Stalina (8 page)

Joanie’s affection for Harry brought Trofim to mind, and my time with him in Leningrad after I graduated from the Vilnius University. While he was my professor, we spent a lot of time together but never touched. I was in his lab every day; he was a most well-liked professor. While he walked around the lab observing our experiments, he would balance and twirl a beaker on the tip of his finger, never missing a beat to explain where we had gone off on one of our calculations or experiments. When he came close to me, I shivered. Every move he made I felt in my bones; every time he looked at me, I was hypnotized. Trofim was tall and broad; his receding hairline showed off his large head and prominent forehead to great effect. One day I felt his breath on the back of my neck as I labored over the right balance of sulfur, rubidium, and strontium for a plant absorption experiment with a bit of pyrotechnics. I turned my head, and he whispered in my ear.

“Good work, Stalina, you almost have it. Stay after class and I will show you how to finish.”

I was so nervous I nearly knocked over my bubbling crucible. When we talked after class, I was so dazed by his attention that I barely heard a word he said about my experiment, but when he asked me to be his assistant I jumped to attention and practically barked, “Yes, sir!” He laughed, told me I had beautiful eyes, and kept chatting.

“What brought you here to Vilnius, so far from Leningrad?”

I collected myself and took a deep breath. “My father went here from 1918 to 1922. He was a writer, a poet.”

“I know your father’s poetry. He was well respected here. A scholar of great renown.”

This was unbelievable to me. I already would have done anything for Trofim; now I was completely under his spell.

“I wanted to know the hallways and classrooms that he loved. It became an obsession,” I said innocently.

“You obviously inherited your father’s sharp intellect, although I don’t know anything about your mother.”

“She is also very smart,” I said proudly.

He hugged my shoulders with his strong, broad hands and thanked me for agreeing to be his assistant. By the end of the semester, I knew this was more than just a schoolgirl crush when he gifted me with the lab coat and told me he was offered a job in Leningrad.

“I hope we can see each other when I get settled into my new lab at the university.”

I had been back in Leningrad for a month when he called. He wanted to see me and show me his lab. He was excited about the work, but lonely in a new city. His family did not join him right away, and even though it was wrong, I could not stay away. I was no longer his student, I was a woman, and as they say, the flesh is weak. And they are right about that. Oh, if it had only been the flesh, it would have been easy to give him up. He made me laugh, he was brilliant, and I felt inspired when I was with him. He stirred me. No phrase describes it; for once my words cannot express my feelings.

The first time we kissed, spring had finally come to Leningrad after the long, frozen winter of 1954. The ice on the Neva was melting, and snow still held to the ground. The gripping silence of the season was over. Our winters are known for the depths of the cold, but this one was known as “the thaw” because it was the year after Stalin was dead and gone, and everything Soviet was topsy-turvy. Burying Stalin left some with tears of joy to be rid of the monster, while others believed he was our savior. We still had to be careful; you could not trust anyone, so I let my heart take me wherever it wanted to go. I was maybe foolish, but I will never forget my time with Trofim.

The state university set him up with his own lab. His students were hungry for a new era of science and flocked to his lectures. The university buildings are across the river, and from the window of his lab you could see the two-hundred-foot gilded spire of the Admiralty. The river and canals divide the city into many islands. Vasilesky Island is the home of the state university and many important buildings of science. Walking to his lab down the long, long hallway of the school, you could see the beer garden barges and boats filled with tourists traveling up and down the river. The lab was sparse but well equipped. He had changed his research from biology to chemistry and then to physics because it was safest during Stalin’s time to be a physicist. Stalin was convinced that in order to build a Soviet atom bomb, they had to employ Einstein’s theories. Other sciences and their leading minds were condemned—genetics, Darwin, biology, all denied. The only decoration in the lab was a needlepoint his wife had made having heard about his meagerly equipped lab. It read, “It’s better to have a small fish than a big cockroach.”

“My wife is very practical,” he said.

