The Knife Sharpener's Bell by Rhea Tregebov Page B

really lived, in a house with no walls, nothing to keep the outside out. In a park of monsters.
    My heart hurts. I can’t swallow because my mouth is so dry. Instead of the usual written exams we used to have in Winnipeg, for my Natural Sciences class I have to take an oral examination. I’m going to have to stand up in front of the whole class and give my answer.
    I don’t want to. I want Poppa to save me. Last week, he came for the meeting with Comrade Ivanova and she explained about the test.
Please make sure that Annette is not alarmed in any way about these tests
, she told him. Poppa just nodded. I couldn’t say anything about how scared I was. I didn’t want him to be ashamed of me.
    The teacher nods at me to take my question. The tickets with the test questions are in a pile on Comrade Ivanova’s desk. Two other teachers are helping, making notes on lined pieces of paper.
    Elena’s up next. Her marks are always “excellent”; she doesn’t have to worry.
What is industrial dust and how is it harmful?
Elena stands straight in front of the teacher’s desk and gives her answer. I can’t hear what she says. There’s a kind of roaring in my head, a buzz.
    Two more students and then it’s my turn. Elena sits down, tilts her head at me, smiles.
Don’t worry
, she mouths. I have to look at the question, at the piece of paper in my hand that’s crinkly and damp with sweat.
    Why has a dog a muzzle and a man a face? Give three reasons.
    What does it mean? All I can think of is a dog-face, a man-muzzle, a horrible man/dog face. Three reasons. I can’t even understand the question.
    That boy, Anatoly, is up next. He’s running his hand through his curly hair, making it even more of a mess. Comrade Ivanova tells him to take his hands out of his pockets. He shrugs; one corner of his mouth goes up in half a smile. Even his half-smile is nice. He has green eyes, like my mother. And now he’s answering but I can’t hear his answer. All I can hear is a murmur, as if I didn’t understand Russian any more, as if I were in a foreign country, and lost.
    I am.
    Why did Poppa bring me here? Why do I have to learn everything new? I want to be my old self, the one I knew, the one that never changed.
    They’re calling my name.
    I hold on to the edge of the desk, haul myself up.
    â€œComrade Ivanova,” I say, “I don’t understand the question.”
    The teacher looks more surprised than stern, whispers something to the other teachers. “Annette, please take a seat again at the back of the room.”
    I go to the back of the class, put my head down on the desk.
    The other teacher, Comrade Kazan, comes up and leaves a new ticket on my desk. “This is your new question, Annette. Please study it and we will ask you up again in a few minutes.”
    They’re giving me another chance.
    I have to give myself a chance. I have to stop being scared of everything, scared of nothing. What was I afraid of? The strap? There’s no strap here.
    So what can they do to me?
    Send me home.
    All right then, they’ll send me home.
    Tell my mother.
    So what?
    So what.
    It doesn’t matter what they do to me. It doesn’t matter how I’m punished.
    They can’t make me do anything. Not if I’m not afraid.
    I’m not afraid.
    So much was taught in those classrooms. My teacher, Comrade Ivanova, Raya, the Young Pioneer leader with her kind blue eyes – they taught me, eventually, gently, with consideration, not to be afraid of oral examinations. Taught me this poem:
    WORKERS
The snow is deep on the streets.
But see, the street workers sweep the snow from the streets.
We need not creep.
Our feet will not get wet.
Three cheers for the street workers.
    I memorized the lines, and can still remember them. As in the poem, we were taught to cheer – to celebrate the workers, the genuine citizens, good comrades. To celebrate