Breaking Stalin's Nose by Eugene Yelchin Page A

what it’s like in the capitalist countries. I wouldn’t be surprised if children there had never even tasted a carrot.

4
    EVERYONE IN THE KITCHEN stops talking when my dad comes in. They look like they are afraid, but I know they are just respectful. Dad swoops me off the radiator and carries me through the kitchen, nodding at everybody. His overcoat is coarse and smells of snow. One neighbor, Stukachov, follows us down the corridor, smiling and bobbing his head, asking how many spies my dad has exposed today. Not that my dad would tell him—it’s a state secret. But he catches enemies every day; that I know. He told me if I see a suspicious character on the street, I should follow him and observe his activities; he might be a spy. It’s wise to be suspicious. The enemies are everywhere.

    When we get to our room, Stukachov is still trailing after us. I wish he would leave us alone and go to his own room, even though I know how crammed it is in there with his wife, three little kids, and mother. My dad and I have a large room for the two of us. I’m so embarrassed we live in luxury that I don’t look at Stukachov, but I know he’s there, stretching his neck and looking into our room when my dad closes the door on him.
    â€œDon’t talk to him,” says my dad. “He’ll use it.”
    I nod in agreement, but I’m not sure what he means. Use what? I’ll have to think about it later.
    Dad is pulling off his boots while I’m reading my letter to Stalin out loud. He smiles and tells me I wrote a good letter. He puts the letter into his briefcase and promises he’ll deliver it. Then
he says, “Your principal, Sergei Ivanych, called me at work today.”
    â€œWhy? We don’t have spies or enemies at school.”
    He looks at me sternly, and right away I know I lack in vigilance. “Can you say this with absolute certainty?” he asks.
    I can’t think of anyone who could be a spy or an enemy at school, but I say, “No, I can’t.”
    He nods and hands me something wrapped in brown paper. “That’s not why he called. Open it up.”
    Scarlet bursts out as I unwrap the package. The scarf of a Young Pioneer! The triangle of simple red cloth that every Pioneer must wear, but how beautiful it is and how long I have wished for it. Tomorrow, when I become a Pioneer, I will wear it for the first time.
    I spread the scarf on the table, smooth the wrinkles, and say, “The three tips of the Pioneers
scarf symbolize the union of three generations, mature Communists, the Communist Youth, and the Young Pioneers.”
    â€œTell me why it’s red,” says my dad.
    â€œThe red color of the Pioneers scarf is the color of our Communist banner and represents blood spilled for the cause of the Communist Party!”
    My dad nods and ties it around my neck just as the rule says—the right tip extending lower than the left—and says, “Young Pioneer! Ready to fight for the cause of the Communist Party and Comrade Stalin?”
    I shoot my arm up in the Pioneers salute and reply, “Always ready!”
    Here his face changes, and by the look he has now, I know what he’s going to say.
    â€œYour mother would be so proud,” he says.
    I see myself reflected in his glasses; scarlet burns at my throat. My hand goes up to it. After tomorrow, I’ll never take this scarf off. Just to wash and iron it every night.

    â€œI’m going to tie your scarf tomorrow at the Pioneers rally. Not just yours. Your principal asked me to be a guest of honor,” he says.
    I don’t want to be disappointed, so I say, “You can’t come, right? Too busy catching spies?”
    He smiles. “I’ll be there. Word of a Communist.”
    I leap up and hug him, and he hugs me
back. He’s so strong, my ribs are about to crack. Then he says quietly in my ear, “Anything ever happens to me, go to Aunt Larisa.