Breaking Stalin's Nose by Eugene Yelchin Page B

She’ll put you up.”
    Just then, our neighbor Orlov starts singing and playing his accordion.

    Be calm, our Leader, we’re standing guard.
We won’t give the enemy even a yard.
Wherever we go, the world’s set anew.
Life’s getting better and happier too!

    Dad sets me down, knocks on the wall, and says, “Keep it down, comrade. It’s no time for parties.”
    Orlov stops right away; that is how much everybody respects my dad. He turns to me and says, “To bed, future Pioneer. Tomorrow’s a big day.”

5
    I WAKE UP in the middle of the night, worried. Why did he say “Anything ever happens to me, go to Aunt Larisa”? I don’t understand. What could happen to him?
    I watch the faint shades of the falling snow slide across the ceiling, listening to his even breathing. After a while, I feel better. Nothing could happen to my dad; Stalin needs him.
    I turn to the window, where a giant statue of Stalin gleams under searchlights. The statue is made from the steel of fighter planes and stands taller than any building. You can see it from every window in Moscow.

    Recently, my dad caught a gang of wreckers scheming to blow it up. Wreckers are enemies of the people and want to destroy our precious Soviet property. I can’t imagine anybody who would dare to damage a monument to Comrade Stalin, but there are some bad characters out there. Obviously, they’re always caught.

    I stare at the statue and pretend it is Comrade Stalin himself, watching over Moscow from his great height. His steady eyes track a legion of shiny black dots zipping up and down the snow-white streets. The dots grow larger and larger, until they turn into shiny black automobiles made of black metal and bulletproof glass. These beautiful machines belong to our State Security. I know
because my dad has one. Night after night, Stalin’s urgent orders drive these automobiles past our house, but tonight one turns into our courtyard. I listen to the engine left running, doors slamming, and boots hurrying up the stairs. Then the doorbell rings.
    This is how we know who has visitors—we count the rings. One for the Shulmans, two for the Ivanovs, three for the Stukachovs, four for the Kozlovs, five for us, and so on, all the way to the Lodochkins, who get twelve.

    Ring, ring, ring, ring, ring.
    Five. They want us.
    Ring, ring, ring, ring, ring.
    â€œDad, Dad, a car for you. On Stalin’s orders!”
    Ring, ring, ring, ring, ring.
    He sits up, wrapped in the sheet like a ghost, glares at me wildly, and says, “Stay in bed.”
    I wait till he leaves, then go after him into the kitchen. What I see in the dull glow of the room is the white sheet, taut and sweaty over his back. The front door is open; he’s leaning out, listening to someone on the other side. When he finally turns, he has a face I’ve never seen before.
    â€œWhat’s wrong, Dad?”
    Out of the darkness, three large figures in State Security uniforms stomp into the kitchen. They follow my dad past where I’m standing and into the corridor toward our room. The last in line catches his cap against the laundry line, picks it up, swears,
and clomps after the rest. All this noise in the middle of the night, but our neighbors’ doors stay shut. Nobody looks out to complain.
    When I get to the room, Dad is sitting on the floor, holding his ear. The officer’s leather belt creaks as he turns to look at me, his eyes bloodshot. “Nothing to worry about, little boy,” he says in a hoarse voice. “A friendly chat, that’s all.”
    The guards pull out the drawers and dump our things on the floor. They shake loose pages out of our books. They cut up Dad’s mattress and feel inside it. They tap on the walls, listening for hidden places, and open part of the floor where the nails are loose. Soon what we have is in a pile, torn and wrecked. The only thing they don’t touch is a framed