The Intimate Diary of a Russian Woman: My Search for Meaning in the Midst of My Country's Upheaval

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JUNE 1, 1 988 . The desired but inaccessible Munich and the provincial Kaluga, now in the past. Two different worlds, connected in a real way by my life. Now, as I sit in the kitchen of my Moscow apartment, I could get a phone call both from Kaluga or from Munich, although Munich is more likely.

Kaluga—my childhood at my grandparents’ house—represents the time connecting me to the past, a time dear to my father. Now my father is gone, and I am the only one who would want to or, for that matter, be able to write about it.

That past is inseparable from me. I feel its presence always, that special sensation of objects, smells, light, and shadow—that is, the things that are hard to describe. But I will try nevertheless.

In my lifetime I’ve had several apartments, but none can compare with Kaluga. The other apartments didn’t have hidden corners, special odors, or a clutter of old things that lived their own lives. I don’t even remember how the furniture was placed in the later apartments. But I don’t need any effort to recall the Kaluga apartment; I could walk through it with my eyes shut.

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