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

Tanya's arrival, or good news, like going to visit the grandparents. 
    “Mom, is the water in the Black Sea black?” 
    “Not at all. It’s as blue as the summer sky.” 
    “Why do they call it ‘black’ then?” 
    “I'm not sure.” 
    “Is the Black Sea bigger than Sokolniki’s pond?” 
    “It's much, much bigger, and it has real nice sandy beaches and mountains around it.” 
    I have never seen sandy beaches. I have only seen sand on playgrounds and around the pond at Sokolniki. As for the mountains, they appear in pictures in my fairytale books, the ones about heroes who go “far away and over the mountains” in search of a treasure or a princess they want to marry. Do regular people go there, too? 
    On the day of departure, Mom, with Tanya in her arms, and I board a train at bustling Kazanskaja station. Behind us, Dad carries a large, heavy suitcase. He brings it to our sleeping car compartment, kisses us good-bye, and leaves. Mom lowers the compartment’s window, and as the train jerks, groans, and picks up speed, we wave good-bye to my father who stands on the platform waving back at us and quickly growing smaller. When I can no longer see him, I turn and look around.
    The small compartment is furnished with four narrow bunk beds—two on the right for us and two on the left for our new neighbors—a small built-in table by the window, and a sliding door. The door keeps slamming: a black-mustached conductor peers in with a pile of linen, a young woman searches for her companion, a vendor offers sosiski (Russian hotdogs), and our new neighbors, an elderly couple, walk in and out. 
    Mom asks me to hold Tanya and begins organizing our possessions. Then she positions herself on the lower bunk-bed, turns sideways, and, trying to be inconspicuous, uncovers her breast to feed Tanya. The neighbors exchange glances and politely leave. After Tanya is fed, Mom assembles our dinner: bread, pickles, and pieces of boiled chicken.
    A loud knock on the door announces the arrival of hot tea, and the conductor walks in with two large amber-color glasses, which tinkle in heavy metal glass-holders. He puts the glasses down on the table, counts out two lumps of sugar per glass, and leaves. I hear his hoarse “Tea anybody? Tea?” fading down the corridor. 
    After Mom and I finish our dinner, we go to the corridor and our neighbors return to the compartment to eat their dinner. The corridor is busy. People walk up and down, talking, laughing, looking for the conductor, or heading to the bathroom. Mom unfolds a narrow built-in seat beneath a window, sits down, and begins rocking Tanya to sleep. I stick to the window next to her and watch the scenery fly by: streams, birches, power lines, and unkempt villages with dark figures of people and animals.
    At night, Mom and Tanya settle together on the bottom bunk, and I climb to the top. The train rocks rhythmically underneath me, and, for a while, I listen to the night sounds of the compartment: Tanya’s weak moaning, the elderly neighbor’s snoring, and Mom’s breathing. Soon, in time to the choo-k-choo-k—choo-k—choo-k—choo-k of our train, I fall into fitful sleep, interrupted only by the whooshing of passing trains. 
    In the morning, we have a breakfast of bread, boiled eggs, and cheese, which we wash down with more hot tea. Mom and the neighbors talk about our destinations. We, Mom says, are going to Adler (a little town by the Black Sea), where she will look for a place to rent. Our neighbors, on the other hand, are going to a sanatorium in Sochi (a much bigger town in the same area), where they will receive medical treatment.
    “You’re a doctor, right? Let me ask you a question.” And they break into a long and tedious monologue about their ailing health.  
    I take my observation post by the window. Overnight, the landscape has changed. Pines, birches, and cedars have disappeared, and now our train rumbles through green fields and orchards. At the train