The Education of a Traitor: A Memoir of Growing Up in Cold War Russia Read Online Free

peer into the kitchen—do they have any chocolate?—but Mom orders me to take my place at the table. The dinner is long and abundantly peppered with toasts for Roma's health, success and good luck, his parents’ health, success and good luck, the guests' health, success and good luck, and, most importantly, peace in the whole world.
    The main course is finished, the dirty plates are taken away, and I hope dessert will follow soon. Too early. The adults keep talking, but now their conversation takes a bitter turn. 
    “Does anybody even know how many people Stalin sgubil (wasted) before and during the war? Millions for sure! And after the war? Millions again!” my father thunders. “Okay, Khrush-chev denounced Stalin’s cult of personality. Still, tell me, where are the people who carried out his commands all those years, who shot innocent people or squealed on their neighbors?” Father looks around at his silent audience, and his fist hits the table: “They’re still among us!” 
    I stare at the adults, alarmed. What’s the matter? Actually, nothing special. It is a typical conversation many families have behind closed doors. Political freedom does not exist in our country, and it will not exist for many more years—if ever. The only places where people can express their unhappiness and let off steam are in their homes, and family gatherings are good outlets for that, since everybody knows that talking politics outside the family circle could be dangerous.
    Tonight, though, Mom tries to stop her husband. “Enough, Natán,” she says quietly, pulling his sleeve. “It’s a birthday party.” 
    “Don’t ‘enough’ me!” Father cuts her off. 
    Uncle Abraham raises his voice, too. “Fira’s right. Chto proshloe voroshit.” (Don’t dig up the past).
    Father, exalted by the spirits and the sound of his own voice, turns away from Mom and faces his brother-in-law.
    “Why not? Did they put you into a prison camp or didn’t they?” he says, referring to the time when my uncle, then a Polish soldier, fled from the Nazis, only to be captured by the Soviet Army on the border and sent to Siberia. 
    Uncle Abraham’s face darkens, “That’s my business. We’re here to celebrate, not to read the burial service.” He shakes his head, stretches his narrow lips into a smile, and winks, “Entertainment time!” 
    My cousin Sima slowly gets up from the table and walks to the piano with the expression of a martyr about to be thrown to the lions. She opens her instrument and attempts to play Mozart's Turkish March. The adults—the lions—reward her with intoxicating clapping.
    Then hot tea makes its steaming appearance, and—finally!—my aunt reaches inside the cupboard behind the table. When she turns around, the smile on her face is as broad as her hips, and a box of chocolate is in her hands. The box is tied up with a bow like a red rose. Aunt Raya unties the rose and, with the flair of an experienced magician, pulls off the lid. Rows of candy, wrapped in thin white paper, are revealed to our eyes. Aunt Raya turns to her son and gently hands the treasure to him, “Sweet wishes!”
    With everybody’s eyes fixed upon him, Roma, who has been unusually quiet during dinner, carefully pulls one white ball out of the box and holds it in his hand.
    “Open it!” His mother says, beaming.
    Roma does not move but stares at the piece of candy as if it is a grenade rather than the epitome of sweetness. 
    “What are you waiting for?” Aunt Raya says. “Go ahead, open it! It's not going to bite you.”
    She puts the box down and, still smiling, grabs the white ball from Roma's palm. The wrapping paper collapses under my aunt’s fingers like a dry flower, and the smile on her face dies. 
    “This is strange,” she says, bringing the wrapper closer to her face and unfolding it. I crane my neck as much as I can, but see no chocolate. 
    “It's ... empty!” My aunt cries, dropping the rumpled piece of paper to