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Back A Train to Moscow: A Novel Save as PDF
Chapters (59)
  1. TITLE PAGE
  2. COPYRIGHT PAGE
  3. DEDICATION
  4. CONTENTS
  5. ACT 1 IVANOVO
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. ACT 2 MOSCOW
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. ACT 3 LENINGRAD
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. ACT 4 IVANOVO-LENINGRAD
  46. 38
  47. 39
  48. 40
  49. 41
  50. 42
  51. 43
  52. 44
  53. 45
  54. 46
  55. 47
  56. 48
  57. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  58. DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
  59. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

They have had this conversation before, an argument that never ends well.

“Too negative?” Sasha says, hearing her voice rise in tone. “He wasn’t negative enough! He wrote what he saw around him. He didn’t make anything up.”

“But maybe—and I’ve been thinking about this—maybe he had this pessimistic view because the one he loved had just been arrested. If they hadn’t arrested her, things would’ve been different for Kolya. Nadia’s arrest made him see everything through this dark lens.”

“So what are you saying?” Sasha hears irritation in her voice but does nothing to rein it in. “That he saw everything through a dark lens while in reality everything was rosy and light?”

“No,” says her mother and shakes her head, getting defensive. “What I’m saying is that maybe this personal trauma blurred his vision, so he wasn’t able to see reality the way it was.”

Sasha is already late for a rehearsal, and her anxiety about the role is only fueling her anger. “He was there; he was the only one who saw reality the way it was!” she shouts. “He was at the front, not our leaders. He fought for the motherland against the enemy, while they sent people to rot in camps.”

“Don’t boil over,” her mother says, her usual warning, but Sasha is already past the boiling-over point.

“You know what I think? After rereading his journal and after rehearsing Dawns? I think that all those ancient men in Moscow have simply usurped the war. They have wrestled the war, the heroism and the death, out of the hands of those who lived it, and now they are the ones who own it. And now they wave it like a red banner on Victory Day. After all, they think they are the ones who made the victory happen, the Party and the KGB, and not the tens of millions who were murdered, by the Germans and by our own.”

She bangs her plate and fork into the sink, angry because she is in a hurry and doesn’t have time to fight with her mother; angry because no matter how hard she tries, she can’t drive this simple understanding into her mother’s head; angry at another looming proof of her professional unfitness.

“I don’t have the time now,” she spits out, “to argue. And you know what?” She pauses for a second, glancing at her mother’s fallen face, but the words have already formed in her mouth, ready to bubble out. “You’re hopeless, as hopeless and retrograde as Grandpa. As blindly patriotic. That’s why it was so easy for the Party to hijack the war and the victory from those who had fought for it. That’s why we live the way we live, wallowing in lies, like pigs in mud. Because of fools like you.”

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