floor.
“
Chto vy delaete
?” A sharp voice echoed out of the darkness.
An old woman with a fringed shawl over her head hurried forward, scolding and shaking her finger. “
Pozhalujsta, uberite cameru i uhodite
!” She made shooing motions toward the door. Carrie stashed her camera in her backpack and hurried out.
At the foot of the hill, where the Moscow River converged with a smaller one that drifted off to the east, sat the octagon tower building. She could now see that the tower had six sides, not eight, and rose into the sky like a giant finger. At the top was a wreath with a star in the middle. Small towers, each peaked with a spiked gothic spire, crowned the building’s corners. Along the roofline were large statues of people—workers, farmers, soldiers.
According to her guidebook, the building was built in the 1940s under Joseph Stalin, and was one of seven similar buildings around the city. This one had been an exclusive residence for his political allies. His enemies too, apparently, as a recent renovation had uncovered hidden passageways where spies once lurked, and the secret police spirited away disloyal comrades.
She shuddered again.
But loyalty to a dead regime had been supplanted by something new—conspicuous wealth. The fashionable residents going in and out with expensive baby carriages and designer dogs would fit right in at one of Dad’s ten-grand-a-plate fundraisers. She thought about stepping inside for a look around, but she’d been yelled at enough for one day. Instead, she took pictures of the worker statues and tried to capture the building’s gothic grandeur.
Behind the building, a walkway led down to the river. From the embankment, people watched lumbering barges and cheerful sightseeing boats full of tourists. Somewhere there was music, played on violins and balalaikas. A small cruiser, festooned with flowers and streamers, chugged into view. From the decks, party guests mingled and waved.
“
Lodka
!
Lodka
!” The little boy beside Carrie was about to leap from his mother’s arms.
Yes, they probably were drinking vodka, but wasn’t he a little young to get so excited? The boy’s parents laughed and ruffled his hair. Carrie listened again to what the little guy was shouting. Not vodka.
Lodka
.
Boat?
She turned to the mother, a young dark-haired woman with glasses and pointed toward the boat. “
Lodka
?” she asked.
“
Da
.” The woman smiled back.
Her husband cradled a dozing toddler girl against his chest. Carrie noticed the empty stroller beside the mother. He could have put the little girl there, but instead kept her close. The family didn’t have the loaded-down look of tourists. They were locals, out for Saturday afternoon. Nothing special. Except that it was. A small camera dangled from the man’s wrist. He wanted to remember this day with his wife, son and daughter.
The bright day turned bittersweet with the reminder that the simple joy of a husband and children was something she would probably never know. Her life might include other successes, but she’d seen too much...hurt too much, to risk opening up that way. That envious twinge returned, and she hoped these young parents, Anton and Olga, and everyone else going through life two by two realized how lucky they were.
But the couple’s smiles and sincere pleasure in their children showed that they did, and with a warm glow of generosity, Carrie wanted to help them remember this routine, though special Saturday. She smiled and pointed to the camera. “Photo?”
The man’s brow furrowed, but he quickly grasped her meaning. “
Da, spasibo
.” He gave her the camera, and stood with his arm around his wife. Between them, the little boy smiled, and the toddler slept. Carrie pressed the shutter, forever capturing the happy moment.
How fleeting those could be.
When the family was gone, she returned to watching the boats. Were they
lodkas
?
Lodki
? A seagull drifted past, riding the current of air above
“
Chto vy delaete
?” A sharp voice echoed out of the darkness.
An old woman with a fringed shawl over her head hurried forward, scolding and shaking her finger. “
Pozhalujsta, uberite cameru i uhodite
!” She made shooing motions toward the door. Carrie stashed her camera in her backpack and hurried out.
At the foot of the hill, where the Moscow River converged with a smaller one that drifted off to the east, sat the octagon tower building. She could now see that the tower had six sides, not eight, and rose into the sky like a giant finger. At the top was a wreath with a star in the middle. Small towers, each peaked with a spiked gothic spire, crowned the building’s corners. Along the roofline were large statues of people—workers, farmers, soldiers.
According to her guidebook, the building was built in the 1940s under Joseph Stalin, and was one of seven similar buildings around the city. This one had been an exclusive residence for his political allies. His enemies too, apparently, as a recent renovation had uncovered hidden passageways where spies once lurked, and the secret police spirited away disloyal comrades.
She shuddered again.
But loyalty to a dead regime had been supplanted by something new—conspicuous wealth. The fashionable residents going in and out with expensive baby carriages and designer dogs would fit right in at one of Dad’s ten-grand-a-plate fundraisers. She thought about stepping inside for a look around, but she’d been yelled at enough for one day. Instead, she took pictures of the worker statues and tried to capture the building’s gothic grandeur.
Behind the building, a walkway led down to the river. From the embankment, people watched lumbering barges and cheerful sightseeing boats full of tourists. Somewhere there was music, played on violins and balalaikas. A small cruiser, festooned with flowers and streamers, chugged into view. From the decks, party guests mingled and waved.
“
Lodka
!
Lodka
!” The little boy beside Carrie was about to leap from his mother’s arms.
Yes, they probably were drinking vodka, but wasn’t he a little young to get so excited? The boy’s parents laughed and ruffled his hair. Carrie listened again to what the little guy was shouting. Not vodka.
Lodka
.
Boat?
She turned to the mother, a young dark-haired woman with glasses and pointed toward the boat. “
Lodka
?” she asked.
“
Da
.” The woman smiled back.
Her husband cradled a dozing toddler girl against his chest. Carrie noticed the empty stroller beside the mother. He could have put the little girl there, but instead kept her close. The family didn’t have the loaded-down look of tourists. They were locals, out for Saturday afternoon. Nothing special. Except that it was. A small camera dangled from the man’s wrist. He wanted to remember this day with his wife, son and daughter.
The bright day turned bittersweet with the reminder that the simple joy of a husband and children was something she would probably never know. Her life might include other successes, but she’d seen too much...hurt too much, to risk opening up that way. That envious twinge returned, and she hoped these young parents, Anton and Olga, and everyone else going through life two by two realized how lucky they were.
But the couple’s smiles and sincere pleasure in their children showed that they did, and with a warm glow of generosity, Carrie wanted to help them remember this routine, though special Saturday. She smiled and pointed to the camera. “Photo?”
The man’s brow furrowed, but he quickly grasped her meaning. “
Da, spasibo
.” He gave her the camera, and stood with his arm around his wife. Between them, the little boy smiled, and the toddler slept. Carrie pressed the shutter, forever capturing the happy moment.
How fleeting those could be.
When the family was gone, she returned to watching the boats. Were they
lodkas
?
Lodki
? A seagull drifted past, riding the current of air above
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