Stalina (6 page)

Life was so different at the Liberty Motel. I’ll now take a moment to describe the décor of my room designs. With these “Rooms for the Imaginative” I hoped to bring happiness to our small part of the world here in Berlin, Connecticut, a little bit of green (and yes, concrete), easy to get to from all the converging highways that feed into the city of Hartford. Berlin was like a young sibling in a struggling family—the town waited for the castoffs from big brother Hartford. Everything in the town from the road signs to the picket fences around the tiny front yards looked tired and worn.

Upon entering room number one, you encountered a bed on a raised platform with a six-sided gazebo built around it. I called it the “bed-zebo.” It had green ivy around the posts at the sides of the platform and thin strips of clear plastic attached to each of the six sides. With the air moving from the ceiling fan, the Mylar fluttered and gave the feeling of rain falling. Getting trapped in a gazebo during bad weather is very stimulating. Movies and novels are filled with such moments. Who wouldn’t want it? I decorated the roof of the bed with wood shingles, but it was what you saw upon looking up from the bed that made this a very popular room. There were six triangular mirrors fitted into the top turrets in the roof. The reflections broke into six different views from anywhere in the bed. Even though I had only been in the bed alone, I still found the angles and broken views quite stimulating. The sides of the bed and the platform were covered with green plastic grass. It was the same stuff like the mat outside Rosalinda’s fortune-telling salon. I put up a wallpaper trim that shows a woman in Victorian dress entering a gazebo. After the trim was in place, the room was complete. Total cost, sixty-three dollars and fifty-three cents.

There was a couple leaving the room. They were regulars, but this was their first-time experience with the new room. Perhaps they would comment. She was very skinny and wobbled in her high heels walking to his car on the gravel driveway. He wore a fedora and worsted pants, and he always wrote a different name on the card when he registered. Today he was “Ulysses S. Grant.” I thought he was a local politician. I was sure I’d seen his picture in the paper, but it was hard to tell with the fedora in the way.

“Interesting room,” he said without looking at me.

“Thank you, it’s my own design,” I responded proudly.

His hand shook slightly as he pushed the key through the half-moon opening in the bulletproof office window. The woman, standing by the car, wrapped her sequined sweater tightly around her small frame, impatient in the cold. He unlocked his side first, got in, and opened her door. In the car, they sat without looking at each other as the motor started. As they pulled away, she smiled and gave me a thumbs-up.

There was another couple waiting in a car. No time to waste basking in my glory, I say. I needed to get Mara to clean the room. She was always sleeping in the linen room. Luckily the intercom was very loud.

“Mara! Room one is done! Hurry, we have a couple waiting!”

No answer.

“
Mara!
”

“I heard you the first time…chill out.”

“Don’t let Svetlana out. There are a lot of cars coming and going.”

“She’s asleep on the towels.”

I named the cat Svetlana for Stalin’s daughter, for whom I also felt great pity. One day the weak, abandoned kitten walked up the driveway and stood in front of the office, and I practically tripped over her when I was leaving. Now the cat was healthy, but she had a bad habit of running across the drive to play with pinecones under the trees. I was afraid she would get run over. Mara always let her out of the linen room when her hands were full with the vacuum and bucket of cleaning supplies.

“Mara—”

“I’m just fixing my hair.”

“I forgot to tell you I replaced the vacuum bag.”

“How dare you touch my vacuum.”

“I made a mess finishing the Gazebo Room. I cleaned up after myself.”

“Just kidding, thanks. I’ll be out in a minute.”

The intercom button got stuck, and I heard Mara say, “Hey, Svetlana, now that she’s a big fancy designer I’m surprised she didn’t ask me to clean up her mess. Come here, kitty, help me push open the door, my hands are full.”

There went Svetlana, right under the pine trees; she was obsessed with those pinecones. At least right now the driveway was quiet. The couple waiting in the car looked anxious. I signaled them to come over.

“How was the room?” I asked Mara.

