Tatiana and Alexander - Paullina Simons

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religious reasons in 1928 and given ten years—

      “Wait, Tamara, Mikhailovna, ten years where?”

      “Forced labor camp, of course. Siberia. Where else?”

      “They convicted him and sent him there to work?”

      “To prison …”

      “To work for free?”

      “Oh, Alexander, you’re interrupting, and I need to tell you something.”

      He fell quiet.

      “The prostitutes near Arbat were arrested in 1930 and not only were they back on the street months later but had also been reunited with their families in the old cities they used to frequent. But my husband, and the band of religious men, will not be allowed to return, certainly not to Moscow.”

      “Only three more years,” Alexander said slowly. “Three more years of forced labor.”

      Tamara shook her head and lowered her voice. “I received a telegram from the Kolyma authorities in 1932—without right of correspondence, it said. You know what that means, don’t you?”

      Alexander didn’t want even to hazard a guess.

      “It means he is no longer alive to correspond with,” said Tamara, her voice shaking and her head lowering.

      She told him how, from the church down the block, three priests were arrested and given seven years for not putting away the tools of capitalism, which in their case was the organized and personal and unrepentant belief in Jesus Christ.

      “Also forced labor camp?”

      “Oh, Alexander!”

      He stopped. She continued. “But the funny thing is—have you noticed the hotel down the street that had the harlots right outside a few months ago?”

      “Hmm.” Alexander noticed.

      “Well, have you noticed how they all disappeared?”

      “Hmm.” Alexander noticed that too.

      “They were taken away. For disturbing the peace, for disrupting the public good—”

      “And for not putting away the tools of capitalism,” Alexander said dryly, and Tamara laughed and touched his head.

      “That’s right, my boy. That’s right. And do you know how long they had been given in that forced labor camp that you care so much about? Three years. So just remember—Jesus Christ, seven, prostitutes, three.”

      “All right,” said Jane, coming into the room, taking her son by the hand and leading him out. Before she left, she turned around and said in an accusatory tone to Tamara, but addressed to Alexander, “Can we not be learning about prostitutes from toothless old women?”

      “Who would you like me to learn about prostitutes from, Mom?” he asked.

      “Son, your mother wanted me to talk to you about something.” Harold cleared his throat. Alexander crimped his lips together and sat quietly. His father looked so uncomfortable that Alexander had to sit on his hands to keep himself from laughing. His mother was pretending to clean something in another part of the room. Harold glared in Jane’s direction.

      “Dad?” said Alexander in his deepest voice. His voice had broken a few months ago, and he really liked the way his new self sounded. Very grown-up. He also had shot up, growing more than eight inches in the course of the last six months, but he couldn’t seem to put any flesh on his bones. There just wasn’t enough of … anything. “Dad, do you want to go for a walk and talk about it?”

      “No!” said Jane. “I can’t hear a thing. Talk here.”

      Nodding, Alexander said, “All right, Dad, talk here.” He scrunched up his face and tried to look serious. It wouldn’t have mattered if he were sitting cross-eyed and sticking his tongue out. Harold was not looking at Alexander.

      “Son,” said Harold. “You’re getting to be at that age where you’re, well, I’m sure, you’re—and also you’re—you’re a fine boy, and good-looking, I want to help, and soon, or maybe already—and I’m sure that you’re—”

      Jane tutted in the background. Harold fell quiet.

      Alexander sat for a few seconds, then got up, slapped his father on the back and said, “Thanks, Dad. That was helpful.”

      He went into his room, and Harold didn’t follow him. Alexander heard his parents bickering next door, and in a minute there was a knock. It was his mother. “Can I talk to you?”

      Alexander trying to keep a composed face, said, “Mom, really, I think Dad said all there was to say, I don’t know if there’s anything to add—”

      She sat down on his bed while he sat in the chair near the window. He was going to be sixteen in May. He liked summer. Maybe they would get a room at a dacha in Krasnaya Polyana again like they did last year.

      “Alexander, what your father didn’t mention—”

      “Was there something Dad didn’t mention?”

      “Son …”

      “Please—go ahead.”

      “I’m not going to give you a lesson in girls—”

      “Thank goodness for that.”

      “Listen to me, the only thing I want you to do is remember this—” She paused.

      He waited.

      “Martha told me one of her derelict sons has had his horn removed!” she whispered. “Removed, Alexander, and do you know why?”

      “I’m not sure I want to.”

      “Because he got frenchified! Do you know what that is?”

      “I think—”

      “And her other son’s got French pigs all over his body. It’s the most revolting thing!”

      “Yes, it—”

      “The French curse! The French crown! Syphilis! Lenin died from it eating up his brain,” she whispered. “No one talks about it, but it’s true all the same. Is that what you want for yourself?”

      “Hmm …” said Alexander. “No?”

      “Well, it’s all over the place. Your father and I knew a man who lost his whole nose because of it.”

      “Personally, I’d rather lose the nose than—”

      “Alexander!”

      “Sorry.”

      “This is very serious, son. I have done all I can to raise you a good, clean boy, but look where we are living, and soon you’ll be out on your own.”

      “How soon you think?”

      “What do you think is going to happen when you don’t know where the harlot you’re with has been?” Jane asked resolutely. “Son, when you grow up, I don’t want you to be a saint or a eunuch. I just want you to be careful. I want you to protect what’s yours at all times. You must be clean, you must be vigilant, and you must also remember that without protection, you will get a girl up the stick, and then what? You’re going to marry someone you don’t love because you weren’t careful?”

      Alexander stared at his mother. “Up the stick?” he said.

      “She’ll tell you it’s yours and you’ll never know for sure, all you’ll know is that you’re married, and your horn is falling off!”

      “Mother,” said Alexander. “Really, you must stop.”

      “Do

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