"I saw them; they look young."

"It could be their first time."

"I'm going back to the linen room," she said, still half asleep.

"Take Svetlana with you."

"Number two is finished in a half hour."

"Buzz me when you need me."

"I think the intercom is stuck."

"I'll check it," I said.

It was a good thing Mara liked to hang out in the linen room; the office was small, and I preferred to be left alone to study my magazines for room design ideas. I had been looking at travel journals for ideas about a room with a Caribbean theme. I'd call it "Sunset over the Caribbean." There were never pictures of Cuba in these American travel journals even though some of the most beautiful beaches could be found there.

WHUMMMP!.

Sounded like something crashed in room two. Svetlana heard it and stopped playing with her precious pinecone. I got Mara on the intercom.

Buzzzz...buzzz...buzzzz...

"Mara, did you hear that?"

"Whaaa?"

"It came from room two."

"Let it be, Stalina."

"Sounds as if the television fell off the shelf."

Ring! Ring!

"It's the house phone, Mara."

"Answer it," she said.

"Front desk," I said into the phone.

A high-pitched, excited woman's voice said, "This is room two, the d.a.m.n Roller Coaster Room. Harry's fallen off your fancy-schmancy bed and hit his head. He's out cold."

"Would you like me to call an ambulance?"

"Are you crazy? No hospitals, no doctors!"

"What would you like me to do?"

"I need some ice to put on the giant egg on his head."

"The ice maker is next to the laundry room. I cannot leave the front desk. I'll have the maid bring you some," I told her.

"We can't go anywhere till Harry wakes up."

"You have a half hour left on the clock."

Her voice deepened into a gravelly smoker's rasp. "He's out cold. It's going to be a while."

"I'll add another hour to your stay."

"s.h.i.t, Harry, wake up. OK, what time is it?"

"Three forty-five."

"Harry, what did you do to me?"

"You have until quarter to five. I'll call you at-" I tried to finish, but from the other end all I heard was click.

I went back to the intercom.

"Mara, are you there?"

"What happened?"

"The gentleman in room two fell off the bed."

"Is he dead?"

"They need ice; he's unconscious. I gave them another hour."

"I'm not going in there unless she puts some clothes on him."

"Just hand her the ice through the door."

"This job sucks. What was in that box?"

"Get the ice. I did not open it."

"I'll get the ice," Mara said peevishly.

If I didn't push her, she would sleep all day. The red box was sealed on all sides with green tape. Not a very attractive wrapping job. It made no noise when I shook it. I'd wait for Mara; we could open it together. My shift would be over soon, and Mr. Suri would return shortly. I hoped this Harry fellow in room two didn't take a turn for the worse. Svetlana had gone back to playing with her pinecone.

Caww! CAWW!

That noisy crow was always hanging out in the trees. Svetlana was tiny compared to that bird.

Caww! Caww!

The crow didn't frighten Svetlana away with all her yelling. I wondered if the kitten was deaf. Mr. Suri was coming up the drive in his Delta '88. He always took the corner so quickly. The smell of burnt rubber from the tires made me feel warm and happy for his arrival, but I got nervous for the cat because he never watched out for her. I'd get her while I still could.

"Sveta! Svetlana! That's a good kitten. I'll bring a pinecone into the linen room for you."

Caww! Caww!

"Don't worry, Miss Crow, I won't hurt your kitten. Svetlana, you are light as a bug. No belly yet. Can you hear that noisy crow?"

I thought she heard fine, she just didn't seem to mind the crow's ranting. Svetlana was very scrawny and infested with fleas when I found her. Seeing her reminded me that whenever my mother saw a kitten like that, she would say, "We ate even the skinny ones during the siege."

The Siege of Leningrad was a big part of my childhood.

Chapter Nine: Camp Flora.

My city was under siege, and I was sent away. The nine hundred days they cut her off from the world took its toll on my mother.

