As the plane descends, it banks to the right and then the left, as if to show her from every perspective a new, other life waiting below. She looks down on the gray expanse of water held back by a barrier of stone rising higher than she has ever seen, spires etched against the sky, lit by the sun like a set for a play.
In her mind, Sasha sees herself handing the form and her passport to a border patrol agent in New York, someone who has the serious face of her theater’s administrative director. “What are your reasons for leaving Russia?” the agent will ask. “What are you running away from?” In her broken English, she knows what she will tell him, the unpracticed words that don’t require rehearsing. “From graves,” she will say. “From pretending.” He will listen carefully, even though he probably won’t understand. “From shame,” she will say. Then the agent will hand her passport back and fling open the metal gate into a new life.
In the waiting crowd, among hundreds of faces, she will immediately see Kolya. Although she has never met him, she will recognize him at once. Sasha is certain of this. It will only take her a second to make out Grandma’s soft, round face. It will only take her a moment to see Mama’s eyes.
He will wait for Sasha to approach and hold her in his embrace. “Sashenka,” he will say, her name as soft as his cheek. “I’m so happy you’ve come.” He will smell of their Ivanovo life: of summer dust and lilacs, of the wood-burning stove, of their evening tea with little crystal bowls of black currant jam. This is when Grandma will pour boiling water from a samovar into a good cup with a pattern of roses, a cup that has been waiting for him all these years since he left for the front. This is when Mama will open her arms and press Sasha into the pillows of her breasts, making sobs erupt from a deep well inside her, making tears run down her face and leave wet spots on her mother’s dress with a red apple print she remembers so well. “Vsyo budet khorosho,” Mama will say, her voice like the tea with sugar in Kolya’s cup. “All will be well,” she’ll say, healing her with the warmth of her embrace, and this time, despite her stubbornness and doubt, Sasha will believe her.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
These books provided an immersion into the times of the story in the novel:
Svetlana Alexievich. Secondhand Time, Penguin Random House, 2016
Nikolai Nikulin. Memories of the War （in Russian）， Hermitage Publishing, 2007
Antony Beevor and Luba Vinogradova. A Writer at War: Vasily Grossman with the Red Army, 1941–1945, Pantheon Books, 2005
I am deeply grateful to my agent, Molly Friedrich, who shaped this first novel and, with grace and humor, guided me through the minefield of writing fiction. My gratitude also goes to my editor, Alicia Clancy, whose exacting eye trimmed and enriched the story and who saw its title hiding in plain sight.
My appreciation goes to my early readers Heather Carr, Zoe Kharpertian, Liliane Gold, Nadia Carey, Mervyn Rothstein, and Rachel Basch for their honesty and support. A special thank-you to Barbara Jones for her invaluable suggestions of revisions.
This novel would not be possible without my sister, Marina, whose stories about Ivanovo, Theater, and acting laid the foundation of this story. I dedicate this book to her.
And finally, spasibo to my husband, Andy, who patiently read the countless iterations of this novel, for his loving encouragement and plainspoken advice.