“The usual—ripped pantyhose, half-drunk bottle of wine, two-dollar tip. They left this.”

She handed me a small, thin, square red box.

“What is it?”

“Didn’t open it. I was passing by the Roller Coaster Room. The couple in there left the curtain open a crack, and I saw the guy naked standing on top of the bed.”

“I’ll put it here behind the desk. The customer may come back to claim it. You looked into the room?”

“I couldn’t help it. Just as I was walking by, he had his hands in the air like he was on a real roller coaster. Pretty funny.” She laughed.

“The fantasy works well. I’ve already sent the other couple to the Gazebo Room.”

“I saw them; they look young.”

“It could be their first time.”

“I’m going back to the linen room,” she said, still half asleep.

“Take Svetlana with you.”

“Number two is finished in a half hour.”

“Buzz me when you need me.”

“I think the intercom is stuck.”

“I’ll check it,” I said.

It was a good thing Mara liked to hang out in the linen room; the office was small, and I preferred to be left alone to study my magazines for room design ideas. I had been looking at travel journals for ideas about a room with a Caribbean theme. I’d call it “Sunset over the Caribbean.” There were never pictures of Cuba in these American travel journals even though some of the most beautiful beaches could be found there.

WHUMMMP!

Sounded like something crashed in room two. Svetlana heard it and stopped playing with her precious pinecone. I got Mara on the intercom.

Buzzzz…buzzz…buzzzz…

“
Mara
, did you hear that?”

“Whaaa?”

“It came from room two.”

“Let it be, Stalina.”

“Sounds as if the television fell off the shelf.”

Ring! Ring!

“It’s the house phone, Mara.”

“Answer it,” she said.

“Front desk,” I said into the phone.

A high-pitched, excited woman’s voice said, “This is room two, the damn Roller Coaster Room. Harry’s fallen off your fancy-schmancy bed and hit his head. He’s out cold.”

“Would you like me to call an ambulance?”

“Are you crazy? No hospitals, no doctors!”

“What would you like me to do?”

“I need some ice to put on the giant egg on his head.”

“The ice maker is next to the laundry room. I cannot leave the front desk. I’ll have the maid bring you some,” I told her.

“We can’t go anywhere till Harry wakes up.”

“You have a half hour left on the clock.”

Her voice deepened into a gravelly smoker’s rasp. “He’s out cold. It’s going to be a while.”

“I’ll add another hour to your stay.”

“Shit, Harry, wake up. OK, what time is it?”

“Three forty-five.”

“Harry, what did you do to me?”

“You have until quarter to five. I’ll call you at—” I tried to finish, but from the other end all I heard was
click.

I went back to the intercom.

“Mara, are you there?”

“What happened?”

“The gentleman in room two fell off the bed.”

“Is he dead?”

“They need ice; he’s unconscious. I gave them another hour.”

“I’m not going in there unless she puts some clothes on him.”

“Just hand her the ice through the door.”

“This job sucks. What was in that box?”

“Get the ice. I did not open it.”

“I’ll get the ice,” Mara said peevishly.

If I didn’t push her, she would sleep all day. The red box was sealed on all sides with green tape. Not a very attractive wrapping job. It made no noise when I shook it. I’d wait for Mara; we could open it together. My shift would be over soon, and Mr. Suri would return shortly. I hoped this Harry fellow in room two didn’t take a turn for the worse. Svetlana had gone back to playing with her pinecone.

Caww! CAWW!

That noisy crow was always hanging out in the trees. Svetlana was tiny compared to that bird.

Caww! Caww!

The crow didn’t frighten Svetlana away with all her yelling. I wondered if the kitten was deaf. Mr. Suri was coming up the drive in his Delta ’88. He always took the corner so quickly. The smell of burnt rubber from the tires made me feel warm and happy for his arrival, but I got nervous for the cat because he never watched out for her. I’d get her while I still could.

“Sveta! Svetlana! That’s a good kitten. I’ll bring a pinecone into the linen room for you.”