It was 1941, and Leningrad was having a very warm spring. I was little, only six years old. My parents dressed me in a heavy wool overcoat that was much too big and smelled of mothb.a.l.l.s. I threw it off. My mother put it on me again, lifted me in her arms, and looked me straight in the eye. Her breath was warm and smelled of tobacco. She said nothing, but her nose touched mine. Her eyes got wide, and then she shut them tight. I could hear the wooden wheels of the flatbed peddler's carts along the cobblestones downstairs. My father took me from my mother and touched his hand to my face. The high-pitched squeals of the children on the carts came up through our front windows. I wanted to be brave, so I shut my eyes tight to keep from crying. My father put me on his shoulder and walked me downstairs while I heard my mother stand up, knocking over a chair. I opened my eyes and watched as she ran for the toilet in the back hallway. She did not look back at me. As she turned for the door, her dress opened at the back seam. I saw her cotton panties and a teardrop of blood traveling down her thigh. As my father carried me down the stairs, I memorized the pattern of crowns and stars on the blue and white wallpaper in the hallways.

On the street the carts were filled with children, most very young. Many parents were walking alongside the carts. It was chaotic, but somewhere someone was playing a small flute or ocarina. I could not tell where it was coming from, but the sound was a comfort. It went with the rhythm of the carts as they started to move toward the rail station. Everyone looked up, as if the music was coming from the sky. My father placed me in the middle of the cart and pinned one of his poems to my wool coat. I remember the crows flying overhead. CAW! CAW! They sound the same everywhere.

"Breathe, Stalina, breathe," he whispered to me. "You're a strong girl; take care of these little ones. When you come home, I will have all my poems waiting for you. You will be my amba.s.sador of words." He hummed a tune in his deep voice as he held my face in his hands, then kissed my forehead before turning to go. I kept the note, and when I was older, I memorized the poem.

My daughter watches the waves by the sea.

Do they remind her without knowing Of the womb from where she came?

So safe and sound.

Now we are surrounded, Cut off like the wheat we were meant to grow.

Our bread will never rise or bake.

Will my daughter remember me? When will she return?

Will she have waves of pleasure again, Or only tears of anger and pain?

Will she remember her place at the table, And the patterns on the walls?

I leave a thumbprint of a hug around her soft shoulder.

When she returns, will there be anything, anything?

There will be my poems for her.

So many questions in one poem. I would return and commit to memory every one of his poems. The factory whistles sounded for the lunch hour, and the cart moved toward the rail station.

They took us to a camp up north in the region called Karelia, a beautiful area, not far from where my family had its dacha. The children were brought to the town of Kem. We were forty, all from Leningrad. I was one of the oldest. In our camp there were mostly the young ones. The counselors, a mix of students and workers, stayed up all night playing cards in the bas.e.m.e.nt. The smell of vodka and cigarettes came up through the floorboards. The amber light from their lantern streamed through the cracks. I would pa.s.s my fingers through the light and make it flicker like an old movie. Moths flying near the lamp would cast giant shadows that looked like hawks circling above our bunks. The buzz from the shuffling cards made the sound effects for the flapping wings of the giant moth hawks I conjured. The slap of a card hitting the table brought me back to reality and to the counselors' daily gossip.

"Lela's parents have not been heard from for a week."

"Don't say anything until you are sure."

"I found a tooth in my soup tonight."

"The children have been working in the kitchen."

"Hazardous work."

"Dangerous eating."

"Balya the cook is missing a front tooth."

"She lost that months ago."

"Maybe I should have saved it for her."

"Gin!"

"d.a.m.n!"

"Shut up and deal!"

"Go f.u.c.k your mother."

Sounds of scuffling.

"Settle down, Vanya."

"That tooth...I feel ill."

"Buck up. Be glad you're here."

"What, here, at Camp Klorp?" Klorp means bedbug.

"Stop it!"

"How about Camp Siege?"

"The young ones will write their parents, 'Dear Uttyets and Mart, Having a lovely time, hope all is well, don't eat Uncle Vanya if you can help it. Your sweet Misha from Camp Siege.'"

"Vanya, please."

"OK, Camp Flora, just for you, Tanya. But where's your sense of irony? Not very Russian of you."