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Jennifer Shikes Haines stays at home with her active six-year-old, as well as works on a variety of education and writing projects. She is working on a collection of fictionalized short stories about her life in Russia at the end of the Cold War. This is an abbreviated version of one of those stories.

Lermontov

By Jennifer Shikes Haines

I looked around at the cramped office filled with books, and at the small, striking, dark-featured woman sitting behind the solid oak desk. "But I want to have all the possible teaching experiences here," I said. "If the other teachers must spend their vacation breaks on field trips with the children, then so must I." I tried to smile submissively, a trait all Soviet women seemed to have genetically imprinted. As an American, I failed miserably and my expression took on more of a sneer. Definitely NOT what I had intended.

Dahah Alievna sighed and placed her hands on her desk, playing with the ruby ring that she always wore on the third finger of her left hand. "You know, Marian, that it is never simple here. We need to think how to do this. I wonder if you realize how much extra work you make for me all the time?"

Dahah Alievna smiled at me affectionately. This was a legitimate complaint, but I had won her over with my hard work during the three months I had been teaching in School #23.

"Yes, Dahah Alievna, and I am very grateful for all you have done for me," I smiled back at her.

"Oh, dear, you make me sound like we haven’t treated you well as hosts!" Dahah Alievna twisted the ring more rapidly and the affectionate smile turned into a fretting frown.

I reflected on the cultural differences I encountered on a daily basis. While navigating the average public school system was never a piece of cake in the U.S., nothing had prepared me for the Kafkaesque layers of bureaucracy that I encountered in Krasnodar, Russia. The more I was taken in by these warm and strange people, the more I would feel the ultimate outsider at the same time.

I quickly tried to smooth the ruffled feelings. "You have been wonderful hosts… the very best! And I probably ask too much by wanting to join the children and Rimma Ivanovna to Pyatigorsk. I would just really like to find out what taking a trip with these children would be like!" I tried to smile engagingly again. Dahah Alievna took the bait.

"Very well, I will see who you need to talk to," she began to look through papers on her desk. "Now go, please! Once again, I am behind on all this…." Here she shuffled through stacks of documents to sign and notarize, "important… work!"

***

Several days later, I found myself in a similar office. Bigger office, larger solid oak desk, slovenly red-haired Russian behind it rather than attractive, manicured Azerbaijani. I looked at Tatiana Grigorievna apprehensively.

Her jowls shook as she swung her head back and forth. "This has never been done before, you know, Miss Marian," she managed to sigh as she spoke this.

"Yes, Tatiana Grigorievna, I am aware of this, but none of this has been done before. I DID manage to visit Orlonek, and that was out of the Rayion (Region- province)."

"This is true… but look how much paper work THAT took," she smiled at me triumphantly as if that settled everything.

"I understand that this makes more work for you, but let’s look at it from the students’ end. They desperately want me to go."

Tatiana Grigorievna stared at a piece of paper in front of her, gazed out into space, and looked down. "No, no, it is impossible… I just realized. It is too dangerous for you. We can’t have you traveling by tour bus in the Caucasus. Something might happen – a car crash or something. I think we have settled this topic."

***

"What do you MEAN, too dangerous? For you?! But not for our Soviet children?! Whatever is she thinking of!" Alla bristled over her cup of tea. I was sitting in the neat, dark living room of my friend Rimma’s apartment. Rimma, Alla and I were relaxing a bit over supper in the late afternoon. Alla’s daughter, Katya, one of my students, was off at a Komsomol, (Soviet Youth) meeting, and we often took this weekly opportunity to eat and talk together.

"This is really disgraceful," Rimma sneered. "The busses are too dangerous for an American adult, but just fine for our precious children? Alla, dear, what do you think we can do about this?" Rimma smiled into her teacup, and I knew we were in for trouble. I had seen that smile before.

***

Back in Tatiana Grigorievna’s office, which now felt incredibly cramped, I sat between two very angry fathers of children in class 10C from School 23. Sergei Stepanov punctuated almost every word with a jabbing finger at Tatiana Grigorievna. "What is wrong with these busses?" he raged. "I want a list of ANY mechanical problems! There are just the two of us in your office right now, Comrade, but we shall be here in full force and shall take this to the Minister of Education himself if need be. Now… explain!"

Alexander Ruslanov, sitting on my other side, expressed his agreement from behind his crossed legs and arms. He was a fortress of seething fury.

Tatiana Grigorievna drew herself up and seemed to regain her composure. "You are both administrators as I am and you don’t see the problem here? The busses aren’t dangerous! The roads aren’t dangerous! They are dangerous for HER, because it would be a scandal if ANYTHING went wrong! We don’t have the policies to cover it, we don’t have the visa exceptions to cover it, there is no insurance or other protection for this. Can you understand? Must I explain this further?"

Alexander Ruslanov crossed his legs and took a long time studying his shoes. Sergei Stepanov, who up til this time had been the spokesman for them both, looked to his companion for guidance. "You have a point," Alexander Ruslanov mumbled. "Yes, we understand."

***

Back in my classroom, I paced. Three of my favorite students were with me: Irina, Seryozha and Lena. "So, I guess I will not be going with you after all," I sighed.

"It isn’t fair… and I particularly wanted to show you Lermontov’s grave!" Seryozha was pouting, one of his better skills.

"Lermontov?" I looked up with a gleam in my eye. "Did you say that Lermontov is buried in Pyatigorsk?"

"Well, right nearby, actually, but yes. Why?" Seryozha looked at me with puzzlement.

My mind was extremely busy. First off, to be clear about this, I hated Lermontov’s poetry with every fiber of my being. On the other hand…. Russians couldn’t resist a love of literature. "I’ve got it!! I’ve got her now!" I jumped up from the edge of my desk, hugged Seryozha, and raced out of the room and towards Dahah Alievna’s office.

***

"And so, Tatiana Grigorievna, now that I know that the grave of my favorite, my very favorite poet, Lermontov was to be on the itinerary of this trip… I just cannot miss this trip! I must lay flowers on his grave! Can’t you understand that? This may be my only visit to your beautiful country and I…" here I tried to look as if I might cry, and drew my very best acting skills to the situation, "I might know that his grave was a mere five hours away and I, I had failed to pay my respects to him?" I sighed tragically, and looked down at my lap, twisting a handkerchief that Rimma had lent me for the occasion. "I just couldn’t face myself if I failed to honor this great man."

Tatiana Grigorievna was staring openly at me, and then looked over to Rimma, who had on a most tragic expression herself. Rimma was very good at "tragic." "Tatiana Grigorievna, I understand the hardship that Marian’s joining us would cause you and the Ministry, but can we truly deny her this dream to honor one of our greatest writers? Think of what she will say in the U. S. if she is denied," Rimma paused dramatically. "I shudder to think."

"Well," Tatiana Grigorievna sighed, "I suppose," here was another deep sigh. "Alright, we can give it a try. Now both of you, go! I have work to do here. Ellina will give you the beginning documents to fill out on your way out."

"Oh, THANK you, Tatiana Grigorievna!" I smiled at her warmly. Her response was to wave me away and snarl a bit. I left quickly before she changed her mind.

***

The next couple weeks were a blur of filed documents, notarizations, examinations, etc. Finally the golden paper arrived, a permission letter from the Ministry to visit the Pyatigorsk Rayion, accompanied by a 4-day visa. I sat at on the bus, listening to the happy noises of the teens surrounding me and looked out at the gorgeous mountain passes. I was on my way to honor a dead poet.