The Education of a Traitor: A Memoir of Growing Up in Cold War Russia by Svetlana Grobman Page A

covers her scalp like cobwebs, and her deeply wrinkled face resembles a dried mushroom wasting in the woods. In other words, Zoya Ivanovna looks like a mummy I once saw in a museum; the main difference is that instead of peacefully lying in her sarcophagus and contemplating eternity, Zoya Ivanovna walks among the living with small and unsteady steps. Mom must have been desperate to hire this shadow of a woman. Surely, this babysitter will not last long. 
    I am wrong. Three months later, Zoya Ivanovna is still around. When I come home from school, she is the first person I see. Her shriveled dark figure stands out against the doorway, her coat is buttoned up, her headscarf hugs her ancient face tightly, and her pale eyes, hidden under beetling white brows, are filled with the eager anticipation of a soldier waiting to be relieved from her watch.
    “Good day, Zoya Ivanovna,” I say, holding back the urge to click my heals and salute her, like one service man to another, for I know firsthand what her time with my sister must have been like.
    “Well, I think I’ll go now,” Zoya Ivanovna replies—her shuffling feet already polishing the cold stones of the staircase behind our door.
    I never blame her for the quick retreat. I wish I could go, too. In fact, I am amazed that Zoya Ivanovna has tolerated this long Tanya’s mercurial temperament and her rare knack for getting into trouble. It is difficult even for me, and I must be a hundred years younger than Zoya Ivanovna.
    One morning Zoya Ivanovna does not come. Instead, Mom takes Tanya to her place. After school, I go to pick up Tanya from Zoya Ivanovna’s house—a decrepit structure near my school. I ring the bell of her apartment, and my sister opens the door to a dim, cave-like room.
    A strange smell stops me in my tracks. I look around. Everything in the room is old and worn out, including its owner, who is sinking into the sofa, looking ominous with exhaustion—as Baba Yaga might look near death. For a minute I stare at Zoya Ivanovna’s wasted figure, trying to identify the source of the odor. Is it mold? Spoiled food? Or Zoya Ivanovna’s body? I am used to modest circumstances, but it suddenly hits me that this is true poverty . This is what it must look like, and this is what it must smell like.
    But it cannot be! Not according to my teachers, my textbooks, or our radio and TV. Poverty is a sign of rotten capitalism, and it does not exist in our country! Our slogan is “From each according to his ability to each according to his needs.” As for old people, every school age kid knows that they deserve a “happy old age”!
    I am staring at Zoya Ivanovna. Her face shows no signs of happiness. As for this smell, I do not know what “rotten” capitalism smells like, but it cannot stink any worse than Zoya Ivanovna’s apartment. And, despite everything I have heard and learned in school, despite all the slogans, I realize that poverty, unvarnished and ugly, does exist in our country. What else pulls Zoya Ivanovna off her broken-down sofa and makes her babysit my fidgety sister? The little money she gets from my parents makes her struggle for survival easier, if not bearable. For what can be bearable about living on a miserable pension after long years spent serving one’s people and country?  
    I help Tanya put on her coat and we head home. “You’d better listen to Zoya Ivanovna, Tanya,” I say to my sister who is paying as much attention to my words as she does to the clouds in the sky. And when we walk into our apartment—which suddenly seems as luxurious as the Russian tsars’ palace—I feel as lucky and privileged as I have ever felt. 
    Two weeks later, I get sick, and Mom takes Tanya to Zoya Ivanovna’s once more. When they come home at night, Mom’s cheeks are flushed and Tanya is trailing behind her, whining.
    “Tanya, don’t bother me now and don’t bother your sister either,” Mom says very loudly, elaborately sucking air through her