Moscow, Russia — April 20, 1983
I really don’t want to leave Yuri’s flat.
My body is made of stone as I peer through a partially open door, watching my dad speak with Yuri’s mom.
Standing just inside the entrance to their tiny flat, he’s letting her know in no uncertain terms who he is, what he’s here for, and why I must go with him.
My father’s voice: “…have been difficult for him since his mother’s death.”
Yuri’s mom: “That’s so sad.”
“You can sneak out the back window.” I glance beside me at Yuri’s nervous face and the small window he’s pointing to, weighing my escape plan carefully.
Could I even fit through that tiny window? Maybe, after moving the old toys and board games blocking it.
But then where will I go? Yuri is my only close friend from school.
My father: “…a few rubles for groceries.”
“Danya?” Yuri touches my arm. My face is covered in cold sweat.
“I’m scared.” My voice is high pitched. Unrecognizable.
“It’s okay.” He tugs on my arm, guiding me to the window of his bedroom. Then he begins tossing board games off his desk: Chess, Chemical Warfare, Revolution.
Clearing just enough space for me to climb onto the desk and make my window escape, Yuri gives a thumbs up. But then his mouth drops as he focuses on something behind me.
Before I can turn to see what he’s looking at, someone helps me along, grabbing me by the shoulders and spinning me around.
“Danya.” My dad is trying to smile but gritting his teeth instead.
“Papa.” My voice is now not so much high pitched as frail, more like an 80-year-old man than a 12-year-old boy.
Then again, the old man and I are both on our deathbeds.
