Vodka and Pickled Herring

I am writing now, slightly tipsy, with rosy cheeks, a full belly, and a greasy kiss mark on my face. Today is Victory Day in Russia. There was a parade on Nevsky in honor of the quickly passing generation who has lived through too much, more than they can bear. They all held carnations given to them by children and grandchildren. I just ate dinner with my 95-year-old neighbor who has seen Russian history uncoil its claws. She has lived through both world wars, and the Blockade. She has known hunger for 70 years. She has seen everyone she ever loved die. We toasted to her, we toasted to the day, we toasted to Svetlana’s plentiful food, we toasted to health, and we chased it down with lemonade. She grabbed my neck and kissed my cheek with a mouth full of pickled herring. She told me about the three years in which she was rationed one piece of bread a day, half of which she hid under her pillow incase the Nazi’s came. In Petersburg now, out of respect, it is not allowed to throw out bread. You can feed it to the dog, the birds, any living thing, but you cannot put it in the garbage. She told me about being put to work in a Nazi factory and sharing her bread with her superiors because they were people to, she could see it in their eyes. She asked me if people in America are people too. I told her that yes, people are people, but we cannot possibly understand. She looked straight at me with her deep beautiful wrinkles and kissed me again. I need to study. I have final exams tomorrow and vodka pumping through my veins. Verbs of motion and verbal aspect suddenly seem trivial. It is 10:00 at night and the sky is still perfectly white. There are fire works going off in every direction, but you can’t see them.