Emily Rubin - Stalina

“She stole something of mine from Russia, sold it, and believed it was her right to do so. There was no place for me with her anymore. I am happy living at the motel.”

“Have you heard from Mr. Suri?”

“Yes, a postcard came the other day.”

I showed Nadia the postcard of a rodeo in a shopping mall in Oklahoma. At one end of the rodeo ring there was a ten-foot-high model of the Statue of Liberty. Mr. Suri’s handwriting was small, tight, and very delicate.

Dear Stalina,

On the way to Arizona, I made a stop in Oklahoma. Garson has joined me here to complete the journey together. The replica of Lady Liberty reminded me of the motel and you. Maybe you should get one for the entrance. I am fascinated by the rodeo. Taming the wild beast. I bought a cowboy hat, and Garson got a whip. Whatever happened to Svetlana and the crow? Does the life of a motel manager suit you? I’m sure it does. If you still think of me, I hope it is as a friend. I will send my address when I arrive at my destination.

“He really cared for you, Stalina,” Nadia said after reading the card.

“I liked him very much; he was hardworking,” I said.

“I hope I didn’t stop anything between you two, but he was ruining my business.”

“I think he is happier now that he has gotten away from the motel. I don’t think he was a true believer in the short-stay concept.”

“Not like us! Short stays forever!”

“Short stays forever!” I joined in.

“Our customers return for their short stays, over and over,” she said.

“They come and hope to…” I stopped and waited for Nadia to join me.

“To come! And come again!” She laughed and threw her arms overhead and then embraced me. Two days later, I took a day off from work.

Once in New York City, I traveled by subway to Brighton Beach. Compared to our glorious Russian metro, the New York subway was like a creature suffering from a bad case of gastric distress coupled with rheumatoid arthritis. The tunnels were intestines, and the screeching brakes were the beast’s twisted, grinding jaw. When the doors opened, a belch of rancid smell permeated the car. Crazed writings in a strange alphabet covered the walls, and garbage was everywhere. A lonesome, unattended roaring giant was this train named N of the BMT Line. All of this was very unsavory, but as the train came out of the tunnel, I was delighted to see a beautiful view of the homes and narrow streets of Brooklyn. On top of one building was a billboard for a hairdresser written in Cyrillic. I felt a thrill and fear, as if I was returning home. It was a Monday in March and, coincidentally, the anniversary of Stalin’s death. Anyone alive in Russia at the time remembers where they were on that day in 1953. I was at home with Olga, playing cards and admiring our new hairstyles in the hand mirror my mother gave me for my birthday. As I came down from the elevated subway platform at Brighton Beach Avenue, the busy markets and businesses reminded me of home. The smell of juniper, cinnamon, and dill used to pickle beets, turnips, and garlic, along with the mouth-watering oils from the smoked fish, filled the air along the sidewalks. Who could resist going inside the markets? And Russian was being spoken on the street. Surrounded by everything familiar, I felt light in the head.

“I’m meeting Mina at three at the hairdresser,” a woman wearing a gray sable coat said in Russian to another woman in mink.

“The meringue cake at M&I is fresh today. Do you want me to pick you up some?”

“If it’s not too much trouble, I would love some for tea. My mother-in-law is coming over, and the meringue cake is her favorite.”

“Sweetening her up again?” the woman in mink asked.

“Josip and I are going on the cruise we won at the raffle. I want her to mind the dogs while we’re gone.”

“Meringue cake will do it?”

“That and if we promise to take her on the next cruise.”

They turned the corner. I watched as their coats disappeared into a fruit stand, and I headed for the boardwalk. Even a block away the damp salt smell of the sea hung in the air. The wood of the boardwalk was wet from a morning rain. I sat on a bench against a newly whitewashed wall and stared at the ocean. An old woman wearing a paisley headscarf was throwing bread over a railing, feeding seagulls on the beach. The birds were going in circles overhead. A young mother pushing a baby carriage stopped to wipe mustard off her child’s hands and face. The sun was warm and lovely, and the seagulls threw shadows like airplanes flying in formation over the boardwalk. Two painters were whitewashing the walls along the sides of the boardwalk. They stopped to take a break when their partner returned with a tray of hot dogs and french fries. I could smell the food on the wind. The child with the mustard on his face started crying. His mother lit a cigarette and pushed the stroller closer to the beach and the seagulls. The birds screeched in harmony with the baby. There was much commotion as the birds rose, flapping fiercely and surrounding the old woman. She dumped the remaining crumbs in her bag over the railing, sat back, and fixed her scarf, which had come undone. The child started laughing, and the mother put out her cigarette and continued to walk down the boardwalk. The birds made a spiral into the air and dove for the bread. Brighton Beach was feeling very agreeable.

A dog came running up the boardwalk as the painters started to whitewash the next wall. The owner held out a large bone to the dog, who promptly grabbed it and put it securely between his front paws. He chewed ravenously right in front of me. His owner, who was wearing a blue and red jogging outfit and had a little bit of a limp, came over to retrieve his dog.

“Come on, Pepe, I haven’t finished my run,” he said.

The dog ignored him. This was one of the largest dogs I had ever seen. He had long legs with bulging joints. His back had black splotches on his otherwise white coat. He had haunches the size of a pony and did not sit his behind fully on the slats of the boardwalk. A large but delicate beast.

“I had a dog named Pepe. He was much smaller than yours,” I said.

The man was dark like Mr. Suri and had a gold ring in his nose.

“He’s a Great Dane, and he loves to run on the beach.”

“Mine liked to run along the river.”

“The Hudson?” he asked.

“No, the Neva, at home.”

“The Neva?” he asked.

“It’s in Russia, St. Petersburg.”

“So many people from Russia live here. Did your Pepe like to chase his shadow on the beach like this one?” he said, laughing.

“Dogs are so easily fooled,” I said.

“They may be small-brained, but they are forever loyal,” he added.

“Loyalty, yes, it’s their nature,” I said.

The whole time we spoke, the man jogged in place.

“Good day, ma’am, we must be on our way. Come along, Pepe,” he said as he tipped his cap with an N and a Y embroidered on it and ran down the boardwalk in the direction of a giant Ferris wheel and an Eiffel Tower–looking structure. Pepe loped behind with the bone dangling from his jaws. The sun was bright and harsh shining off the panting dog’s white coat.

On the beach, broken glass and plastic bags had settled down into the hardened winter sand mixed with snow and the occasional clamshell. A man with hair down to his shoulders was flying a kite with very little success. The seagulls were still crying and fighting over whatever bread was left. The bird sounds and squeals from children were picked up by the wind, stretched and muffled by the dull sound of the waves. Beach sounds were the same in Russia. The Baltic and the Atlantic must merge at some point, even here at Brighton Beach.