The rest of the tenants were spared this time. Daria suspected her father-in-law had been holding his breath throughout the entire operation, looking around their rooms, speculating about what he’d be allowed to keep with him in exile.
Once the crisis had passed, within ten minutes of the Chaika pulling out of the courtyard, the primary communal neighbors took over the abandoned space, rifling through the departed’s things, keeping what they liked, tossing the refuse into the street for the rest of them to fight over. Through the window, Daria spied a clothesline now snaking along the length of the kitchen.
After that, even the bravest inhabitants stopped looking Adam in the eye. Those, like Daria’s father-in-law, who, in the past, had attempted to make jokes, thinking they could josh the sullen giant into good humor through their own example, or, at least, a polite “Good morning, Adam Semyonovitch,” “Good evening, Adam Semyonovitch,” “How pleasant that the rain has stopped, Adam Semyonovitch,” now scurried by him, heads down, shoulders hunched, practically groveling along the ground in a dual attempt to court his favor and escape his notice.
It made Daria furious. Because it reminded her of her mother. Her brave, clever mother, who’d disobeyed Daria’s father to send her to school, who’d ignored their neighbors preaching about the dangers of the city, who’d set out to make her own luck where her daughter’s marriage prospects were concerned, and who’d stuck to her guns even when it looked like all her planning might prove for naught, turning to God only as a very last resort. And then Daria was forced to recall how Mama had acted in front of Edward and his father. Like she was afraid of them, like she wasn’t good enough for them, like she owed them an apology for not having had their advantages, like she wasn’t deserving of being treated like a person.
Daria had convinced herself to forgive Edward and Isaak for making Mama feel that way. She’d rationalized that it wasn’t their fault, that the inferiority was in Mama’s mind, that they’d been as polite as could be expected under the circumstances. But Daria would be damned before she’d give Adam the satisfaction of making her feel that way.
So while everyone else crawled, Daria stood up straighter. While everyone else feigned a fantastic interest in their watches or making certain they didn’t slip on a patch of treacherous ice by keeping their eyes peeled to the ground at all times, Daria made sure to look Adam square in the face. She bade the girls to wish him good morning and good evening in Russian and, once, when her mother was visiting, in Yiddish. With a patronymic like Semyonovitch, Adam was no better than they were, in that respect. He was also a Jew. He couldn’t claim his ancestry was any more patriotic. Daria wanted him to know she was aware of that fact. Her mother cringed and later read Daria the riot act. How dare Daria shame her new family in such a brazen manner? Did she want them to send her packing? Did she want to end up no better than before? And after all the labor Mama did to make certain no one could accuse her Daria of being provincial trash! Speaking Yiddish, no less! Daria would be the death of them all!
Daria apologized profusely. Then, when Mama returned home, continued right on doing what she’d been doing. After Adam came to tell Daria Alyssa was playing in front of the building with a dead rat, wrapping it in old newspapers like a baby doll in a blanket, chastising Daria for risking all of them catching the plague, she made sure to thank him and pull a protesting Alyssa away, even as she made it clear the disgust in her voice was targeted not at her daughter’s unconventional idea of a plaything, but at him.
She knew it terrified her father-in-law, but Edward took it in stride. “She’s merely saying good morning to the dvornik, Papa. She’s not doing anything wrong. None of us is doing anything wrong, so there is nothing to be afraid of.”
Edward believed what he was saying.
Even on the morning when the authorities turned up for them.
Chapter 4
They were no longer called the OGPU, the Joint State Political Directorate. As of 1934, they were the NKVD, the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs. While the arrival time was familiar—almost four a.m. on the dot—there was no Chaika. Daria and Edward were roused by two officers wearing matching calf-length gray coats with red epaulets at the open collar and parallel golden buttons down the front, and loose pants more appropriate for Russian folk dancing. The coats were belted at the waist, a pistol in a holster over each hip. They advised Daria and Edward that they had fifteen minutes to get dressed, gather their children and whatever belongings they thought they could carry, and meet them outside. The old man was not included in the order. He was to remain inside and not cause any trouble.
“There’s been a mistake,” Edward began. “We haven’t done anything wrong.”
Not needing to read off the piece of paper in his hand, the lead officer droned, “Members of the nationalistic Germanic race who pose a threat to the stability and unity of the Soviet are enemies of the people and are to be removed by order of Nikita Khrushchev, Vyacheslav Molotov, and Genrikh Yagoda.”
“The Germanic . . . Oh! I see! There’s your mistake.” Edward smiled, happy to help them identify and rectify this error. “We are not Germans. I’ll show you.” He hurried to the polished wooden box sitting on the shelf over their bed, where Daria and Edward kept the internal passports they’d reported to be issued as soon as that law was passed at the end of 1932. “There, you see? My passport, my wife’s. Look, right here, on the fifth line. Nationality: Jewish. We are Jews, not Germans.”
“And loyal citizens!” Edward’s father shouted from the room to which he’d been banished. It was February; the front door was open. Isaak was wearing his robe over pajamas. Nonetheless, his frantic shivering was still out of proportion to the temperature.
Their self-described escort barely glanced at the documents. “You have been overheard speaking German.”
“To my mother,” Daria rushed to explain. “My mother speaks Yiddish—we are Jews.” She poked her finger at the passport. “Yiddish sounds similar to German.”
“Fifteen minutes,” the officer repeated, and stepped outside with his colleague to wait for them.
By this point, the girls had awoken and were sitting in their beds. Well, not beds, exactly. None had been available for purchase over the past several years—a production shortage, they were informed by Pravda, caused by saboteurs slowing down their factory work to deprive the Soviet people of basic necessities. So Alyssa and Anya slept on a pair of chairs turned toward each other and covered with a sheet, pillow, and blanket. Edward and Daria agreed it was for the best. Not only did the furniture now serve two purposes—they were being good citizens by not promoting waste or diverting resources from where they were more needed—but it gave them extra room during the day. Beds would have taken up precious space.
“Get up,” Daria urged her daughters. Knowing, though she couldn’t say how, that the time for appeals had passed. She felt her mother inhabiting her senses, directing her actions, telling Daria their one chance of getting back home was to do what they were told, to deal with each new aspect of the situation as it happened. Anything else would make it worse. Survive now. Figure everything else out later.