He stood close enough for our lab coats to touch. I had a sense from the sober look and message of the needlepoint that Trofim was in need of affection. I admired his charts, flickering spectral scopes, and heating crucibles. Out of the deep freezer he pulled a sealed test tube of clear liquid and a beaker that had something purple and gray hanging in frozen liquid.

Jiggling the heavy liquid in the test tube, he said, “This is the best vodka; we make it here from the original recipe of Mendeleev. Let’s drink to being together in Leningrad, Stalina.”

Mendeleev’s chemistry for the distillation of vodka couldn’t be outlawed. Stalin could not have Russia without vodka or the atomic bomb.

“What’s in the other beaker?” I asked.

“That’s my good luck brain,” he said.

“Whose brain?” I asked suspiciously.

“T. D. Lysenko, the great scientist and my teacher.”

“He was mad. Why would you want his brain?”

“The university thinks I’m doing research on his brain cells. Slicing them and shining a light through the sections to better understand his gifts.”

Lysenko’s theories served Stalin’s desire for the human race to have limitless power over nature. He became the Soviet’s ultimate man of science. To disagree meant certain arrest. Trofim played along, and a few years before we met he became part of a team of scientists sent to Siberia to create a race of giant rabbits. The “Rabbit King of Siberia,” as his team leader was known, employed Lysenko’s fictitious concepts, which claimed an organism could be altered genetically from one generation to the next. The largest rabbits were gathered from all over the Soviet Union to breed. The people were told they would never starve with farms filled with giant bunnies. Trofim’s job was to collect the semen from the most oversized specimens. Between this hoax and the wheat Lysenko claimed would grow in the Arctic, millions of our people starved.

“Trofim, don’t think me a fool, but that’s not his brain,” I said.

“Of course it’s not, sweet Stalina. I use it to keep my students disciplined. They think I’m crazy because I worship Lysenko, and they never fail to do their work.”

He put the flask and beaker down and put his arms on my shoulders. I could see the flickering reflections of the Neva on the yellow ceiling of the lab and in his half glasses. I was fascinated by what filled his fanatical brain. He looked like a sun-lined cloud as he moved over me; his blue eyes were the sky peeking through. His shadow made me shudder with a chill of delight. His lips touched mine, and out of the corner of my eye I could see the fake Lysenko brain warming up in its viscous suspension. If it wasn’t Lysenko’s, then whose was it? The strong smell of formaldehyde filled the lab. I let my lips go soft, but not too soft, and thought about Amalia’s kissing lessons with the plums.

Coming up for air, he said, “I love the smell of formaldehyde.”

That was a line from one of my father’s more famous poems. On the radio in the lab they were playing Shostakovich’s Seventh Symphony.

“You know my father’s poem?”

The music reached a thundering kettledrum sequence. Trofim smiled and hummed along with the music.

“My father would play the third movement while he wrote,” I added.

Trofim spoke the next line of the poem.

“It preserves the unborn calf with two heads. Will it do the same for my misshapen poem?”

I looked deep into his eyes and could feel the heat on my back as we leaned closer to the lit gas burner.

Then Trofim said, “When we aren’t together, it’s your lips I think of.”

“That’s not a line in the poem,” I said, amused.

“No, it’s not.”

His lips had a slight red hue from my lipstick. I loved how his lips were full in the middle and went a bit crooked when he smiled, almost a secret smile just for me.

“Trofim,” I said as I took a deep breath, “I think I need a drink.”

“Yes, let’s make a toast.”

Through the test tube, I saw his face, stretched and twisted like in a fun house mirror. He looked beautiful to me.

I retrieved the plastic cellophane-wrapped cups from the bathroom. The photograph of the roller coaster hung over the toilet, I had to say, was a nice touch. I peeked into the shower to check on Mara’s cleaning job. Her work was just short of a proper sparkle. You had to get rid of all the residue in order for the chrome to glisten. I had to control myself from pulling out a cleaning rag and finishing the job.

Ring. Ring.

“Stalina, will you answer that?” Joanie said as she sat on the bed combing Harry’s thin pate of hair. I picked up the phone.

“Stalina?”

“Yes, Mr. Suri.”

