a nice stew.
I looked at the paintings Igor was trying to sell. They were cheerful pictures of neat wooden houses in a green and leafy countryside. Smiling peasants stood about grinning. The trees were full of apples and pears, and the fields were golden with grain. There were fat geese and woolly sheep. This reminded me of Mama’s description of the countryside around the Oaks, the country house where Mama had gone as a child.
“Your pictures are very pretty,” I said. But I was thinking of how my grandmother and her friends had been forced from their land.
“I hate the pictures,” Igor said. “The truth is, the peasants in the countryside who are not already dead are starving. These pictures are nothing but a lie.”
“Then why do you paint such pictures?” I tried to make my own pictures as honest as I could.
“I paint the pictures to sell them, of course. Who would want to hang a picture of starving peasants on his wall?”
“There are things to paint besides starving peasants,” I said.
“What do you know about painting?”
“I paint a little myself.” I gave a quick look to see if he was laughing at me, but he only looked surprised.
“What training have you had?”
“Only in school, but there I had to paint what I was told.”
Igor said, “It was the same with me. I was a student at the Leningrad Art Academy. Two years ago I was expelled from the school because I refused to paint happy workers.” He gave me a cynical smile. “Now I paint something just as impossible, happy peasants.”
For someone who was out of favor with the government, Igor was very careless. He said what he pleased.
When he learned Mama and Papa had been arrested after Kirov’s death, he said, “That is just like Stalin. He blames everyone else for what he has done himself.”
I looked hastily about to be sure no one had heard him. “What are you saying?” I whispered. “Stalin and Kirov were friends.”
“Nonsense. Kirov was Stalin’s competition for the head of the Communist Party. Now Stalin has gotten rid of Kirov, and he is using Kirov’s murder to round up anyone who supported Kirov.”
I stared openmouthed at Igor. Something about Igor’s courage made me confide in him. “They told me Mama has been exiled to Siberia, but they would not tell me where Papa is. Why should they not tell me?”
He gave me a pitying look. “What is your papa’s name?” he asked.
“Mikhail Sergeyevich Gnedich.” My voice shook a little as I spoke the name.
“I’ll see what I can find out,” he said. “I know people who have contacts in the prisons.” He began to pack up his paintings. “It will be too dark to sell pictures soon.” With that he was gone.
The early-afternoon sun began to disappear, so it was like twilight when Mr. Zotov returned. Roughly he snatched the cup from my hand and reached for Russ’s leash. He counted the coins.
“Not too bad, but you could have done better.”
“One coin is for a fish for Russ. A man gave it specially.”
“Waste a fish on that bear? Don’t be a fool. Marya, I’ll say nothing to my wife about your skipping school. This will be our little secret. Be here tomorrow morning and you can help me out again.”
I ran all the way to the school so I would be in time to pick up Georgi. He had a big smile, and a star was pasted on his forehead.
“I was the only one who could name five of Russia’s natural resources.” He began to call them off. “Lumber,” he said, “and gold and oil and…”
I saw that for a moment he had forgotten the terrible thing that had happened to us, and I envied him.
After I had washed and dried the dinner dishes, I got out my paints. There were no cheerful cottages with flowers for me to copy. I looked about the room. There was Russ snoozing with his muzzle between his paws. I sketched him and then took up my brush.
Mrs. Zotov watched me work. “You have that cub to the life,” she exclaimed. “We’ll hang your picture on the wall.”
Hastily I said, “It’s for school. It’s my homework for art class.”
Mr. Zotov gave me a sly look. He knew very well there would be no school and so no homework, but we had made a bargain. All he said was, “You could get a good sum for that paint set.”
The next day, clutching my little painting, I took Georgi to school and hurried on to the spot where Igor had been, anxious to hear if he had any word of Papa. Mr. Zotov was expecting me. At once he handed me Russ’s leash. “Don’t forget to rattle the cup,” he said, “and pull the bear’s leash to make him dance.” He hurried toward the warmth of the café.
A few minutes later the student appeared. I hesitated for a moment and then brought out my picture of Russ. He smiled. “Molodyets!” he said. “Well done! Put it with mine. No one will buy pictures from a child. If it sells, you will have the money.”
I was angry at being called a child, but I put my picture with his. Minutes later a man came by and studied first Russ and then the painting of the cub. “How much do you want for that?” he asked Igor.
“Two rubles,” Igor said.
I wanted to say that that was too much. The man would walk away. Instead the man offered half the amount. Back and forth they bargained. At last the man left with the picture. Igor handed me a hundred and fifty kopecks.
“I’m keeping twenty kopecks as my commission,” he said.
“You’re welcome to them,” I told him. “I would never have asked for so much.”
“Then you would have been a fool.”
“Have you found anything out about my papa?” I asked.
“Tell me his name again.”
“Mikhail Sergeyevich Gnedich, the same as yesterday.”
He nodded. “I just wanted to be sure. Since Kirov’s assassination they have no rules, no trials.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means they do as they please.” He paused. “From what I hear, your papa has been sentenced to hard labor and sent to a camp somewhere in Siberia where the prisoners mine coal.” When he saw my expression, he took me gently by the shoulders and, looking into my face, said, “It could be worse. There were twenty-five executions yesterday.”