{"id":20708,"date":"2023-12-04T16:40:00","date_gmt":"2023-12-04T15:40:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/stadtsprachen.de\/de\/?post_type=stsp_text&p=20708"},"modified":"2023-11-30T14:57:19","modified_gmt":"2023-11-30T13:57:19","slug":"shpionka","status":"publish","type":"stsp_text","link":"https:\/\/stadtsprachen.de\/de\/text\/shpionka\/","title":{"rendered":"SHPIONKA"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

I.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The young conscripts escorting me carried rifles as long and skinny as they were tall and emaciated, their uniforms flapping loose in the July breeze. We walked along a footpath from the train station cut by the treads of worn boots. The grass on either side was ragged with weeds. Our gait was casual, as if we were taking afternoon stroll.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Inside the store I picked up a bag of rock-hard priyaniki and a carton of kefir. The white-smocked woman behind the counter wrapped a hunk of slimy yellow cheese in brown paper for me. There was no fruit, no bread. Only a couple dusty turnips and a handful of rotten potatoes keeping company the endless bags of millet. There would be no food on the twenty-five-hour train ride home. I could dunk the sweet priyaniki in the sour kefir to soften them enough to chew but I wasn\u2019t sure what I could do with the cheese. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I asked the woman in the smock if I could use the telephone and made a call, letting the mother who answered know I wouldn\u2019t be coming.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The two soldiers flanked me while I waited for the village ticket master to reappear behind the scratched glass so I could pay my fare back to St. Petersburg. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow come you speak such good Russian?\u201d the bolder conscript asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That was when I understood why I\u2019d been hustled out of my compartment at the Lithuanian border, interrogated by a mustachioed man in military uniform, and prevented from reboarding the train to Kaliningrad, where my friends were right now scouring the platform for an American woman with unfashionably short hair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They thought I was a spy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

II.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was August in St. Petersburg. I was trying hard to forget the sensation of tightwalking the rails outside the Russian exclave of Kaliningrad, formerly a closed city on the Baltic Sea and the USSR\u2019s only ice-free European port. I wanted to erase the terror of chasing the border guard who snatched my passport and disappeared down the train\u2019s dim corridor, the shadowy absurdity of bargaining with him over a bribe, my substanceless conversation with the FSB officer in the station\u2019s back room. I wanted to release the memory of the officer threatening to jail someone who made his phone ring by accidentally dialing the wrong number. I wanted to stop wondering about the other passengers pulled from the train who disappeared into the woods.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pixie-faced Anya and I spent the afternoon in the town of Pushkin. The manicured gardens surrounding the rundown tsars\u2019 palaces teemed with dust that clung to the cotton of Anya\u2019s pale blue sundress. Amber sunbeams on a diagonal picked out dirt floating through the air. The town\u2019s tarnished imperial splendor glowed in perfect cadence with the sandy summer and the dissonant feel of Russia in the 1990s, a post-colonial expanse of self-colonizers. Empire after empire now in ruins. First egg yolk yellow, now machine-gun grey. Who had plundered whom? Where had all the wealth gone? The colonizers were still here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anya suggested we enter a pyshki shop. We ate the plain doughnuts at standing tables and washed them down with slate-hued ersatz coffee. Anya, in her mid-twenties like me, tucked her long chestnut hair behind her ears. Then she told me about a time just a few years earlier when the doughnuts would have been sweet and oozing with red berry jam instead of hollow inside. So severe was the sugar shortage that the principal of Anya\u2019s school, where I taught English, had summoned me to the staff room to ask how many kilos I wanted to buy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Since pyshki were what we were eating in place of lunch, I was perversely grateful that things weren\u2019t as grand as they used to be. Mostly though, I wished Russian snack bars had chairs so I could take a load off my feet, eternally sore from shuffling over unevenly poured concrete that ate away at the soles of my Doc Martens.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We stepped out of the dark caf\u00e9 onto the sunlit sidewalk and saw an old lady with a headscarf knotted firmly under her double chin. She was built like a tank. Seeing me, she scowled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou eyesore, you know how to paint your face like a whore but you haven\u2019t learned to comb your hair. Are you a boy that you wear pants and not a dress?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The old woman was as serious as the heart attack I half-hoped would fell her. Such was the conformism in Russia after the Soviet Union collapsed that most ordinary people found how I looked\u2014spikey black hair, purple lipstick, black t-shirt, blue jeans\u2014a pointed insult targeted at toppling the social order, as if I were expressly hocking a loogie into the face of every single person I encountered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Each time I stumbled into one of these confrontations, my breath hitched and I fell mute. I glanced at Anya for guidance but her face was blank. This was where she\u2019d grown up. She didn\u2019t know any other way to be. I wondered why I\u2019d agreed to come to Russia.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The fascist granny wobbled off down the uneven sidewalk on her swollen ankles. From one of her plump wrists swung a plastic shopping bag displaying a photo of a naked pinup, a symbol of freedom from Soviet censorship.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anya and I strolled in the other direction and boarded the commuter back to St. Petersburg. When the train triumphantly screeched to a halt in Vitebskii Station, Anya asked if I wanted to come over to her place for tea.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

