10:55. I usually take my smoke break right about now. I’ll stand right here, practically gulping down my last cigarette before they lock up the dorms for the night. I always make it back right before eleven, then run to my room and jump under the covers while Anya makes us cheap black tea. Tea sounds wonderful right now. I pull my thin purple coat closer as the wind hisses. Tonight, it blows with a bite I haven’t felt since last February. It’s only October, but Russian winters start early. And tonight, I won’t be going back inside.
“Your three weeks are up,” she says. The head nurse’s clothes are the color of mildew, and burgundy lipstick highlights her stern mouth. She shifts her imposing mass onto one foot as she stares me down. I know what she’s waiting for, but I don’t have it. I wish I did, but I don’t. No, I spent my last 30 rubles on the letter I sent home to Mama.
“This is a dormitory for ill students, and you have had sufficient time to recover.”
I know what she really means: if I can’t pay up, then get out. None of the students who live here are sick anyway. They get in because their parents can pay. My American friend Katie would call it a bribe, but for us, it’s just a part of everyday life. A way to survive. There is practically no housing for university students in Nizhni. The only way I got into the sick dorm was because my parents are doctors. They signed a note saying I had severe respiratory problems. I cough as I take my last puff of cigarette. Well, perhaps it’s not too far from the truth. I throw the cigarette on the ground and extinguish the embers with the heel of my boot. I need to start walking if I’m going to keep warm. I take one last look at the dingy dormitory and set off into the city.
“Please, I can get a doctor’s note; I need more time.” I know that my words are worth nothing to her; words don’t line pockets. But still, I feel myself begging mechanically, as if I can somehow prevent the inevitable.
“Your three weeks are up, Masha. You are required to pack up your belongings and leave by 11:00 tonight.”
“But I have nowhere to go,” I manage.
“And how is that my problem? Go stay with one of your friends.”
I turn away from her scowling visage and head to pack my bag, defeated. My throat tightens, my eyes start to burn, and for a moment, I almost give into my emotions. I reach for my cellphone and dial Mama’s number. I want to push send, but I snap the phone closed and shove it back in my bag. It’s tempting, but I can’t do it, I won’t do it. I’m seventeen and I need to start taking responsibility for my own problems. All it would do is worry her, and she and Papa are too far away to do anything. I am on my own.
I’ve walked for two hours now. Trolleybuses, taxis and every other form of public transportation are nowhere to be found, and for the most part, the city sleeps. The occasional car buzzes by and the street lights cast an eerie glow on the barren sidewalks. Three drunk men sprawl out like kings on a bench, chortling like hyenas. The stone Kremlin is lit, and its ominous beauty speaks of centuries of history. It is so different here than at home. Back home, we live in the country, and I wake up to the smell of wild grass and lilac seeping through the window. My little sister Nastya is sleeping beside me, a peaceful glow on her face. By the time I arise, Mama is in the kitchen making hot kasha. Papa is already at the university working on his book. I come to the kitchen and bring my old guitar. It used to be Papa’s when he was my age. A gust of wind shocks me into reality. I clutch the old guitar to my side; my fingers look like raw meat, red and numb. Oh, Papa. What would you think if you saw me right now? I picture the night before I left home to come to Nizhni Novgorod.
Papa is sitting at the kitchen table, watching an old movie and smoking his cigar. Mama sits next to him, and Nastya is on her lap. We are drinking tea, made Papa’s special way. No one makes tea like Papa. Nastya sips milk and grabs a piece of kielbasa from the spread of snacks. Mama and Papa can’t afford kielbasa, but they scrimped up enough for my last night at home. Papa hands me an orange and smiles. “Work hard at university, Masha, and you will become a good doctor.”
“Yes Papa,” I smile and hold his gaze.
I’ve walked for four hours now. I want home, but home is an impossible wish, and if it weren’t for the memories that burn so brightly, I would doubt its existence. I don’t know why I keep walking, what I’m looking for. That isn’t true. I do know, but I fear to admit such a crazy hope. Maybe, just maybe, someone will find me, take compassion on me, and invite me in. Maybe I’m not really alone in this big city. I know it won’t happen, how many beggars have I turned away? I am invisible as I wander, yet I wander because I hope. I hum a song Papa used to play on the guitar, “It’s time to go home, away from the war, it’s time to go home, young soldier…” I feel Papa’s strong voice giving me strength and weakening me at the same time. I collapse on the sidewalk and give in. I don’t sob; I don’t bawl, but silent streams of water cover my face. I put my head between my knees and hug my bony legs, rocking back and forth, back and forth. “It’s time to go home, away from the war, it’s time to go home, young soldier.”
Someone touches my shoulder. I look up to see a young man. Young, but certainly older than me. He is sturdily built, dark-haired and confident. He smiles, comes close to me. “What are you doing out this late at night?” His breath hints at vodka. I don’t answer. I should walk away, but I can’t. My body feels paralyzed, and all at once I am frightened and hopeful, apprehensive and trusting. “You’re probably wondering the same thing about me,” he says, this time softening his words with a smile. “I’m Oleg. I graduated from the University last spring.” I still don’t answer, but my knees release their locked position. He reaches a hand out. I gingerly grab it, and he helps me to my feet. “Come on, I know you don’t know me, but you need a place to stay for the night.”
Papa’s face is at once before me. His eyes say what I feel in my gut,
“Masha, leave!” But Papa, I’m so cold!
“Masha, don’t go with him.” But Papa, how do you know he isn’t just being kind? I need to trust him! Mama appears beside Papa.
“Masha, come home!” Mama, I can’t! I can’t!
“It’s time to go home, away from the war, it’s time to go home, young soldier…”
I wipe them out of my mind like condensation from a window. The bone-numbing cold out-shouts their tender voices. No, Papa, no, Mama, this is my only chance.
“Thank you,” I whisper. I walk in silence with Oleg down the broken sidewalk. I’ve never been in this part of the city before. Broken glass sullies the walkway, and two skinny stray dogs huddle in a doorway, shivering. He doesn’t ask for my hand, but takes it. I don’t resist. His hand is gentle upon mine, but too unfamiliar. We reach an apartment complex, dingy and crumbling. We enter the building, and my frozen hands tingle from the sudden warmth. The metal door thuds with finality.
“Do you feel better now that you’re out of the cold?” I search the mystery man’s eyes for compassion or hate, kindness or evil, but all I can see are eyes cloudy from a night of too much vodka. What would Papa think?
“I think so,” I manage.
Oleg sits down at the kitchen table and pours himself a drink. He looks at me with those murky eyes, motives still indiscernible. What have I done? Am I saved, or am I trapped? I sit there, helpless, body warm, but as numb as ever.
