satisfaction, carrying us along its powerful current. We followed the crowd . . .
Nevsky Prospekt was not a simple avenue or boulevard, but a road rich with history and geography. Events of several centuries were personified along that road. It was Peter the Great who had decided to implant Western civilization on the shore of the Baltic Sea. What a project it was! That Western civilization should be brought to the culture of archaic Russian traditions, to soil covered by a swamp! That ground had swallowed many human lives in the primitive age of machinery in Russia at the dawn of the eighteenth century. But it was the price paid for moving Russia closer to the West. Nevsky Prospekt epitomized the greatness of Peter’s design.
We knew every stone, every palace and monument on our way from the Neva River to Insurrection Square, and we enjoyed each minute of the stroll along the spectacular straight line of perspective. We admired a magnificent monument to Catherine the Great on a round black granite pedestal. We had frequently met at that monument. Passing by the Belozersky Palace, we could not take our eyes off the famous sculptures of rearing horses by Peter Klodt on the Anichkov Bridge. The palaces and monuments, all artifacts of the pre-Soviet era, created an impressive view along the unique straight line of Nevsky Prospekt.
Crossing several times, we passed five movie theaters where we used to kiss in the dark, and a photography studio where our wedding picture had been displayed for many months. Finally we approached Insurrection Square. The square brought up a lot of memories—we had lived on opposite sides of it and used to run into each other on the same bus from the Moscow Railroad Station to law school.
Tired but happy experiencing again that tender, sweet feeling of being in love, we stood in front of the station embracing each other as if one of us had just arrived from Moscow. Pictures of the past flew vividly through our minds. The gloomy weather and wind from the gulf did not bother us. Then Garrik picked up our small suitcase, and we turned back toward Nevsky Prospekt.
On our way, in spite of the cold and windy weather, we stopped in the square in front of the Kazansky Cathedral and sat on a bench to admire the grandeur of the edifice with the imperial Roman colonnade. I adored the cathedral.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit cynical to turn a symbol of religion into the Museum of Atheism?” I asked Garrik, continuing to admire the splendid colonnade.
“No, it’s a normal event in our country. We are turning the past into the future. By the way, Simosha, I know you’re quite a curious girl, and I’d like to give you some advice about the party tonight.”
I began laughing. “What kind of advice?
“It’s not a laughing matter, Simosha. At the home of our friends this evening, you’ll meet the old advocates who know much more than you and me about the past. Please don’t ask them any questions.”
“But Sergey has always participated in all discussions at the home of our friends, and he’s only a teenager. You’re giving me some pretty strange advice.”
“Their son is their business. Please, Simosha, believe me, I know those old lawyers and the impressive stories they’ll tell all night.” He was no longer smiling. I got the message and stopped arguing.
We strolled back along Nevsky Prospekt toward the Neva River where our friends lived. We bought a bouquet of white and purple asters for Galya’s wife, Tanya, a woman of such beauty that artists had painted portraits of her. Stunning, with big blue eyes, light brown hair parted in the middle and tied in the back, and a cameoclassic face, she was a collector of antiques and an expert in the field.
My thoughts had completely changed as we approached the embankment of the Neva River’s stream, spanned by a small humpback bridge. A majestic work by Pushkin and Tchaikovsky had made the embankment famous. It had been there that Lisa, from the Queen of Spades, committed suicide, hurling herself into the water. Our friends’ windows looked out on that famous bridge.
We rang the bell and Sergey opened the door. In the tiny corridor, I kissed and congratulated him with a bouquet of flowers for his mother, who was busy in the kitchen. We moved to the living room, embraced Galya and Garrik handed him the birthday present. The living room was prepared for the celebration—all of the furniture was moved to Sergey’s room. Delicate crystal candelabra illuminated walls covered with old master paintings and Sevres porcelain plates. Two tables, put together to form a T shape, were covered with white tablecloths and dishes of meat and fish prepared and decorated by Tanya. As usual, on top of the potato salad, Tanya’s incredible mushroom with the red head of a tomato on a white egg stem towered over all of the dishes.
There were three couples in the room. I didn’t know them. Galya made the introductions. They were defense attorneys and their spouses—relatives and friends of the family, all Jews. I had a great deal of respect for those professionals—they had been the only group of lawyers who tried to help the defenseless victims of Stalinism in the dark decades of lawlessness. Activities of that nature required a lot of guts, posing a risk to their careers and lives. Before Galya finished the introduction, we heard the doorbell ring, then voices in the corridor, and another couple entered the room. Everybody stopped talking while Galya hurried toward them.
“Folks, allow me to introduce old friends of ours, Jacob Mayzel and his wife Milliza.” In silence all eyes fell on the tall, slim, silver-haired man whose posture revealed old-world manners. Clearly, the other guests had enormous respect for this man. With dignity and a light smile, he shook hands.
“Are you a lawyer too, my dear young girl?” he asked, holding my hand in his soft, warm palms. I blushed but was unable to squeeze out a word. Garrik saved me as usual.
“She’s my wife. You’re right, Simona graduated from law school only a few years ago. Like me, she’s a defense attorney.”
“That is a very nice addition to the bar,” said Jacob, making me blush even more. Everybody burst out laughing. In the relaxed atmosphere, the guests began talking, some complimenting the table spread, others exchanging political jokes, with Khrushchev being the usual an object of mockery. Garrik and I were admiring the old paintings and Sevres plates on the walls.
Tanya’s resounding voice rose above the noise, “Dear guests, I invite you all to take a seat at the table. I know that everybody’s starving. Let’s start eating, please.” She was right. Hungry and tired, Garrik and I obediently followed as did the others. The shuffling of chairs in limited space and giggles and excuses filled the room. When we were all seated, an incredible aroma of food tickled our nostrils. But nobody dared to destroy Tanya’s creative food presentation. She grasped the situation immediately. “Friends, please, give me the pleasure of seeing you eat the fruit of my labor.” We all laughed and did not make her wait. Soon the room was filled with the sounds of working forks and knives. For a couple of minutes nobody talked. Then Garrik stood up with a glass of vodka in his hand.
“I would like to propose a toast to my friend Galya,” he said, raising an overfilled glass; the vodka left round damp spots on the white tablecloth. By Russian tradition, any celebration has to have a special person delivering a toast. With his theatrical talent and excellent command of the Russian language, Garrik usually did the job and loved it. He knew where to make a pause and where to raise his voice. I sat there admiring him.
“Today we celebrate the birthday of a unique fellow. It so happened that we live in different cities and I met him only several years ago, but as you know a real diamond always shines. All these years I have been astounded by Galya’s unlimited energy and strong will to do good. He’s fighting everywhere in the courts of Moscow, Tallinn, and other cities throughout the country for his clients in criminal and civil cases. He’s a tireless fighter in the Leningrad District Communist Party Committee for the defense attorney’s right to speak the truth. He is driven by a sense of mission to help people and make our country better.” Though Garrik smiled, a few drops of sweat appeared on his forehead, and two oval islands of sweat were quite noticeable under his arms. The vodka left more spots on the tablecloth. He put his glass down.
“Thanks to our esteemed Nikita Sergeevich Khrushchev, for whom I have a profound respect, we are all free from fear and terror. But there is no more courageous and daring