III.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

We were sitting at the table in Anya\u2019s communal apartment slurping down sorrel grass soup made from plants her parents grew on their dacha. We devoured purple beet salad with sour cream and raw garlic and gnawed on grey sourdough adorned with rare slivers of kolbasa. Vitamin-rich vegetable nutrients surged through my veins, a rare treat. My gums wouldn\u2019t bleed tonight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anya lived in the kommunalka with her husband, her mother-in-law and her husband\u2019s son from his first marriage, and eleven other families. The state allocated the living space before Anya married Misha, so her family was a few square meters short of the government-regulated norm. Like the town of Pushkin, the apartment had been an opulent icon of decadence before the 1917 revolutions. A large sweeping flat of at least a dozen rooms with twelve-foot-high ceilings and elaborate crown molding portraying Roman gods, it once belonged to a long-forgotten, probably exterminated, family of landed nobility. In the room where Anya lived, vast windows with ornate stained-glass panels stretched to the ceiling. An antique crystal chandelier, absurdly off center, held court over the original herring-boned parquet floor. Anya\u2019s husband had erected a plywood wall on one side of the room to create a bedroom for his mother. The son slept on a pull-out bed next to the one Anya and Misha shared. The single room contained the dining table and the couch, their books and clothes, the wash tubs, the laundry rack, the refrigerator, the musical instruments\u2014their entire life. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

No wonder the Russian language has no word for privacy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The door burst open and Misha sashayed in on long legs and swung himself sideways into the chair next to me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat looks tasty.\u201d He hacked off a chunk from the dried sausage and shoved it in his mouth, chewing lustily.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anya smiled nervously but ignored him, choosing to enjoy the meal she\u2019d prepared. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