Caww! Caww!

“Don’t worry, Miss Crow, I won’t hurt your kitten. Svetlana, you are light as a bug. No belly yet. Can you hear that noisy crow?”

I thought she heard fine, she just didn’t seem to mind the crow’s ranting. Svetlana was very scrawny and infested with fleas when I found her. Seeing her reminded me that whenever my mother saw a kitten like that, she would say, “We ate even the skinny ones during the siege.”

The Siege of Leningrad was a big part of my childhood.

My city was under siege, and I was sent away. The nine hundred days they cut her off from the world took its toll on my mother.

It was 1941, and Leningrad was having a very warm spring. I was little, only six years old. My parents dressed me in a heavy wool overcoat that was much too big and smelled of mothballs. I threw it off. My mother put it on me again, lifted me in her arms, and looked me straight in the eye. Her breath was warm and smelled of tobacco. She said nothing, but her nose touched mine. Her eyes got wide, and then she shut them tight. I could hear the wooden wheels of the flatbed peddler’s carts along the cobblestones downstairs. My father took me from my mother and touched his hand to my face. The high-pitched squeals of the children on the carts came up through our front windows. I wanted to be brave, so I shut my eyes tight to keep from crying. My father put me on his shoulder and walked me downstairs while I heard my mother stand up, knocking over a chair. I opened my eyes and watched as she ran for the toilet in the back hallway. She did not look back at me. As she turned for the door, her dress opened at the back seam. I saw her cotton panties and a teardrop of blood traveling down her thigh. As my father carried me down the stairs, I memorized the pattern of crowns and stars on the blue and white wallpaper in the hallways.

On the street the carts were filled with children, most very young. Many parents were walking alongside the carts. It was chaotic, but somewhere someone was playing a small flute or ocarina. I could not tell where it was coming from, but the sound was a comfort. It went with the rhythm of the carts as they started to move toward the rail station. Everyone looked up, as if the music was coming from the sky. My father placed me in the middle of the cart and pinned one of his poems to my wool coat. I remember the crows flying overhead.
CAW! CAW!
They sound the same everywhere.

“Breathe, Stalina, breathe,” he whispered to me. “You’re a strong girl; take care of these little ones. When you come home, I will have all my poems waiting for you. You will be my ambassador of words.” He hummed a tune in his deep voice as he held my face in his hands, then kissed my forehead before turning to go. I kept the note, and when I was older, I memorized the poem.

My daughter watches the waves by the sea.

Do they remind her without knowing

Of the womb from where she came?

So safe and sound.

Now we are surrounded,

Cut off like the wheat we were meant to grow.

Our bread will never rise or bake.

Will my daughter remember me? When will she return?

Will she have waves of pleasure again,

Or only tears of anger and pain?

Will she remember her place at the table,

And the patterns on the walls?

I leave a thumbprint of a hug around her soft shoulder.

When she returns, will there be anything, anything?

There will be my poems for her.

So many questions in one poem. I would return and commit to memory every one of his poems. The factory whistles sounded for the lunch hour, and the cart moved toward the rail station.

They took us to a camp up north in the region called Karelia, a beautiful area, not far from where my family had its dacha. The children were brought to the town of Kem. We were forty, all from Leningrad. I was one of the oldest. In our camp there were mostly the young ones. The counselors, a mix of students and workers, stayed up all night playing cards in the basement. The smell of vodka and cigarettes came up through the floorboards. The amber light from their lantern streamed through the cracks. I would pass my fingers through the light and make it flicker like an old movie. Moths flying near the lamp would cast giant shadows that looked like hawks circling above our bunks. The buzz from the shuffling cards made the sound effects for the flapping wings of the giant moth hawks I conjured. The slap of a card hitting the table brought me back to reality and to the counselors’ daily gossip.

“Lela’s parents have not been heard from for a week.”

“Don’t say anything until you are sure.”

