Russians have a very different way of addressing each compared to Americans. They do not have what we call middle names. Instead, their given names are two words long; one for themselves, and the other is after their father, with an appropriate ending, depending on if they are male or female.

Take Stefani Andreevna Rousakov as an example. Her given name is Stefani Andreevna. Her father’s name is Andre, or Andrew.  “Evna” indicates she is Andre's daughter. Her last name, Rousakov, is only used in extraordinarily formal situations.

The same is true for Sergey Nikolaevich Zietse. His given name is Sergey Nikolaevich. His father’s name is Nikolai Zietse. “Evich” indicates that he is Nikolai’s son.

Larisa Pavelova Kudinov is different. Her father’s name is Pavel, which ends in a consonant. “Ova” is used to show that she is Pavel Kudinov’s daughter. The same rule applies for Yulia Mikhailova Lukianenko. Her father's name is Mikhail, or Michael.

In public, they address each other by their given and father’s names; Stefani Andreevna. It is common for parents and close friends to address each other by a nickname. Stefani becomes Stefaniya. Sergey becomes Seryozha. Larisa becomes Lara. Yulia becomes Yuliya.

November, 1940

1

*****

         “Papa, do you believe in Communism?” I once asked, when I was a small girl. It was a dangerous question. I was too young to understand how dangerous.

    “Of course, Stefaniya,” said Papa. “Communism is what keeps our people together. Russia couldn’t function without it.”

     I believed him. I’ve since learned his answer wasn’t entirely the truth.

I was born in 1925. A daughter to Andre Karlov and Rut Rousa. They already had a son, and had been praying for another. In secret, of course.

Because nobody prays in the Soviet Union. The State killed God.

         Home is an apartment flat on Putrzenski Street that I share with Papa, Mama, my brother Piter, Grandad, and occasionally, my Uncle Venjamin. We can usually afford to keep ourselves warm. And well fed. Which cannot be said for everyone. Especially in the winter.

Winter. That, too, is home. A home I hate. Even in 1940, with a gloriously late fall covers the trees in gold and scarlet well into October, I'm dreading it. The snow drifts will make walking a chore in just a few short weeks. And mountains of ice will make the trains late. Car travel almost none existent. Even planes will stay on the ground because of their heavy veils of ice clinging to their wings.

Winter is hard. Your muscles get cramped. And you pray you don't get sick. There are far more epidemics in Moscow than there are medicines. We do the best we can with what our rations get us. But there is nobody who does not know what it’s like to go without.

Some nights, when we sit around the stove because the heat is off in the whole building, Papa looks around at all of us, and with a twinkle in his eye, say "This is cozy." He's a madman. Big and hearty, with muscles only a meat packer could have. I love him for that twinkle in his eye. So many others don’t have it. Or lost it long ago.

And he's right. It is better if you can think of it as "cozy." Not that it is. Just if you think it.

If we’ve a good woodsmoke fire going, and evening tea is still warm inside me, I can almost think of it that way. I'll lay my head on Mama's shoulder. She'll sing. Hum. Grandpa will drift off to sleep. Piter will no longer smell of the fish he cans all day. And it will be cozy.

Almost.

I've just turned fifteen. But I'm already impatient to be sixteen. An adult. Sixteen is important. I'll be able to vote. Be able to leave school, if I have to, and work, which I don't want to do. Papa hopes I shall attend University. But more practically, sixteen also means I'll be eligible for work. Maybe even something in State services, which pay very well, if you can get it. I don’t know what I’ll do, though. I don’t want really want to work for the State. But I also don’t want to work in a shop.

“This is the Soviet Union,” says my friend, Yulia Mikhailova, “be glad for what you can get.”

And she's right. But she also agrees with me. Actually, she can be quite a bit more vocal about her complaints than I ever would be. I don't mind, though I do worry, in case someone hears.