A breeze fluttered the gossamer curtains, wafting the biting scent of vodka on Misha\u2019s breath around the room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When he picked up the sausage and started gnawing on it, Anya scolded him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMisha, a person cuts off pieces of kolbasa with a knife. Put that down and get yourself a plate.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Misha heaved himself out of the armchair and over to the cupboard and came back with a chipped saucer. She took the dish, buttered two slices of brown bread and covered them with discs of sausage. Misha slouched into the cushioned seat, plate in hand, grinning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then he popped up again. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI have beer!\u201d He plunged his hand into his rucksack and stood a half dozen bottles of Baltika #4 on the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anya fetched three mugs from the cupboard and poured us a round. We guzzled down the lager. My bladder was fit to burst. I could no longer avoid the kommunalka\u2019s toilet and what I had to do.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The corridor was lit by a single low-watt bulb and smelled of dust, rancid sunflower oil and aging mildew. A tangle of wires dangled from the ceiling, jimmyrigging for each family\u2019s doorbell and a handful of telephones. Bicycles, shopping carts, and half-broken junk hung from the walls. I saw the kitchen with its six chrome stoves and rows of shelves labeled with residents\u2019 names. I drew closer and saw that Shelomov was among them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hearing a door creak on its hinges, I hurried back out to the hallway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The bathroom was stark and bare, the cracked plaster walls painted a battleship color. A white chalk line of boric acid ringed the room at waist level to keep the cockroaches down. I imagined the anger on weekday mornings when everyone who had to go to school or work, including Shelomov, lined up outside with their toothbrushes and towels to wait their turn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But the wooden toilet seat was clean. I enjoyed the rush of relief, not having to hold it in anymore, lighter now. Knocking all around the walls, I listened for the round hollow sound that would indicate a hiding place, but found nothing. I was delighted I didn\u2019t forget to bring back to Anya the roll of stretchy beige toilet paper that shed. Now pleasantly numb from the strong drink, my hips swung loose and I swaggered down the hallway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As I slid into my chair, Misha was shoveling the last bite of beet salad between his moist lips with the serving spoon. Anya went off to the kitchen to boil water for tea.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After she left, Misha leered at me with an unpleasant glint in his eyes. Usually he looked straight past me like I was a streetlamp.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I wasn\u2019t beautiful. Russian men rarely tried to get down my pants. Once though, an inebriated, renowned poet some forty years my senior had set his sights on me and chased me around a garage where I\u2019d retreated from a party to chain smoke. He kept trying to come in for a wet-lipped kiss landing and didn\u2019t relent until I ran out of the room. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSandra,\u201d Misha drawled. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked into his gaunt face and made my eyes big and round. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre you a shpionka? Do you work for the CIA?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not the words I expected to fall out of his damp hole.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Denying it, I giggled like he was the cleverest man in the world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A lightbulb flashed on in his head. I saw it before he did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSandrushka, you love Russia, right?\u201d He curved his lean body towards mine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOf course.\u201d I squirmed in a way I hoped was seductive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd you want to help Russia?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cUm, sure.\u201d Sitting in his home having just eaten at his table, I couldn\u2019t say I thought Russia was a crumbling totalitarian mess, a pathetic has-been empire that repressed anyone with an imagination, made worse by men like him who drank up all the money they earned instead of giving it to their near-starving families. Even if I had, he wouldn\u2019t have heard me. I was a woman. There was nothing I could do that would make life better for the people who fed strangers from their lean tables and pursued kindness despite the state\u2019s brutality.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBecause you love Russia.\u201d He smiled a crooked smile. \u201cI have a friend you should meet. In the KGB. A general who also helps Russia. Let me give him a call.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was an open secret that Misha worked for the secret police. In 1981, the KGB had established a rock club to gather in one place potentially insurrectionist youth in love with ideologically alien, hedonistic western music and make monitoring them easier. In the club\u2019s leadership positions, the KGB placed agents with authority among the pseudo-creative. The Leningrad Rock Club was a prophylactic against the negative processes that constituted the ideological diversity of the enemy. Or so a top-secret document from 1986 put it. The KGB had chosen Misha, a musician, as one of many informants. It made no difference that the Soviet Union collapsed in 1991 and the secret police had a new name. Before, the hammer and sickle. After, a Janus-facing eagle. What changed remained exactly as it had always been.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo need to bother him.\u201d I tilted my head coyly. Misha was my target.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI insist on bringing you two together.\u201d He leaned over and squeezed my arm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Intimacy, not a job, was my objective. I\u2019d received instructions to say they couldn\u2019t afford me. This seemed crass now, since my would-be recruiter lived hand to mouth. On other occasions, I\u2019d made excuses that family matters prevented me from traveling. But I was far away from home now. The pleasant numbness evaporated, leaving a chemical afterfeel. Milky acid coated my tongue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m sure he has other things to do on a Saturday night.\u201d I winked weakly. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I wanted to avoid getting sucked into anything that might cause more assassinations of independent journalists. St. Petersburg\u2019s director of secret police was a blonde troll with permanent side eye and the ludicrously bland name of Vladimir Vladimirovich and I wanted to keep my distance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe general will be happy to speak with you.\u201d Just like every other drunk Russian man I\u2019d ever met, Misha couldn\u2019t take a hint.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He swung his long legs out of his chair, wobbled over to the phone and dialed a number.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood evening. I would like to speak with Yevgeniy Alekseevich, please.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

My shoulders shot up into my ears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Misha paused, listening intently to the voice on the other end of the line. I tried to quiet my heart\u2019s thumping enough to hear what it said. The voice stopped talking. Misha still stood there holding the apparatus to his ear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t dare breathe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, he\u2019s at his dacha. No, no message, thank you. I\u2019ll call another time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Misha dropped the receiver in its cradle and looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe general\u2019s not at home.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then he tottered over to the couch and collapsed, curling into a ball on his side.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I sagged deep into my chair and studied the faded fleur-de-lys pattern on the gilded wallpaper until Anya came in with a steaming teapot and a dish of honey.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

By then, long-legged Misha was already snoring.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I. The young conscripts escorting me carried rifles as long and skinny as they were tall and emaciated, their uniforms flapping loose in the July breeze. We walked along a footpath from the train station cut by the treads of worn boots. The grass on either side was ragged with weeds. Our gait was casual, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":20474,"template":"","categories":[56,10],"class_list":["post-20708","stsp_text","type-stsp_text","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-issue-26-issues","category-prosa"],"yoast_head":"\nSHPIONKA - stadtsprachen<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/stadtsprachen.de\/de\/text\/shpionka\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"de_DE\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale:alternate\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"SHPIONKA - stadtsprachen\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"I. The young conscripts escorting me carried rifles as long and skinny as they were tall and emaciated, their uniforms flapping loose in the July breeze. We walked along a footpath from the train station cut by the treads of worn boots. The grass on either side was ragged with weeds. 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