Leaving home: the beginning of an end
tanya makhlina '10 -- guest columnist

"Fourteen hours later, my mom, babushka, teddy and I were at Logan airport. This is America for real now! The smell of Dunkin Donuts and airport soap filled my body. It didn’t smell like Russia any more."

It’s May 2, 1999. I’m standing in my living room, clenching my teddy in one hand and leaning on my pull-out arm chair bed that I’ve been sleeping on since I was 2 years old. I can’t let go. Tears are pouring down my cheeks like a much needed summer rain. My heart is thundering, and I feel totally helpless. My mom is frantically running between our two bedrooms that we’ve been renting out from the city for the last 10 years, trying to gather our possessions, while my two best friends are fighting sleep in the corner of the room. My babushka fiddles around with the bags and stands in the doorway. My friend Jenka comes over and gives me a hug. I start to sob. The tension in the room is unbearable.  

“We’re moving to America at the end of the school year,” whispers my mom, closing the door behind her. “You may not, under any circumstance tell anyone, Tanya. Do you understand? No one may know.” My heart begins to pound. I don’t know how to react. I’m really excited, remembering all the pictures my babushka showed me from her magical travels to Disneyland, but at the same time I want to cry. The subject luckily was left alone for a couple of months, and oddly enough I kind of forgot about it.

April is coming closer and closer. My mom arranged with my school for me to take my exams early so I can finish fifth grade in Russia. But, so much more had to be done before that. Most importantly, we still had to go to Moscow, in order to get our passports and refugee forms. That is the only way out, according to my babushka.

Not until a few years ago, did I understand why we had to leave.

“We’re Jewish?” I asked with utter confusion sitting in a hollow government building, with pasty white walls and a couple hundred chairs lined up in perfectly straight lines. People sat totally still, lifelessly staring into space, waiting for their names to be called, for their last chance. My mom grabbed my mouth. “Shut up you silly girl. And stop swinging your legs back and forth. You’re causing a scene.” My mom and I had been going to the only Catholic Church in St. Petersburg for over six years now. What was my mom talking about? This whole idea of moving just kept sounding worse and worse every minute. Regardless of my outlook on the situation, we proceeded to go into an office, as I watched the two most stable people in my life melt in the cold metal chairs of the office. The rest of the journey through Moscow and my last couple of months of school now seemed like a big blur, until that dreadful day when this whole story became real.

By the time we reached the airport I couldn’t cry anymore. The situation was so unreal to me. My two best friends stood by the gate, bawling, and I couldn’t push out one measly little tear. Sitting on the plane I kept thinking about that moment and how I would never be able to see my friends again. I couldn’t wait to wake up out of this nightmare.

Fourteen hours later, my mom, babushka, teddy and I were at Logan airport. This is America for real now! The smell of Dunkin Donuts and Airport soap filled my body. It didn’t smell like Russia any more. No more dusty roads, crème brulee ice cream cones sold by homeless people on the streets looking for drinking money; no more old subways that smelled like freshly printed newspapers. No more first days of school, wearing huge wedding bows, with flowers in our hands and new leather brief case backpacks. But, most importantly, no more sharing the St. Petersburg sunsets with my mom.

It was all gone.

This was the first time I was able to cry again. It was time for new adventures. My aunt and uncle greeted us with hugs and kisses. As we drove away to our new home and new life to be, my aunt turned around, opened her fist and gave me a pack of Bubblicious strawberry gum. Surprisingly, that was enough to calm me down. I chewed that gum, staring at the passing lights of Boston, feeling like a huge weight just got lifted off my chest.

“I think for anyone who’s gone through a crisis, there comes a turning point, an epiphany, that marks the beginning of the end.” –Deborah Norville