“How long do you think they are going to be? I have two couples waiting.”

“I’m not sure; we’re doing what we can. Business has been good lately.”

Click.

“He wanted to know how long we would be,” I said to Joanie.

“Harry’s sleeping like a baby. Maybe he just had to catch up on some sleep. How about that vodka?”

The “roller-bed-coaster” was designed for physical antics and not necessarily for comfortable sleeping, but Harry seemed very peaceful with his feet raised and slung over the hump. I poured the thickened, cold vodka into the plastic cups. The vapor from the alcohol felt peppery in my throat.

“I hope Harry doesn’t wake up; he would have a fit if he saw us drinking out of plastic cups. He says it’s disrespectful to the drink,” Joanie said as I handed her a cup of vodka.

“
Nostrovya
,” I said.

“Here’s to Harry, my best friend.”

We gulped the vodka down together.

“Harry would like you, Stalina. He likes women who can drink.”

“Thank you. There is a Russian saying, ‘A drink in time saves nine.’”

Harry made a gurgling sound.

“A drink in time.” Joanie laughed. “You Russians.”

“Why, is that not the saying?”

“We Americans are just so prissy. We say, ‘A stitch in time saves nine.’ I love your accent.”

“Thank you. I am very proud of my English.”

Harry gurgled again and lifted his right arm in the air.

“Maybe he’s waking up. Quick, let’s have another shot,” Joanie suggested.

I went over to get a closer look at Harry. His arm came down with a flop, but it was not only his arm that had risen.

“Look, Joanie, your man is thinking about you.”

We both laughed and stared as if watching a newborn’s latest discovery.

“That’s my boy; he’s been having trouble with that lately.”

Ring. Ring.

“That trouble seems to be gone,” I said as I picked up the phone.

“Stalina, what’s going on in there?” Mr. Suri said.

“Mr. Suri, you called only fifteen minutes ago. I think we are making progress.”

“I have people waiting. Can we carry him out to his car?”

“Give us a half hour. The hen only eats a grain at a time, but eventually she gets full,” I said.

Click.

“What’s that?” asked Joanie.

“He’s anxious because there are customers waiting for rooms; the motel has become quite popular.”

“I like that saying, ‘The hen only eats a grain at a time.’ I never heard that before.”

“Mr. Suri is not a very patient man,” I added.

She went over to Harry’s blue serge suit and pulled out a large roll of bills from the pocket.

“How much do we owe you for the extra time?”

“Two more hours. That’s another thirty-three dollars.”

“Here, take a General Ulysses S. Grant.”

“Fifty? Ulysses S. Grant was the eighteenth president of the United States.”

“Keep the change. You know more about the presidents than I do.”

“I have been studying,” I said.

Harry gurgled again, and I thought how happy Mr. Suri would be about the extra cash, in spite of his impatience. Joanie and I sat on the floor, watched Harry, and drank another shot of vodka.

“Tell me more about Russia,” Joanie said.

“It’s still very cold there this time of year,” I replied.

“You grew up with all those Communists?” she asked.

“We were all part of a great socialist movement.”

“This country dislikes Communists.”

“We were friends at one time.”

“You guys fought the Germans?”

“The Nazis. They invaded us and we beat them,” I said proudly.

“You have such nice nails. Are there beauty parlors in Russia?” she asked, holding and admiring my manicure. She tipped back the remaining vodka in her glass.

“Yes, there are many. I do my own nails; I learned as a child.”

Joanie leaned back on her elbows. Harry started to snore.

“We hardly sleep together, so I rarely get to hear him snore. It’s kind of cute, don’t you think?” Joanie giggled.

“Oolnya’s House of Beauty was where I learned about manicures.”

“Ool-ya—I love the Russian names, they’re so…
vodka!
” she exclaimed.

“Would you like a little more?” I asked.

The bottle of Kremoyna shifted in the ice as if it was trying to get our attention. I just realized then that we’d never used the ice in the bucket for the bump on Harry’s head.

“I remember from that movie with Omar Sharif—you drink the vodka frozen even in the winter.”

