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fingertip, and she didn’t believe Zara’s explanation—she could see that Zara was lying. When Zara finally told her that a black Volga had hit them, her mother struck her. Then she wanted to know if the people in the car had seen them.

    “I don’t think so. They were going so fast.” “They didn’t stop?”

    “Of course not.”

    “Don’t ever, ever, ever go near one of those cars. If you see one, run away. It doesn’t matter where. Run right home.”

    Zara was astonished. So many words out of her mother’s mouth at one time. That didn’t happen very often. She didn’t mind about being hit—but the flash in her mother’s eyes. It was very bright. There was an expression on her mother’s face—a big expression. Normally her mother’s face didn’t have any expression at all.

    Her mother sat up that whole night at the kitchen table, staring straight in front of her. And after that evening she would peek out between the curtains as if she expected a black Volga to be in front of the house, watching, idling quietly. Later on she would get up during the night, look at Zara, who pretended to be asleep, go to the window and peek out, then go back to bed and lie there stiffly until she fell asleep—if she fell asleep. Sometimes she would stand and peer out from behind the curtain until morning.

    One time Zara got out of bed, came up behind her mother, and tugged at the hem of her flannel nightgown. “No one is coming,” she said.

    Her mother didn’t answer, she just pulled Zara’s hand loose from her nightgown.

    “Lenin will protect us, Mom. There’s nothing to worry about.”

    Her mother was quiet, turned to look at Zara for a long time and a little past her, as was her habit. As if there were another Zara behind Zara’s back, and her mother was directing her gaze at that other Zara. The darkness dragged on, and the clock made a cracking sound. The soles of their feet had sunk into the worn wooden floorboards, seeping into their hollows, their skin stuck down with a glue that let go only when her mother picked her up and tucked her back under the blanket. And they hadn’t said a word.

    Zara had also heard stories about Commissioner Berija and the secret police. And the black cars that used to go out looking for young girls, trolling the streets at night, following them and pulling up next to them. The girls were never heard from again. A black Volga was always a black Volga.

    And now Oksanka—a movie star from someplace far away—had emerged from a black Volga and waved to her with her long, unbroken, red fingernails, scratched the air and smiled broadly and graciously like a blue blood disembarking from an ocean liner.

    “Is that your Volga?” Zara asked.

    “My car’s in Germany,” Oksanka said, laughing.

    “You have your own car, then?”

    “Of course! Everybody in the West has their own car.”

    Oksanka crossed her legs daintily. Zara tucked her legs under her chair. The flannel lining of her slippers was damp like it always was, just like the dull pink lining of Oksanka’s slippers had once been, when she used to wear the exact same kind, and they had filled out their student journals together at this same table, their fingers stained black.

    “Cars don’t interest me,” Zara said.

    “But you can go wherever you want in a car! Think about that!”

    Zara thought about the fact that her mother would be home any minute and see a black Volga in front of the house.

    Grandmother hadn’t seen the car because she was sitting in her usual spot and you couldn’t see the street from that window. She wasn’t really interested in the life of the street like the babushkas who sat along the wall. The sky was enough for her.

    *** When Zara walked her back to the Volga, Oksanka said that her parents’ roof didn’t leak anymore. She had fixed it.

    “You paid for it?”

    “In dollars.”

    Before she got into the car, Oksanka gave Zara a longish booklet.

    “This is about