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

disturbs my parents and angers our neighbors.
    “Sure, Firochka Raphailovna. (Mom’s first name is Fira, and Tosja’s ‘Firochka’ gives it a childishly endearing quality.) Don’tcha worry,” Tosja says, her voice ringing with excitement, unusual at this relatively early hour.
    I open my second eye and look at her. Tosja’s thin straight hair is arranged in cascading waves exactly like Mom’s, and she is ironing her dress on the side of the table opposite to Mom’s. 
    “I’ll be visitin’ my aunt today. I may be back late, too,” Tosja says a little bit too casually. Then she lifts a large aluminum cup from the table, sucks a mouthful of water from it, and liberally spews it out on her wrinkled dress.
    “Your aunt?  I did not know you had an aunt here.” 
    “Oh, ya know. I wasn’t quite sure I’d find ’er, so I didn’t tell ya. It’s my mother’s sister.” 
    “Really? I thought that your mother didn’t have any sisters!” Mom’s voice is laced with suspicion. 
    “That’s my father,” Tosja says, lowering her eyes and firmly landing the iron on the flowery fabric, which responds to the heat with gurgling sounds. “ His folks didn’t have no girls.” 
    “Uh huh,” Mom says, knitting her brows. 
    As a streetcar carries my family to my grandparents, I overhear my parents’ conversation.
    “I’m not senile! She told me that her mother has no sisters!” 
    “We’re not her family, Fira, and she’s not a child. She can do whatever she wants.” 
    “I know that. But don’t you see she’s headed for trouble?”
    “And what do you suppose we can do? First of all, you don’t know for a fact that she’s lying. Secondly, let’s say she is. Are you going to lock her in her room?” 
    Time goes by. Every Sunday afternoon, Tosja dresses up and goes to visit her newly discovered relative.
    “How’s your aunt doing?” Mom asks her at night. 
    “Good. She’s alone, ya know. She needs me.” And at that, the conversation ends. 
    One Sunday, Tosja stays at home.
    “Are you going anywhere, Tosja?” Mom says. 
    “Nah,” Tosja says in a morose monotone. 
    “Are you sick?” Mom says. 
    “Nah.” 
    “Well, we’ll have guests over. You’re welcome to join us, but you might be bored.” 
    Tosja says nothing. When the guests arrive, she goes to her closet-room and closes the door. 
    “Is something the matter with your nanny?” My Aunt Raya whispers to Mom. 
    “I’m afraid so,” Mom whispers back and gives her sister a meaningful glance. 
    “Ah,” Aunt Raya says. “I knew it would end like that.” 
    “I did, too.” Mom says, and they switch to Yiddish.
    More time goes by, and one day I suddenly notice that Tosja is getting fat. Kind of like Mom before she had Tanya. 
    At night, I report my observation to my parents.  “She’s not fat,” Mom says, glancing at Dad. “She’s going to have a baby.”
    A baby!? With the exception of Sundays, which are Tosja’s days off, Tosja and I spend lots of time together. If Tosja is to have a baby, I will likely have one, too!
    I have nothing against babies—besides my bothersome sister, that is—but being fat is a different matter. In fact, being fat is the worst thing that can happen to a kid in our neighborhood. There is a fat boy in the house across the street, and nobody ever plays with him. Even worse, they all tease him until he runs home, spreading tears all over his round face with his fists.
    I dash to the mirror and inspect my reflection—a scarecrow-skinny girl stares back at me. 
    “Will I have a baby?” I say in a thin voice.
    Dad looks at Mom and says, “Eventually, I guess.” 
    And Mom says, “What nonsense! This has nothing to do with you. Children can’t have babies.”
     

 
    CHAPTER TEN
    THE COLOR OF WATER
    One month before school starts, we are going to the Black Sea. “We” means Mom, Tanya and me; Dad is staying in Moscow. I am not sure whether going to the sea is bad news, like