Yulia Mikhailova’s family moved to Moscow from Leningrad about five years ago. Leningrad used to be called St. Petersburg, but they changed after Great Lenin died. Yulia and I share the same birthday, and we’ll celebrate it together next year, just as we did this year. Next year, we’ll get our adult passports together. She doesn't like it. Wants to be more free. But she’s foolish. There is no place in the Soviet Union that you can go without passports. There’s too many of us.

She fights. Quietly, of course, and in words only, which is still fighting. Says that, in Russia, even the trees eventually turn Red. Of course, they do. Everything here is Red. And if it isn't, it soon will be.

And why not, I wonder? Red is the color of victory. And everything being Red is the reward for many of the People’s victories. So is starving to death, of course. And influenza. And surviving. I may not be as Communist as I could be, but I am rather proud to be Red. And at the end of the day, so is Yulia Mikhailova.

Let me rephrase. I’m proud most days. I've been part of the Communist Youth for a few years. And I help Larisa Pavlova, my other friend, monitor our class at school. It's cool. Not everyone gets to be Youth. But I've stopped lately, because one of the boys who graduated is now working for the KGB. They recruit from Youth. I don't ever want to be involved with them. So, I still wear my Red Sash and beret. But I do as little else as possible.

So, I suppose a rule of thumb for living in Russia could be this. Be as Red as you want. Just be more red than the person standing next to you. And don’t piss off the KGB. That is not a good idea. Unfortunately, it is also very, very easy to do.

One time, when I was around seven, Mama and I were walking home from school. Outside our building, a man, named Panofsky had a bucket of paint. He wrote something on the side of a wooden fence. I didn’t get a good look at what it said. Mama pulled me close, and hustled me inside. I remember her giving Panofsky a very, very shrewd glance. And she told me he’d not get away with what he’d written.

In the morning, the fence was gone. The part he’d painted on. The were new planks in place that didn’t match the rest. And Panofsky was also gone. His wife looked for him for months. But he was just gone. And he’s never showed up again.  

I worry about Papa sometimes. He is not always as red as he could be, and I wonder if someday he’ll disappear. If there is a God, I pray that doesn’t happen.

Yulia likes my Daddy. But they are not red like blood. Like Stalin. They are red like wine. I've tasted wine. And I've tasted blood. I think I prefer the wine. But blood is safer.

In school every day, we have assembly. “It’s a vital part of your education,” Nadson, our teacher, says. But I don’t see what’s so vital about sitting in a cramped auditorium for an hour. I especially don’t see what’s so vital about listening to lectures on Lenin and Marx the whole time.

I said the State killed God. I think they’d like to think so. But I’ve often wondered if miracles can happen. Not big ones. Little ones. Like a baby surviving long enough to be seen. Or an old man, who should die, somehow making it through a stroke. I’ve seen them. But I never expect to see one in Assembly.

Until I do.

I catch his eye looking towards us from several rows away. The auditorium is not as crowded as it usually is. The first waves of sickness are hitting Moscow. I might have missed him otherwise. But, when he sees me, seeing him, he turns away. I just catch a glimpse of round glasses looking away.

The speaker, today a policeman from town and most probably a KGB agent, drones on. I take a risk in the presence of such formidably company.

“Larisa Pavlova,” I whisper, catching those glasses move again. “Who is that boy? I've never seen him before."

If there is boy in the Reke quarter who is capable of flirtation, Larisa Pavlova probably knows who it is.

“Which boy?” she asks, scanning the crowd in front of us. She is suddenly very attentive. The lecturer had been making her fall asleep. But he actually asks something of the crowd of us, so we have to respond before we can continue.

We are not the only ones not paying attention. The boy with the glasses again looks at me. This time, I see that he has light blond hair parted in the middle.

“Three rows up and to the left. The blond with glasses,” I say.

Larisa Pavlova leans close to me to look. "I've never seen him before, either."

“You two should pay attention,” says Yulia Mikhailova in a sing song voice. Her own her eyes closed. “There’ll be an exam on this later.”

