them.
While Natasha was occupied with the unexpected delicacies, Svetlana stepped to the communal phone in the corridor to call the injured workers’ families, and then her friend Katerina to thank her for lending her the leather coat so that she could look elegant when meeting the Americans. She was relieved that the coat hadn’t been ruined in the attack.
Katerina gushed with questions. How did each of the Americans style her hair? Who wore the most elegant clothes? What did they say about the leather coat? Who had the most expensive shoes? Who was the most feminine?
“You should see their teeth,” Svetlana said.
“Their teeth?”
Svetlana giggled in spite of the pain in her jaw. Teeth were something people had, then, in time, lost. If they had money, they ordered a gold front tooth, so everyone would know they could afford it. “Like in the magazines, Katerina. They’re not made of plastic as we thought. They are real, and so white.”
“All their teeth?”
“At least their front ones. Brooke has the best teeth. Tops and bottoms. She’s also the bravest one.” Even if Svetlana could speak about the attack—which she certainly couldn’t over the phone—she would never admit how she had been too scared to go back into the factory. But Brooke had. And Jenny had hugged Svetlana, and the two of them had wept together, crossing themselves. “I’ve made a friend. Jenny Alfredo. She’s full of fire. And her clothes—so many colors—you’d love them.”
Katerina giggled. “What color shoes did she wear?”
“Striped shoes decorated with cherries.” Svetlana smiled into the phone. “She gave away pins that say, ‘Attitude Is Everything.’ I got you one, too.”
Zoya emerged from the kitchen, carrying her plates and pots. “In the Soviet days the government took care of its elderly citizens,” she muttered.
The narrow hall barely left space for the Baba Yaga to pass by Svetlana without scalding her with her pots. Svetlana flattened herself against the wall, sending her nemesis a warning look. “I must go,” she told Katerina and hung up. As soon as Zoya closed the door to her room, Svetlana rushed to the kitchen. As she had dreaded, the old woman had left her potato and carrot peels strewn about and not bothered to wipe up the spills of oil and dishwater on the floor.
“Clean up after yourself, witch,” Svetlana muttered, wishing she were bolder and could raise her voice. The newspapers reported people who, desperate for extra rooms, murdered their neighbors. Zoya, on a warpath for her own survival, was capable of anything. After school each day, Natasha was home alone for hours; none of her friends had enough space in their single, crowded room for a visiting playmate. Their mothers, too, worked late or spent hours on food lines.
Her hands shaking with frustration, Svetlana lit two out of the four burners on the stove; a third burner that hadn’t worked for years had been fixed by one of the neighbors, who now claimed it as exclusively his. She filled her pots with water that trickled from the rusted faucet, and placed them on to boil. While she scoured the chipped enamel sink, Natasha came in and wrapped her arms around Svetlana’s hips. Through misty eyes, Svetlanasmiled down at her. Natasha’s emerald eyes, so like her own, seemed huge in her thin face, and her skin looked sallow, almost translucent. The freckles across the bridge of her nose had darkened since the school kitchen had closed months ago; the meals on which Svetlana had always relied to feed her daughter were no longer being served.
“One day we’ll have our own kitchen,” Svetlana said. “And plenty of food.”
“When I grow up, I want to be just like Lyalya.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Oh, yes, I do.”
“You’ll study law. Russia needs lawyers now. It’s a good profession.”
“When I grow up, I’ll do what I want to do.” Natasha stamped her foot. “You’ve said that’s why we have demokratia.
While Natasha was occupied with the unexpected delicacies, Svetlana stepped to the communal phone in the corridor to call the injured workers’ families, and then her friend Katerina to thank her for lending her the leather coat so that she could look elegant when meeting the Americans. She was relieved that the coat hadn’t been ruined in the attack.
Katerina gushed with questions. How did each of the Americans style her hair? Who wore the most elegant clothes? What did they say about the leather coat? Who had the most expensive shoes? Who was the most feminine?
“You should see their teeth,” Svetlana said.
“Their teeth?”
Svetlana giggled in spite of the pain in her jaw. Teeth were something people had, then, in time, lost. If they had money, they ordered a gold front tooth, so everyone would know they could afford it. “Like in the magazines, Katerina. They’re not made of plastic as we thought. They are real, and so white.”
“All their teeth?”
“At least their front ones. Brooke has the best teeth. Tops and bottoms. She’s also the bravest one.” Even if Svetlana could speak about the attack—which she certainly couldn’t over the phone—she would never admit how she had been too scared to go back into the factory. But Brooke had. And Jenny had hugged Svetlana, and the two of them had wept together, crossing themselves. “I’ve made a friend. Jenny Alfredo. She’s full of fire. And her clothes—so many colors—you’d love them.”
Katerina giggled. “What color shoes did she wear?”
“Striped shoes decorated with cherries.” Svetlana smiled into the phone. “She gave away pins that say, ‘Attitude Is Everything.’ I got you one, too.”
Zoya emerged from the kitchen, carrying her plates and pots. “In the Soviet days the government took care of its elderly citizens,” she muttered.
The narrow hall barely left space for the Baba Yaga to pass by Svetlana without scalding her with her pots. Svetlana flattened herself against the wall, sending her nemesis a warning look. “I must go,” she told Katerina and hung up. As soon as Zoya closed the door to her room, Svetlana rushed to the kitchen. As she had dreaded, the old woman had left her potato and carrot peels strewn about and not bothered to wipe up the spills of oil and dishwater on the floor.
“Clean up after yourself, witch,” Svetlana muttered, wishing she were bolder and could raise her voice. The newspapers reported people who, desperate for extra rooms, murdered their neighbors. Zoya, on a warpath for her own survival, was capable of anything. After school each day, Natasha was home alone for hours; none of her friends had enough space in their single, crowded room for a visiting playmate. Their mothers, too, worked late or spent hours on food lines.
Her hands shaking with frustration, Svetlana lit two out of the four burners on the stove; a third burner that hadn’t worked for years had been fixed by one of the neighbors, who now claimed it as exclusively his. She filled her pots with water that trickled from the rusted faucet, and placed them on to boil. While she scoured the chipped enamel sink, Natasha came in and wrapped her arms around Svetlana’s hips. Through misty eyes, Svetlanasmiled down at her. Natasha’s emerald eyes, so like her own, seemed huge in her thin face, and her skin looked sallow, almost translucent. The freckles across the bridge of her nose had darkened since the school kitchen had closed months ago; the meals on which Svetlana had always relied to feed her daughter were no longer being served.
“One day we’ll have our own kitchen,” Svetlana said. “And plenty of food.”
“When I grow up, I want to be just like Lyalya.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Oh, yes, I do.”
“You’ll study law. Russia needs lawyers now. It’s a good profession.”
“When I grow up, I’ll do what I want to do.” Natasha stamped her foot. “You’ve said that’s why we have demokratia.
Similar Books
