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bathroom, and I thought, let me go get a drink of water. It’s the middle of the night, mind you, what could be the problem with that? And what did I find in the kitchen but that hound, that filthy animal, with his disgusting paw in my borscht, digging out the meat and eating it! My meat! My borscht! Right out of the pot! Filth!” she called down the hall. “Filth and slime! No respect for people’s property!”
    Alexander stood and listened to his mother, who kept on for a few more minutes and then, with angry relish, threw the entire pot of recently cooked soup into the sink. “To think that I would eat anything after that animal’s hands were in it,” she said.
    Alexander went back to bed.
    The next morning Jane was still talking about it. And the next afternoon, when Alexander came home from school. And the next dinner—which was not delicious borscht but something meatless and stewed that he did not like. Alexander realized he preferred meat to no meat. Meat filled him up like few other things did. His growing body confounded him, but he needed to feed it. Chicken, beef, pork. Fish if there was some. He didn’t care much for an all vegetable dinner.
    Harold said to Jane, “Calm down. You’re really getting yourself worked up.”
    “How could I not? Let me ask you, do you think that scum washed his hands after he pawed the whore from the train station that was with fifty other filthy scum just like him?”
    “You threw the soup out. Why such a fuss?” said Harold.
    Alexander tried to keep a serious face. He and his father exchanged a look. When his father didn’t speak, Alexander cleared his throat and said, “Mom, um, may I point out that this is not very socialist of you. Marta’s son has every right to your soup. Just as you have every right to his whore. Not that you would want her, of course. But you would be entitled to her. As you are to his butter. Would you like some of his butter? I’ll go and get some for you.”
    Harold and Jane stared at Alexander cheerlessly.
    “Alexander, have you lost your mind? Why would I want anything that belongs to that man?”
    “That’s my point, Mom. Nothing belongs to him. It’s yours. And nothing belongs to you, either. It’s his. He had every right to rummage in your borscht. That’s what you’ve been teaching me. That’s what the Moscow school teaches me. We are all better for it. That’s why we live like this. To prosper in each other’s prosperity. To rejoice and reap benefit from each other’s accomplishment. Personally, I don’t know why you made so little borscht. Do you know that Nastia down the hall hasn’t had meat in her borscht since last year?” Brightly Alexander looked at his parents.
    His mother said, “What in the name of the Lord has gotten into you?”
    Alexander finished his cabbagy, oniony dinner and said to his father, “Hey, when’s the next Party meeting? I can’t wait to go.”
    “You know what? I think no more meetings for you, son,” said Jane.
    “Just the opposite,” said Harold, ruffling Alexander’s hair. “I think he needs more of them.”
    Alexander smiled.
    They had arrived in Moscow in the winter, and after three months they realized that to get the goods they needed, the white or rye flour, or electric bulbs, they had to go to the private sellers, to the speculators who loitered around railroad stations selling fruit and ham out of their fur-lined coat pockets. There were few of them and their prices were exorbitant. Harold objected to it all, eating the small rationed black bread portions, and borscht without meat, and potatoes without butter butwith plenty of linseed oil—previously thought to be good only for making paint and linoleum and for oiling wood. “We have no money to give away to private traders,” he would say. “We can live one winter without fruit. Next winter there will be fruit. Besides, we don’t have any extra money. Where is this money to buy from speculators coming from?” Jane