“Yulia, If we fail an exam, you fail, too. That’s the way the world works, and you know it,” whispers Larisa Pavlova. “So, wake up, and help us figure out who's watching us.”

“The KGB,” says Yulia. “They’re spying on everyone.”

"Oh, Yulia. Not now. Just go with the lecture, and help us figure this out."

Larisa Pavlova and I spend a few more minutes eyeing the boy. He looks up me, not us, me, twice more. He’s got a long, thin face that is handsome. And green eyes. His glasses have tape on them. It’s weird that he’s paying so much attention to me. But not in a bad way. On closer inspection, I think he might be quite handsome.

Yulia is unimpressed.

“That’s Sergey Nikolaevich,” she says, having barely taken a glance.

“Sergey Nikolaevich?” I ask.

“Hmm-hmm,” she says. “Sergey Nikolaevich. He's Swiss."

Larisa and I stare at her increadulously.

"He's Swiss and his name is Sergey Nikolaevich?"

"Yes, he's Russian," says Yulia Mikhailova. "But he's Swiss, too. His family moved here last month. "

I stare back at the blond boy.

"They moved? To Moscow?" I ask. No body moves to Moscow. It's crowded enough as is.

“How do you know?” asks Larisa Pavlova.

"He’s sot of my brother, Sasha's, friend,” says Yulia Mikhailova, sititng up and taking some interest. “I heard them talking. Apparently, his Papa was a big Communist voice in the Switzerland. I suppose he made some friends over here.They Swiss authorities wanted to arrest him. Anyway, he packed up his family and moved here. Political refugees. I'm surprised your brother didn't tell you about him, Stefani Andreevna. He was with Sasha and Sergey Nikolaevich. They've been seeing each other. Kind of like a male version of the three of us.”

All three of us look at Sergey Nikolaevich. The Swiss

“He's gorgeous,” says Larisa Pavlova.

“I thought you liked Aleksandr Mikhailov?” I ask.

“No contest,” says Larisa. “No offense, Yulia. Your brother's amazing. But there's no contest” She nods towards Sergey Nikolaevich, giving him the victory. He looks back towards us.

"He's confusing me," says Yulia Mikhailova. "I can't tell which of us he's looking at." 

Larisa Pavlova preens. "It’s only natural,” she says. “He’s looking at me.”

"I really don't think so, Larisa," says Yulia.

He glances over, and then back again. Frankly, it's starting to drive me mad.

"Do I have something on my nose?" I ask my friends.

"Nope," says Larisa. "He is beautiful. He hangs out with Aleksandr Mikhailov and Piter Andreevich?"

Yulia nods.

"That doesn't add up," says Larisa. "No offense, but neither of your brothers are going to University. He looks like he could a scholar now."

And he does. There's very little about Sergey Nikolaevich that indicates brawn over brain. He’s tall, and thin. Maybe even taller than me? And he somehow manages to be in in his notebook, paying attention to the lecture, and looking at me, all the same time. He's most definitely an intellectual. Or, an aspiring one, at any rate.

Intellectuals. The State hates them. And the people love them. Papa wants me to be one, to go to University. I’m trying my best. But when it includes sitting in Assembly every day, it’s hard.

I don't catch Sergey Nikolaevich looking my way again the rest of Assembly. The bells ring, and we all head for the door.

“Come one,” says Larisa Pavlova, “let’s go.

“You’re in a hurry to get to Mathematics,” says Yulia Mikhailova.

“Not Mathematics,” says Larisa, “him. You know him, Yulia? Then do your duty, and introduce us.”

Yulia gives out a groan that let’s us know she’d rather go to Mathematics. But Larisa takes her hand, and pulls her out of the Auditorium. Not to be outdone, Yulia grabs my hand, and I follow right along.

"I barely know him, myself," says Yulia. “A stranger can’t introduce you to another stranger.” But Larisa gives her a nudge in the back, and Yulia stumbles forward towards Sergey Nikolaevich.

