Vladek hated Communism anyway. Equality and fraternity? He saw only misery; instead of the peasantry being oppressed, now everybody was. He was sure that noble blood ran through his veins. He would be the heir, the lost and forgotten heir, of some fine White Russian family. While he ate leftover scraps and hugged the ashes of the fire for warmth, when he splashed freezing water from the tap under his armpits in the morning, it burned him; he should be riding among these people in a sleigh drawn by dogs, tossing coins to them while they scrabbled before him in the dirt.

He did not dream of getting a party job, of becoming a foreman, or of taking over the bar. Those were the destinies patrons predicted for him if they were in an expansive, drunken mood, if they noticed him. Vladek scorned them for their tiny horizons. He wanted to be ensconced in a palace, eating on silver platters, served by fawning staff. That was his ambition.

It could not be satisfied here. One day . . . he would find his family. For Vladek knew his blood was his destiny. He would have a coat of arms. He would have an inheritance, squirreled away in Switzerland perhaps, to protect it from the apparatchiks. . . .

“Get on with it! Slacker!” Pyotr screeched. “Those latrines won’t clean themselves!”

Vladek blushed with rage and ducked into the back. More men were coming in now. He didn’t want people to see him doing this. He struggled with a filthy pole to unblock the stinking clogs, and then wiped it down with a rag, threw everything out, washed his hands in water, and poured turpentine on them, to sterilize them.

It stung, but Vladek did not care. He hated to be dirty. More than anything. Despite his limited means, he was meticulously neat and clean. He washed his clothes in melted snow, he trimmed his hair and nails with a knife, and bathed daily in the icy tap water of the men’s latrine. And he kept his tiny area of the coat cupboard perfectly organized: his saved roubles, the occasional tip, objects that men lost that he’d claimed and might use some day; he even had a working pocket watch and a fur hat.

He emerged from the bathroom.

“They want vodka. Pour easy,” Pyotr growled. “That big one there, he’s with the party. Came in from the city to inspect.”

Vladek obediently looked over, and there, sitting on a bench, already half-soused, nasal hair sprouting and food stains on his shirt, was his father.

Vladek stared. His heart thud-thudded. But it was incredible. There was no mistaking it. His nose had been exactly that way before Pyotr broke it. The man had the beady eyes and long lashes, and the sharp, angular chin. There was a beard, which disguised it for a few seconds, but he was Vladek. To the life.