1

The Magic Shoes

Twenty-five years later. The old woman pointed to the opposite bunk and motioned for me to sit, then handed over an enormous cabbage as the Trans-Siberian Express eased out of the Novosibirsk Station. Reaching under the bunk, she pulled out a tattered canvas rucksack stuffed with potatoes, leeks, beets, and assorted vegetables. She carefully removed the harvest and spread it onto her bunk. Where she had managed to collect such a horde on the cusp of the Russian winter was beyond me. As the train lurched over a rough patch of track, I held the cabbage close to my chest, as if it were my first-born child.

The woman glared at me with native suspicion. I shifted nervously in my seat, still clutching the cabbage. I felt compelled to say something to allay her apparent fear that I might not return it. With my dark complexion — the product of a Mexican-American, Russian-Jewish heritage — I looked more like someone from Tashkent than Seattle. Using simple Russian phrases that I had memorized, I began to introduce myself when an enormous beetle with a pair of vise grip pinchers emerged from the purplish cabbage leaves and plopped to the floor. With a swift and decisive step, I slammed the heel of my shoe down on the odious bug. The shell crackled. The old woman clapped, and said something that must have meant “Way to go. Nicely done. That’s how we deal with vermin in Siberia.”

The ice was broken. I finished my pat introduction in Russian while studying my compartment companion, the first babushka (grandmother) I had encountered up close on this two-week train trip across Siberia. She was wrapped in layers of clothes topped off by a blue sweater with white flowers embroidered on the sleeves. She wore a frayed wool hat, and protruding from her blue skirt was a pair of log-like legs encased in thick thermal underwear. Her hands were gnarled, as if they had spent a lifetime tilling the soil. I guessed she was in her late sixties, but given the harsh realities of Soviet life, she may have been younger. She seemed the archetype of the old women I had seen throughout the country: withered pensioners with husbands long since dead. Legions of them swept the streets of every Soviet city. I can still hear the scratching of their flimsy brooms on the brick plaza between the Kremlin and onion-domed Saint Basil’s Cathedral. The faces of these women, with tired eyes and skin worn by the ages, seemed molded from the clay of the Russian steppe itself. These babushkas carried on their stooped backs the burden of a national history that knew much suffering and little joy. They were the widows of the millions who died during World War II or the grandmothers of those recently killed in Afghanistan. At first glance, the old woman before me seemed no different.

“You speak Russian,” she proclaimed once I finished my memorized speech. I feared becoming too fluent with my one line: “I am Bob. I am tourist. I am American. I do not speak Russian.” The woman who I began to view as the embodiment of Mother Russia herself issued what seemed like a command, but one that I did not understand. Clueless, I returned the cabbage and, for good measure, said thank you in Russian.

“Yes, you understand,” she said, nodding her head in approval.

Mother Russia then launched into a monologue that went far beyond my limited vocabulary. She babbled on for nearly thirty minutes, speaking in earnest tones while I nodded solemnly as if I understood every word. I fumbled helplessly with my Russian-English phrase book. But it was useless. I sat quietly, nodding occasionally to show that I was listening.

Soon, tears crept down Mother Russia’s cheeks. I guessed that she was telling me about her village and her life. I fumbled for my bandanna, and handed it to her. She dabbed her eyes.

When she was finished, Mother Russia looked at me expectantly. In fairness, I felt compelled to say something. But what could I say? How many more times could I introduce myself and say thank you? I looked at the phrase book. With the deliberation of a preacher about to give a sermon from the Bible, I picked up the book. Mother Russia peered at me with an intensity that led me to think she believed I was about to reveal the mysteries of the universe from the small volume with the dog-eared pages. I hoped she was not expecting much.

I randomly turned to a chapter on travel by bicycle and motorcycle. Not quite sure what else to do, I began to slowly recite the phrases, butchering the Russian language as I read my lines.

“. . . I am fond of cycling . . . Are your brakes in order? . . . Yes, but the chain is a bit loose . . . I must blow my tires . . .”

