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That night, we went to
visit Max’s grandmother for dinner. At the time, I didn’t understand
Russian very well, so Max had to translate everything she was saying for
me. From the moment she met me, she wasn’t the least bit impressed. That was unusual but sort of a relief; when
in Russia, I lived in a constant state of impressing people, just by being
American. I knew I didn’t deserve it, and that I wasn’t doing anything
particularly impressive, so this constant attention and adoration usually made
me really uncomfortable.
But not only was she not
impressed by me, she didn’t even like me. I could tell she
was disgusted that Max practically licked my shoes; it made me feel kinda
weird, too. But she was having none of
it. Max was quite pleased with himself that he had managed to get an
American girlfriend, and, ergo, was pretty disappointed that she didn’t feign
and fawn over me.
She had prepared a
lovely meal, which we ate at the modest table in her living room. No
alcohol. When we finished eating, Max
suggested that we move to more comfortable seats, so he and I moved to the
couch. She remained at the table.
She and Max began
heatedly discussing something I couldn’t understand, in Russian. Max made
a funny gesture, contorting his hand around the back of his head while making a
“gun” out of his index finger and thumb.
It looked ridiculous, and made me laugh. Max turned towards me, with
great hostility.
He demanded, “What’s so
funny?”
“I was just laughing at
that … that thing you did,” I said, repeating the motion. I was resentful
that he made me feel so embarrassed; after all, he knew I couldn’t understand
what they were saying, and he looked ridiculous with his hand like that.
His grandmother just stared at me in a really hostile way.
“We were talking about
how Mayakovsky, the poet, killed himself.
But I was explaining to my grandmother that Mayakovsky couldn’t have
shot himself in the back of the head. I was saying it looked like
murder,” Max said, annoyed. “Maybe
you shouldn’t comment about things you don’t understand.”
Asshole.
Max and his grandmother
continued the conversation. Max said I should ask him to translate
if I didn’t understand something; I told him that if they were going to talk
about complicated things that he should automatically translate for me. Max
asked his grandmother another question, and I recognized the word “gulag.” She
began to talk, quite heatedly, about something I couldn’t understand, but I
understood Max’s response to her.
“Grandma, Stalin was a
bad person.”
Max finally began
translating for me. “She is saying,” he said, his eyes darting back and forth
between her and I, “that she worked for many years in Siberia. She worked in
the labor camp, and she says that the only people that she ever saw in the
camps were criminals.” His grandmother
continued on in Russian. “She says that
all the people that were in the camps deserved to be there. She says no one she
ever saw there was a political prisoner.”
He looked at me and explained, “I am going to ask her if this could have
been going on in other camps. There were
many camps, maybe this was not happening at her camp.”
She answered him, and he
translated. “She says she worked in two
camps, and she saw no political prisoners.”
He stared at her, knowing that any arguments against this opinion would
be futile. She began to speak
again. “She says that all the things they
say about Stalin are a lie.”
I understood his short
reply. “But grandma, so many people
died.”
She paused for a minute,
looking down. She fiddled with her
napkin, sighed heavily, then looked up and answered him. Max listened for a moment before translating. “The weather was harsh there. It was difficult even for guards and paid
workers to survive. How can you expect
that the prisoners would stay alive?
They had to work outside and live in the prisons. The prisons and barracks were good, but those
people were forced to work hard.”
She turned to me and
asked, “What do you think?”
I nodded to Max that I
understood, and then answered, in English, “They say Stalin was a bad man. That he killed a lot of people.”
His grandmother shook
her head and angrily shifted in her chair.
I could see that she was greatly upset by my opinion. She began talking at Max, and he immediately
translated for her. “Americans! You talk about how bad Stalin was. Well, what
about your Indians? What about your black people? You think your government
hasn’t done anything wrong? You think you’re better than us, but you're
not.” She looked at Max, her index
finger pressed into the table, and hissed, “Those people were not political prisoners.”
We fell silent. This discussion wore her out, so we dropped
it and helped clean up the dinner mess.
I thanked her several
times for the delicious meal and for her hospitality. On the way home, Max and I talked about what
she said.
“You’ll really have to
forgive my grandmother. I don’t agree
with her. But she is an old woman, and there is no use in arguing with her. She
worked at gulags in Siberia, but her experience was different from other
experiences. I can’t say that her opinion of the situation is correct.”
“But you know what they
say about Stalin? The things that he did. The people he killed.”
“I believe he did those
things, of course. But she is very
old. There is no convincing her otherwise.”
