Sept. 1940 — Boom. Fourteen years later, and I enter the kitchen holding a rolled-up newspaper just as a fly buzzes past my face and lands on the breakfast table. I swat at the fly but miss.
“I rarely used to miss killing flies,” I say, “but it seems all of a sudden that I’m missing a lot.”
“Maybe it isn’t just you,” Ita says as she pours me a cup of tea.
I’m now forty years old, Ita’s thirty-six, and, well, we’re both getting older. Our clothes are tighter, we show some gray hair, and we both need glasses to read. Ita places the kettle on the stove and yells down the hallway, “Rivka! Ira! Get up. You’ll be late for school.”
But it isn’t just us who are changing or our children that are aging. The rumblings from Russia, the relentless push in every direction by the schmuck from Georgia, have been getting closer day by day. All attempts at turning a blind eye or denial are officially futile. Today the whole world is… unfolding. I unroll the newspaper like I do every morning, place my glasses on my nose, and take a sip of tea.
My eyes grow wide, and even though it’s been coming for a long time, now, in black and white, it’s official. I nearly spit out my tea. “Did you see this?”
Overnight, the format—everything about the newspaper—has changed.
“See what?” Ita says.
“It’s different. I feel like suddenly I’m living in a different city. A different country.”
“What’s different?”
“The paper. Format, design... everything. Now it’s called The Truth.”
“Isn’t news supposed to be the truth?”
“Listen to this: ‘The Soviet Union has liberated Bessarabia from Romania.’”
I stop and try to recall my history. “According to my papa, we were part of Russia since… 1812, when the Turks ceded us to Russia. Then we formed a union with Romania in 1918 during the chaos of the Russian Revolution.”
“The way I heard it,” Ita says, “is in a secret agreement that year signed along the Treaty of Buftea, the German Empire allowed Romania to annex Bessarabia in exchange for passage of German troops toward Ukraine.”
“Russia saw it as an illegal occupation. And now it’s officially over,” I say.
“Now we’re denizens of the Soviet Union,” Ita says.
“Everything now belongs to everybody. Everybody is equal,” I say.
“Really?” Ita shakes her head.
Rivka rushes into the kitchen. Already thirteen years old, she’s becoming a woman in every way, and while she’s tiny—barely 150 centimeters tall—she fills the room with joy. Pushing back dark, wavy hair that falls around her beautiful face to her shoulders, she spots the fly buzzing around my head.
“Good morning, Rivka,” Ita says.
She held up her finger, takes the newspaper from me, rolls it up, and expertly smashes the fly just as it lands on the table.
“Good shot!” I say.
She smiles as she sweeps it into a dustpan, dumps it into the trash can, and hands the paper back to Ita. “Good morning,” she says as she grabs a bread roll and takes a huge bite.
I look over my glasses and grin as she swallows the roll in two big chunks and chases it down with a glass of grape juice.
“Take it easy, Rivka; you’ll choke,” I say.
“I’m late!” she says.
“You’re young. You have all the time in the world” I say.
“I don’t know,” Rivka says. “Maybe I’m trying to do too much. What with painting, choir, and debate and all my other subjects. And boys. And… everything! My life is so hectic. It’s hard to keep up.”
“Just try to enjoy it,” Ita says.
“You’re very lucky,” I say.
“Lucky? Ugh. I don’t get to spend enough time painting! Then sometimes I’m not sure if I’m any good. Am I wasting my time?” Rivka asks.
“No. I love your latest painting,” I say.
“Sometimes I think people just say that to be nice,” Rivka says.
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
“You are very talented. Better than I was at your age,” Ita says.
“Maybe someday I can live your dream, mama,” Rivka says.
“Yeah,” Ita says.
“Really. I want to move to Paris and become an artist,” Rivka says.
“Wouldn’t that be fabulous?” Ita asks.
“Don’t ever stop dreaming,” I say.
Rivka wipes her mouth, leans over, and kisses me on the cheek. “Thanks, papa.” She hugs Ita. “I have to hurry, or I’ll be late for choir practice.”
Collecting the picture, she gingerly puts it into her portfolio and hurries out the door.
“Love you,” I say.
“Be brilliant,” Ita says.
I shift my attention back to the newspaper and shake my head as I read another article. “People are dancing in the street.”
“They love Stalin,” Ita says.
“Well, you have to hand it to him, he keeps prices stable. He keeps the railroads clean and running on time. They claim he will protect us from foreign invasion,” I say.
“Under communism, everybody knows what to do,” Ita says.
“It sounds good,” I say.
“In theory.”
“So, everybody’s equal, right? How’s that going to work for Rivka? If she wants to be an artist, well, not everybody is equally talented as a painter or in any art form. Will she still be allowed to pursue it?” I ask.
“It’s hard to say.”
“The same is true in any line of work,” I say.
“It sounds to me like the communists want to take from the rich and give to people who don’t want to work.”
“What’s going to happen to our business? This apartment building? What about my parents’ house?”
“I don’t know,” Ita says.
“And what’s scary is… I’ve heard rumors brought on the tail of a magpie… that Michael Egorov has disappeared,” I say.
“Disappeared? What do you mean?” Ita asks.
“He’s gone. Along with his whole family.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
Ita is clearly rattled. “Did they move?”
“All of their belongings are still there, just no Egorovs,” I say.
“People don’t just disappear.”
“I know.” I gulp down the rest of my tea. I look at an empty spot at the table. “Where’s Ira?”
Ita yells down the hall, “Ira, get up! You’ll be late for school.”
“Rivka’s running her tail off and we can’t get Ira out of bed,” I say.
“He’s ten years old,” Ita says.
“That’s no excuse.”
“Our kids have such a tough life.”