At first, Mother Russia stared at me as if I had lost my mind. But as I read, the stony countenance I had observed earlier seemed to soften. I spied a hint of a smile. Small at first, it grew from the corners of her mouth and spread into a grin. This was followed by high-pitched little girl giggles that gurgled up from deep inside her. She pursed her lips and cupped her hand over her mouth, trying to stop the tide of merriment. It seemed as if Mother Russia had not laughed for a long time. Encouraged by her reaction, I continued to recite my lines in a clear, dispassionate tone. I paused at random intervals, inserting inflections of tone at places I thought appropriate. I wanted to hear her continue to laugh. I turned to the chapter on sports.

“Shall we go and watch the game between Leningrad and Moscow? Do you do exercises in the morning? Are you entering for the thousand meters?”

Mother Russia could not contain herself. She erupted. Great peals of laughter gushed from her. Tears of joy welled up in her eyes. She clutched her stomach and lurched back and forth. Thinking she might hurt herself, I paused, but she motioned for me to keep reading. The sermon of the absurd continued.

“Give me the menu and the wine list . . . Fried sturgeon . . . As for poultry, there is turkey, goose, and duck.”

As I plowed through the section “In the Restaurant,” Mother Russia composed herself enough to proclaim that I must be hungry. She reached under her seat and pulled out a second rucksack. Like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat, she produced several squash, another cabbage, and a bag of potatoes, all of which she stacked neatly on her seat.

“No, no, please, I’m really not hungry,” I said in panicky English as the produce piled up. Recalling the empty shelves in the grocery stores, I knew that fresh vegetables were a scarce commodity, likely grown with loving care in Mother Russia’s private plot. I did not want to deplete this poor woman’s food supply. Mother Russia ignored my protests. She burrowed deeper into her bag.

“Ah ha!” she exclaimed. She held a single egg in her withered hand.

“Please, I cannot eat, you take it,” I said, racking my mind for Russian words besides “no, please, and hold the caviar.” I flipped through the phrase book, but could only find, “Please, no more sturgeon eggs for me.”

Giggling at my latest linguistic miscue, Mother Russia insisted I take the egg. I thanked her profusely. I pulled out my bandanna and spread it on my seat. Then I took the egg and rapped it against my knee. This was a mistake. The shell cracked. It was not hardboiled. Yoke slimed down my last pair of clean pants. I grabbed the bandanna and tried to clean the mess, knowing that the nearest reputable dry-cleaner was at least 3,000 miles away.

Mother Russia’s howl seemed to shake the car. She clutched her stomach and doubled over. She tried to stop, but this only produced little snorts and oinks that caused renewed bouts of laughter. I stood up, helpless before the hysterical woman. The door to the compartment slid open and the conductor, his shirt only half tucked in, peered inside. He glanced at Mother Russia, who was now doubled over on her bunk. He looked at me. I shrugged. Another passenger, a tall thin man with a droopy mustache, peered over the shoulder of the portly conductor.

“What is the commotion? Is there a problem?” I thought I heard the conductor say in Russian.

Mother Russia sat up, tears of gaiety streaming down her face.

“It is okay,” she said. “He is a very funny man.”

The conductor smiled.

“Is he Mongolian?” asked the conductor.

“Nyet,” I replied, understanding this part of the conversation. “Ya Americansky.”

Mother Russia, her laugh attack having subsided, spoke to the conductor. She motioned toward me and the remnants of the egg.

“She says that she thinks you are from Byelorussia, where she is from.” It was the man in the droopy mustache, speaking in passable English. “There was a man who came to her village and told funny stories and did funny things. He had a magic hat. Then he went away, and no one ever heard of him again. She says you remind her of him.”

“What happened to him?” I asked.

The man with the droopy mustache translated for Mother Russia. She shrugged and said something that I understood.

“He was a Jew, and they all went away,” she said.

He was a Jew, and they all went away. And suddenly the gears of my mind began to mesh. I mentally searched through a mishmash of memories and recollections about my ancestors’ lives in Russia. Could it be? No, it was impossible. But then again . . .

My father once told me he thought his parents were from near Grodno, just a few miles...