seventeen.”
“I’m doubly happy to see you again,” Rosa said, extracting her wallet from her purse.
Anna remembered how embarrassed Rosa had been in the tearoom. She hadn’t had enough money, and she’d been unable to pay her share;Anna had even been obliged to lend her subway fare. “Forget it,” Anna said. “It was my treat.”
Rosa insisted on immediate reciprocation. She accompanied Anna as she poured stale water out of a vase, carried the vase over to a faucet, and filled the vessel with fresh water. When she placed the spike broom blossoms behind her mother’s picture, flowers surrounded the gravestone like a yellow corona. Then Anna and Rosa strolled away together down the central avenue of the cemetery, followed by the curious eyes of the old couple.
“Just a moment,” Rosa said, slowing her pace. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to …” She pointed to the little church that gave the cemetery its name, and Anna realized that the cross around Rosa’s neck was no mere adornment. They both covered their heads with scarves. It was cold in the chapel, and the space was filled with the singsong prayers of some old women. Rosa bought a candle, took out a small piece of paper, and wrote the names of her dead on it. After a short prayer, she laid the chit on a stack near the altar. Anna watched these proceedings with sympathy, which she was only later to understand was exactly what Rosa had wished to elicit. By performing a reactionary act in Anna’s sight, she was giving her friend a sign of trust.
In the tearoom after the earlier cloudburst, Rosa had mentioned that she worked as a journalist for the English-language daily, the Moscow Times . Now, as they left the church, she told Anna of a telephone call to the newspaper that morning: During some demolition work in the Arbat quarter of Moscow, an old storeroom, unopened since the war, had been discovered. Her editor, Rosa said, had assigned her to report on this discovery, and she invited Anna to accompany her on the assignment.
The building complex was on the boundary of the Arbat quarter. At first glance, the high fence surrounding the complex made it seem inaccessible. The photographer, a stout fellow with curly hair, was already waiting. He yanked two boards aside, allowing the women to enter theworksite. The converted lobby, its windows blacked out by decades of dust, was on the second floor. When the photographer opened the iron door, Anna just stood there, speechless. She felt as though she’d entered some monumental film like the ones that used to be shown to her and her fellow Pioneer Girls. The gray concrete ceiling was thickly hung with huge crystal chandeliers that sparkled in the light of a heavy-duty, upward-pointing halogen lamp. The sight before Anna’s eyes surpassed everything that she’d been taught about the wasteful extravagance of the feudal barons. Who had possessed the resources, not to mention the room, required to hang such luxury from their ceilings? For whom had workers’ hands suspended countless rhinestones from little wire hooks and assembled chandeliers as tall as two stories in a modern building? Hesitantly, as if she might be called to account for every step, Anna entered the scene, while Rosa questioned the worker who had come upon the hidden treasure. The photographer worried about the quality of the light and shot pictures from every possible angle.
The report on “Stalin’s Lamp Shop” had never appeared. Those who knew about the collection had preferred to help themselves to it. With a smile, Rosa had assured the head of the demolition firm that he’d be compensated for his discovery if he conducted himself appropriately. Even so early on, it should have made Anna suspicious to see a young woman, a journalist, in a position to make such an offer. Blinded by the hanging splendor, Anna had looked on, and the question never crossed her mind.
“Which one do you like?”
Anna’s eyes had wandered to a
“I’m doubly happy to see you again,” Rosa said, extracting her wallet from her purse.
Anna remembered how embarrassed Rosa had been in the tearoom. She hadn’t had enough money, and she’d been unable to pay her share;Anna had even been obliged to lend her subway fare. “Forget it,” Anna said. “It was my treat.”
Rosa insisted on immediate reciprocation. She accompanied Anna as she poured stale water out of a vase, carried the vase over to a faucet, and filled the vessel with fresh water. When she placed the spike broom blossoms behind her mother’s picture, flowers surrounded the gravestone like a yellow corona. Then Anna and Rosa strolled away together down the central avenue of the cemetery, followed by the curious eyes of the old couple.
“Just a moment,” Rosa said, slowing her pace. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to …” She pointed to the little church that gave the cemetery its name, and Anna realized that the cross around Rosa’s neck was no mere adornment. They both covered their heads with scarves. It was cold in the chapel, and the space was filled with the singsong prayers of some old women. Rosa bought a candle, took out a small piece of paper, and wrote the names of her dead on it. After a short prayer, she laid the chit on a stack near the altar. Anna watched these proceedings with sympathy, which she was only later to understand was exactly what Rosa had wished to elicit. By performing a reactionary act in Anna’s sight, she was giving her friend a sign of trust.
In the tearoom after the earlier cloudburst, Rosa had mentioned that she worked as a journalist for the English-language daily, the Moscow Times . Now, as they left the church, she told Anna of a telephone call to the newspaper that morning: During some demolition work in the Arbat quarter of Moscow, an old storeroom, unopened since the war, had been discovered. Her editor, Rosa said, had assigned her to report on this discovery, and she invited Anna to accompany her on the assignment.
The building complex was on the boundary of the Arbat quarter. At first glance, the high fence surrounding the complex made it seem inaccessible. The photographer, a stout fellow with curly hair, was already waiting. He yanked two boards aside, allowing the women to enter theworksite. The converted lobby, its windows blacked out by decades of dust, was on the second floor. When the photographer opened the iron door, Anna just stood there, speechless. She felt as though she’d entered some monumental film like the ones that used to be shown to her and her fellow Pioneer Girls. The gray concrete ceiling was thickly hung with huge crystal chandeliers that sparkled in the light of a heavy-duty, upward-pointing halogen lamp. The sight before Anna’s eyes surpassed everything that she’d been taught about the wasteful extravagance of the feudal barons. Who had possessed the resources, not to mention the room, required to hang such luxury from their ceilings? For whom had workers’ hands suspended countless rhinestones from little wire hooks and assembled chandeliers as tall as two stories in a modern building? Hesitantly, as if she might be called to account for every step, Anna entered the scene, while Rosa questioned the worker who had come upon the hidden treasure. The photographer worried about the quality of the light and shot pictures from every possible angle.
The report on “Stalin’s Lamp Shop” had never appeared. Those who knew about the collection had preferred to help themselves to it. With a smile, Rosa had assured the head of the demolition firm that he’d be compensated for his discovery if he conducted himself appropriately. Even so early on, it should have made Anna suspicious to see a young woman, a journalist, in a position to make such an offer. Blinded by the hanging splendor, Anna had looked on, and the question never crossed her mind.
“Which one do you like?”
Anna’s eyes had wandered to a
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