“I found a tooth in my soup tonight.”

“The children have been working in the kitchen.”

“Hazardous work.”

“Dangerous eating.”

“Balya the cook is missing a front tooth.”

“She lost that months ago.”

“Maybe I should have saved it for her.”

“Gin!”

“Damn!”

“Shut up and deal!”

“Go fuck your mother.”

Sounds of scuffling.

“Settle down, Vanya.”

“That tooth…I feel ill.”

“Buck up. Be glad you’re here.”

“What, here, at Camp Klorp?”
Klorp
means bedbug.

“Stop it!”

“How about Camp Siege?”

“The young ones will write their parents, ‘Dear Uttyets and Mart, Having a lovely time, hope all is well, don’t eat Uncle Vanya if you can help it. Your sweet Misha from Camp Siege.’”

“Vanya, please.”

“OK, Camp
Flora
, just for you, Tanya. But where’s your sense of irony? Not very Russian of you.”

Tanya had long blond hair and spent her days chopping wood. She was strong and hugged each one of us every day. It was a comfort. Vanya tended a herd of goats near the camp. He smelled like those goats and had the biggest, roughest hands I have ever seen. I listened while they played cards, keeping very still so that when I fell asleep I would not fall off the bed or disturb my sleep mates during the night. We were always four or more in a bed. When someone near me would start to cry, which happened often, I would try so hard to hold it back. I tried so hard to be strong.

No one escaped the siege. Bela and Leo were brothers who always shared a bunk. Neither one ever said a word. They ate their meals under the long table and refused to sleep with anyone else. For the rest of us, the bed assignments would change almost every night, so if someone had bony elbows and knees or foul breath, you only had to tolerate them once or twice a week.

“Flexibility, adaptability, and strength—these are the things you will learn at Camp Flora,” Tanya told us almost every night before she gave out the bunk assignments.

“Leave Bela and Leo alone,” she would say if someone was making fun of them.

One time Rakia, an angry student right out of Herzen University, tried to force them to separate. She was always mad about having to abandon her studies. “It will be good for them,” she said in her bossy style.

When they were separated, Leo would not stop hitting his head against the floorboards and Bela obsessively ate the torn threads of a blanket.

“I told you, leave them alone,” Tanya said. “I will take care of them.”

“But they’re not being good Communists,” Rakia said, storming out.

“That’s not my concern, Rakia. They are children; let them be.”

Tanya disappeared one day. Who knows why? In those days it could have been anything. Luckily, Rakia did not take over.

It was two and a half years before I saw my parents again, and at first I did not recognize them or Leningrad. The city was a charred skeleton. My parents were not much better, their faces gaunt and bodies thin as branches. It was my father’s smile that brought me back. Even though he had lost a front tooth, I recognized his crooked smile and plump lips. My mother managed a feeble smile through her tears. Neither could pick me up. I was healthy and put my arms around my mother’s legs and tried to lift her. She flinched when I touched her. There was great distance between us.

“Stalina, it’s not you. My body hurts from being so tired,” she said.

Hunger exposes the nerves. Mother bruised easily and was very sensitive to the slightest touch or any sound louder than a light switch. It wasn’t until I was older that she told me how they survived.

“We made bread by mixing face powder, sawdust, and tooth powder and fried it all in lipstick for flavor,” she explained with her eyes closed.

I was ten years old and asked, “What happened to the stars and crowns wallpaper in our hallways?”

“We stripped it all down and scraped off the glue to make gruel,” she continued. “I’d let a ball of it sit on my tongue for a long time.”

“How did you swallow it?”

“Imagination. I’d envision the most luscious piece of chocolate cake. I closed my eyes, and when I could smell the cake as if it had just been baked, I quickly swallowed.”

“Mmm, let’s have some chocolate cake,” I once suggested.

“Achh no, it makes me think of eating the wallpaper glue.”

My mother’s tastes ran to the plain and simple. Soda crackers, boiled chicken, and vodka.