“That is the best way.
Dr. Zhivago
—it was banned for a while in Russia.”

“Vodka was banned?”

“The book, not vodka, never, just discouraged, without much effect.”

“Let’s drink to Ool-ya and her manicures,” Joanie said with her glass high above her head. “Maybe Harry needs a sip of vodka.”

“It’s Oolnya, with an
n
. Put the glass under his nose like smelling salts,” I suggested.

“I don’t want him to wake up yet. We bought some more time; I want to hear about manicures.”

I filled her plastic cup halfway with more vodka and did the same for myself.

“It would be nice to have some herring with this vodka,” I said and settled back onto the floor. The room could use a chair or two. Perhaps a bench from a carousel to go with the fun park theme.

“Herring? What about caviar? Isn’t that your Russian gold? Fish eggs worth thousands. How strange you Russians are,” Joanie said as she went over to Harry and kissed his lips with hers still touched with vodka.

Harry sniffled and turned over, but with a smile on his face.

“Shhh!” Joanie added. “Let’s not wake Harry.”

“We have another forty-five minutes. Mr. Suri will be calling in a half hour.”

“Please, Staliiin-aaa, tell me about Oool-NYaaa.”

The vodka had taken effect.

“She called her shop Oolnya’s House of Beauty. My friend Olga’s mother and my mother would go together for weekly appointments, and we would tag along. Oolnya had massive breasts that were always half exposed, and her behind was so large it made a shelf off the back of her purple satin robe. She sat at the forward edge of her swivel chair because of the size of her behind. She was a bleach blond.”

“She sounds fabulous!” Joanie said, enjoying my story and the vodka.

“The banyas all have busy salons. The scent of hairspray mixes with the smell of the saunas and steaming birch leaves right down to the street.”

The vapors of the hairspray and acetone took form in the swirling cigarette smoke of Oolnya’s clientele. Under those low-hanging clouds, the women made gossip. My friend Olga was destined to be a hairstylist—even at eight years old she could create a hairstyle before touching scissors or curling iron to hair. She also knew everyone’s story. It was she who told me that Mrs. Yvashkaya was actually a man, and that the staff at the salon was forbidden to say anything because he was such a loyal customer.

“Oh my. Where is your friend Olga now?”

“She’s a legend in St. Petersburg. People come from all over to have her do their hair,” I added proudly.

“Hotsy-totsy!” Joanie exclaimed.

“Olga and I would sit under the bubble dryers and read to each other from ladies’ magazines and give each other manicures when we were eleven and twelve. She had the most delicate fingers and would paint the polish on every nail with perfectly even strokes. Between the hair dryers going and the piped organ music—this is common in Russian salons—no one could hear us. One time while Oolnya passed by, Olga said, ‘Her buttocks are as big as a battleship and softer than the goopiest jar of hair gel.’

“I told Olga, ‘I’ve seen her eating pigs’ feet in brine from a jar in between appointments.’ Olga told me more details. ‘Her lover, Lazlo, sends them every week from the Ukraine in cases labeled as hair spray so the police won’t steal them.’”

“No wonder her ass was the size of Finland. Some men like that, but not my Harry,” Joanie said confidently, slapping her bony hip. “He likes to slap this skinny ass of mine.”

“Every man is made of different desires.”

“And for that I am thankful,” Joanie said. “Tell me more.”

“Oolnya moved like a hippo with a great sense of rhythm. The top shelves of the supply closet were out of her reach because those hips kept her from passing through the narrow door. When she needed our help, she would say, ‘Olga! Stalina! Fetch me a box of cotton balls. I’ll give you some for your manicures.’”

“Bossy, wasn’t she,” Joanie chipped in.

“Everyone who worked at the salon was a bit temperamental. Tasha, the manicurist, was missing the top two joints of her index and ring fingers on her left hand. She had an accident as a teenager climbing over a fence. But the missing joints actually made it easier for her to position her customers’ hands and fingers as she did their nails. She was gifted.”

“Imagine that,” Joanie said.