He hadn't noticed us exiting the auditorium. He takes a drink from a thermos, fumbles with a notepad, and looks up when Yulia clears her throat. It takes a moment for him to recognize her.

"Good day, Sergey Nikolaevich," she says.

"Good day, Yulia Mikhailova," he says. Though it looks like he has to struggle to remember her name a bit. Poor Yulia.

"I'd like you to please meet my friend," says Yulia, gripping Larisa Pavlova’s wrist and yanking her to her side. "Larisa Pavlova, this is Sergey Nikolaevich. Sergey Nikolaevich, this is Larisa Pavlova."

"It's nice to meet you," he says. Larisa greets him, as well, and puts her full flirt on. But he takes just a moment, and looks at me. He is most definitely taller than me. I don’t know a whole lot of boys who are.

Nothing about this boy is hidden. He wears a sideways grin that is far too presumptuous, for either Larisa Pavlova, or I. He's a cocky rooster, I'll give him that. A handsome one. But cocky, none the less.

"And this is Stefani Andreevna," says Yulia.

"Good day," says Sergey Nikolaevich.

“Good day,” I say.

And then there's a horribly awkward moment where no one says anything. The bell rings again.

"Class," says Sergey. "Economics."

“Mathematics,” I mumble. “All three of us.”

He flashes that grin again, omnidirectional, and we go our separate ways.

I think I’d like to see him again sometime. And I’m certain Lara feels the same way.

2

*****

     It isn’t long before Larisa, Yulia, and I learn exactly who Sergey Nikolaevich was looking at. Me.

He comes up to me a few days later, after school has ended. I’m alone, for a change. Larisa Pavlova and Yulia Mikhailova stay behind to help Nadon clean the classroom.

“Hello, Stefani Andreevna,” he says.

“Hello, Nikolaevich” I say.

“I was wondering,” he says, perhaps emboldened by the fact that my friends aren’t around. “Since you’re friend are otherwise occupied, might I be your escort to you next class?”

From behind my left ear, I hear a sudden crash, followed by a series of coughs. It comes from the classroom. Yulia Mikhailov gives Larisa Pavlova a scathing glare. Both are covered in chalk dust, and an entire bin of erasers lay at Larisa’s feet.

“Don’t mind us,” says Yuliya though the open window. She doesn’t take her eyes of Lara, except to blink away chalk dust. “We might be a while.”

The only color you can see is the red blush under Lara’s cheeks.

“Offer still stands,” says Sergey Nikolaevich to me.

Lara and I share a glance. She’s hurt and embarrassed. And that hurts me. But he did ask me. Yuliya waves me off, and Nikolaevich and I head to my next class.

“What’s in your notebook?” I ask him. He holds it his side. Protectively.

“Uh, notes,” he says. “Thoughts and things. Stuff.”

Confimed. He is an intellectual.

It is so odd to be walking down the halls of secondary school with a boy.

“I suppose you write poetry, too,” I say. There’s more bile in my voice then I met. It’s just. There’s little room in Russia for idle dreamers.

“Not really,” he says. “Tried once. But it didn’t take. I think the poets left Russia with the Tsars.”

My eyes swell. That is not the kind of talk for high school. Or anywhere else, for that matter.  

******

We walk, somehow arm and arm and as far away from one another as we can.  

It’s exhilarating, just being this close to him. Like even though my feet are firm on the ground, I find myself flying. I wonder if he feels the same way. It’s hard. Imagining that someone could do that. But he catches my eye once, and I remember how he looked at me in Assembly, and I think he does. I think.  

Sergey looks over his shoulder. Clicks his tongue. And that flying feeling fades a bit. His smile disappears, slowly.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. Did I do something?

“Nothing,” he says, “it’s just. For once, I’d like to walk in public without being followed.” He looks pointedly over his shoulder.

