Stalina Read Free

for you. Go now—study hard and be a good young Communist.”
    I sat down at my desk, still in a state of shock, looking around at my classmates to see if they noticed how I’d changed. No one could know the fire in my heart. Olga was busy fixing the ribbon in Amalia’s hair, and Yuri, the class comedian, was performing his version of Swan Lake when our teacher, Mrs. Tolga, scolded him mid pirouette and sent him to sit in the back even though we all could see he made her laugh along with the rest of us.
    The class settled, and all was quiet except for the crack of our opening notebooks. The lesson on the board in bold block letters read: W RITE A P OEM ABOUT H OW C OMMUNISM H ELPS O NE AND A LL .
    I could only keep thinking, “Stalin spoke to me—he spoke to me.”
    “Take me, I’m yours,” I whispered and scribbled over and over in my notebook. On another page I drew a copy of the poster, this time including myself at Stalin’s side, our collective gaze seeing past the streets and buildings of Leningrad to the fields and factories soon to be nourished with our country’s newfound power and wealth. My love was so new, and myself and my country so terribly naïve.
    *  *  *
     
    Now, almost fifty years later, I looked above the billboard advertisement for imported coffee and watched as the clouds moved toward Finland. The next day I would be in a plane passing through similar clouds on my way to America.
    As I continued home, I made up a song with the directions Amalia had sent me to her home in Connecticut, USA. I sang them with a boogie-woogie beat and swayed my hips inside my long wool coat.
    St. Petersburg to Moscow-ca-ca-COW!
    Moscow, Kennedy, Port Authori-TAY!
    Bus to Hartford, three hours’ ride,
    45 Star Lane, the taxi will drive!
    As I walked through the streets, the buildings loomed, and I imagined their dismay regarding my departure.
    The doorways, windows, and back alleys whispered behind my back, “How dare you leave us after all we’ve been through.”
    I answered, “You can’t hold me anymore. There is nothing for me here. America wants me.”
    I touched the sides of the buildings and felt every crack and bump in the sidewalks and cobbled streets. This brokenhearted city would have to survive without me. It would be best for both of us. I tried to explain.
    “I do love you, but it’s not practical for us to be together.”
    “That’s a lame excuse, Stalina,” the sewer gate sputtered up at me.
    I stomped my foot on the grating and said, “Leave me be. You know nothing!”
    I turned a corner onto St. Isaac’s Square. The sun reflected off the cathedral’s golden dome. It was a beautiful sight to behold. I unbuttoned my coat to let the sun warm my chest. The angels surrounding the dome held torches that would be lit again for the first time in forty years that Easter. Silenced for so long, they took this opportunity to speak their minds.
    “Sweet Stalina, don’t leave us,” they sang down to St. Isaac’s Square.
    “I love you, but don’t cross me now. Everything has changed. I can’t stay,” I tried to explain again.
    “Dirty Jew!” one of the angels screamed.
    “Who speaks like a Cossack?” I wanted to know.
    “Jew. Jew. Jew. Always a Jew!” they kept chanting.
    I pulled my fur hat down over my ears and made my way home, where my bag was already packed.



Chapter Three: Stamped in Red
     
    Amalia had written to me, “Bring something to remember home. Bring something to sell, and wear as much clothing as possible on the plane. You want to have space in your bag for anything to be used for commerce, to sell or barter. It is part of survival in America. Fly to Moscow from Petersburg. The flight from Moscow to US will cost less, even with the connection.”
    At the airport outside Petersburg the next day, the customs officer found my packing job quite amusing, commenting, “Looks like you need an engineer’s degree to pack a bag like this.”
    “My degree is in chemistry.