I fell in love that year for the first time. I was 14 and had no idea what love was, but I believed in it. He was a Ukrainian boy with tussled blond hair and blue eyes. His name was Artom and he was the best soccer player, the best bad mitten player, and pretty much the best at any sport or game. He didn’t speak any English at first, we were friends, we all were and I taught him like I taught Alex. Artom had this habit of tossing his head, the longer hair out of his eyes and I though he was so cool. He would touch my hand to help me climb up onto the wall to watch and I blushed. I was so different than the other girls and it pained me, but I think that is why he liked me back.
Ukraine was America in the 1960’s. Still a conservative era with the crazy 20- somethings changing up everything that the older ones world had stood for. For the teenagers however, walking together was still a big deal. We walked a lot. Artom was very intelligent, he was speaking good English soon and could hit the baseball better than anyone although we had grown up with a glove on our hand. I admired him. I remember the time he came to our door to play cards with ME, not my brother. My practical mind worked hard though, realizing I was going home and he would stay here. I was very aware. So I enjoyed our walks and occasional hand holding as he helped me climb. He was a gentleman at 16.
Mike, my rich school chum came riding his bike over to see me one day. He was a little younger than me and his clothing and bike screamed his position. Artom hated him. They squared off and I thought they were going to fight. It was all very strange to me, I didn’t understand. I went over and told Mike to go home, but he glowered at Artom before he did.
The playground was dust, peeling paint, and patchy grass as best. A lone tree braved the concrete jungle and a few ladies picked the sour apples as they fell. Two children fought, mouths and noses bleeding. The silence was sickening and echoed the sound their fists made against their tender faces. Others watched, eyes dead deep within although there on the surface they showed a gleeful harshness too old for their age. Money laid on the ground, a dirty bet. I cried for them, the lost souls in the maze of stacked upon each other apartments. I wept and wept for them, at night when my bare feet stood upon the cold tile of our balcony. The cheesecloth screen kept out the blood thirsty mosquitoes, I could hear them buzzing though, always buzzing around my head. Each light held a life and I thought it was all hopeless. They never were going to understand. I prayed for them, the lost souls sunk in the misery of their sad existence.
Alex came crying to our door, our best friend. His mother was very ill and may die. His mother had us over for warm tea and blenis, small paper thin pancakes, with jam. My parents bought her medicine and she lived, always thanking us although we knew that she was still very ill. Alex couldn’t say “very”, he always said “berry” and we laughed, even when he was angry. Hateful Americans. He loved us like his own family and we loved him back equally.
To catch up on parts 1-5 click HERE