This is the second time in as many interactions with Sergey Nikolaevich that he’s mentioned being followed. Which means, at this point, I could be, as well. This boy is dangerous to know.

But he clearly has eyes for me. And I have to admit, I’m not impartial to him, either. But if I’m to be followed, I need to know what’s going on. The last thing I want is to step on someone’s toes.

I don’t dare say anything to Sergey Nikolaevich. He doesn’t do anything out of the ordinary. But we don’t speak, either. At one point, we catch each others eyes. I think he can tell I’m nervous, because he winks. Why did I like him? It’s all in that wink, really. Sergey Nikolaevich makes me smile.

“Is he still behind us?” I ask. I lean close to whisper into his ear. It also lets me be closer to him.   

“Yes,” he says, “she is.”

A she. Ok.

“Where is she?” I ask, looking straight ahead.

He doesn’t answer. But instead, looks into the glass of a window. We stop and examine ourselves.

“Don’t look long,” he says. “Just take a glance. See? There. The older lady in the scarf.”

I look. At first, I see nothing. But then I can just make her out. An old babushka, trying to keep her hair out of the wind.  

“I’ve seen her before,” whispers Sergey.

“KGB?” I ask. And as much as I feel like putting some brakes on he and I right now, I hold his arm so tight, I’m practically cuddling into him. He smiles. But I don’t smile back.

“Not sure,” he says, “I’ve seen her before. Twice. She might be. It’s not exactly like they go around wearing uniforms and badges.”

“Right,” I say. I bite my lip.

“Are you alright, Stefani Andreevna?” He asks.

“Cold,” I say with a shiver.  

He looks surprised at himself.

“Sorry,” he says.  “Here, I’ve an idea. May I?” he asks. I don’t know where he’s going with this, so I shrug. He switches hands with the umbrella, and then he lets go of my arm. And wraps his arm around my shoulder and lets his hand hang down my side.

No boy has ever held my this closely. Which is exhilarating. But at the same time, I’ve never been aware of being followed by KGB. That’s frightening.

Exhilarating and frightening. That sums up my situation with Sergey Nikolaevich fairly well, actually.    

I want so much to drop his arm right now. Especially since he didn’t ask permission to put his arm around me. More than the KGB look at us as we walk by. This is dangerous. But what can we do? I mean, alright, it’s unusual two teenages to walk like we are. But it’s not like we’re outright breaking the law.

And all of this pales when compared to the question, why should there be a KGB officer following Sergey Nikolaevich? Exactly who is the boy with his arm around me?

.    

3

****

    “Arise, and sing, o people now united

    Rise high your banner, Red, across the land

    Refuse to bow, remember, we were blighted

    Sing in glory, walk now, hand in hand”

    He sets the notebook down on his lap. Doesn’t make eye contact. I can tell he’s disappointed. I’ll be honest, I am, too. Not that I’d show him.

    “So, what do you think?” he asks, look at me desperately. How do I tell him?

    “I like it,” I lie.

    He see right through me.

    “I stink,” he says with a moan. “At least at the Patriotic stuff. I think it hurts that it's not really my country.”

    He won’t get an arguement from me. And I should just leave it at that. But I have to know. “Have you ever written any thing else?” I ask.  

    He bites his lip. Give away the answer. Yes. “I have,” he says. And he leans in close to me. Intoxicatingly close. It warms my frozen cheeks. “But it’s in a different notebook. One I don’t carry around with me.”

    I can’t blame him. There isn’t a person I know who doesn't have their own personal pile of contraband. It’s deeply private. Kind of like asking someone to bare a bit of their soul to you. At the very least, bare the parts of their lives they could sent to prison for. I’ll not ask him more about it.

    “I’ve never shown it to anyone,” he says. And that’s that. Or is it? “But, I think I could show it to you. Sometime. If you wanted.”

I don’t know what to say. I’m honored. And daunted.

“I’d never ask for that, Sergey.”