“When Tasha was in a good humor, she would hand us a bottle of nail polish that was nearly empty. More often she would complain that the salon was the only place women could get away from their duties. ‘That includes
children!
’ she’d say, making sure we heard. When she chased us away, Olga and I would go into one of the dark, wood-paneled massage rooms in the back to read our pile of magazines and dream about dressing like the models in the pictures.”

“Marilyn Monroe was my hero,” Joanie added. “Poor thing, it makes me sad to think of her.” She got up and walked over to the “bed-coaster” and lay down next to Harry. She had a small pout and a slight quiver on her lips.

“I’m a natural blond, you know,” she said as she wiped some spittle from the side of Harry’s mouth.

I continued. “Oolnya would rap on the massage room door if someone was scheduled for an appointment. She filled the open doorway completely; her waist made an hourglass shape that we could see around to the front end of the salon. We would get woozy from breathing in hairspray and polish and would stagger off the massage tables and into the salon. Everything seemed to float around us. The peach-colored lace curtains and the kidney-shaped manicure tables became clouds floating by.”

“I know what you mean; this room looks all cotton candy soft to me,” Joanie said, fueled by the vodka.

“To us, the ladies under the hair dryers with their mud packs looked like an alien race of big brains. One of them once said, ‘Looks like those girls have gotten into Oolnya’s vodka stash.’ Oolnya heard the comment, turned in her swivel chair, lit a cigarette, adjusted her robe, and said, ‘I keep only schnapps, to soothe the pain.’”

“I love her!” Joanie exclaimed, and in a terrible Russian accent, she added, “I keep only schnapps, to soothe the pain.”

“I like your imitation, Joanie.”

“I told you I love your accent.”

“How is Harry? Mr. Suri is going to call again.”

“Is that the dark man who runs the desk?”

“Mr. Suri? He’s not so dark.”

“No, he’s…”

We both spoke at the same time, with the same words. “Slightly dark.”

I added, “He’s Indian, from New Delhi.”

“Handsome with that mustache, and kind of exotic. I’m mostly German,” Joanie added.

“I’m a Jew,” I said.

“You’re a Jew?”

“You are surprised?”

“You’re Russian.”

“To the Russians I’m a Jew.”

“I don’t say I’m a Catholic.”

“Are you?”

“Who cares?”

“Why were you surprised?”

“I don’t care one way or another. Harry’s Jewish. Do you miss Russia?”

“America is not home yet. I do miss Russia.”

“That’s sad…let’s not be sad. More vodka!”

Suddenly Harry sat up with his arms raised in front of him as if he was trying to stop something that was rushing toward him.

“Stop the Shriiiiinnnnerrrs! They’re commmminnng!” he screamed.

Joanie jumped toward Harry to keep him from falling off the bed again.

“Harry, wake up!” she shouted as she grabbed him around the waist.

I knocked back the rest of my vodka. Harry was shaking.

“Are you all right?” Joanie was clinging to him.

“I dreamt those damn Shriners were taking over—measly little secretive anti-Semitic toy soldiers. What’s she doing here?” Harry said, looking at me. “Owww, my head,” he continued, focusing on the bottle of vodka. “Did I drink that?”

“I thought you were over that Shriner thing,” Joanie said calmly. “So what if they didn’t let you join? Who needs them anyway? This is Stalina.”

“How do you do, sir. I’m glad to see you are awake.”

Ring.

“Who the fuck is calling me here?” Harry whispered.

“It’s OK, Harry, we’re safe here,” Joanie said, still holding him.

Ring.

“Hello, Mr. Suri.” I answered the phone with some authority, and without letting him respond, I continued. “The gentleman is awake, and I will have them vacate in fifteen minutes. Good-bye.”

Click.

“Fifteen minutes? What time is it? How long have we been here?” Harry asked Joanie.

Ring. Ring.

“Yes, Mr. Suri.”

“Stalina, please don’t hang up on me like that. I wanted to tell you that two other rooms have opened up. Everyone is taken care of. Please don’t hang up on me.”

“Yes, Mr. Suri, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”