Heads You Win

“Now we have to find the pizza parlor as quickly as possible,” said Dimitri, as he left the shop and dropped the bag of old clothes in the nearest trash can. “Can’t afford to be late and let someone else get that job.”

Elena was about to rescue the bag, when Alex said, “No, Mother.” She reluctantly joined her son, and they set off once again at a pace everyone else on the sidewalk seemed to consider normal, and they didn’t slow down until Dimitri spotted a red and white sign swinging in the breeze. He crossed the road, dodging in and out of traffic, while Elena and Alex followed, showing none of the same confidence as cars shot past them, horns blaring.

“Leave the talking to me,” said Dimitri as he pushed open the door and walked inside. He went straight up to a man standing behind the counter and said, “I want to speak to the manager.”

“That’s me,” said the man, looking up from his booking sheet.

“I’ve come about the job you advertised in the Post for a pizza cook,” said Dimitri. “It’s not for me, but for this lady, and you’d be lucky to get her.”

“Have you worked in a pizza parlor before?” the man asked, turning his attention to Elena.

“No, sir.”

“Then I can only offer you a job as washer-up.”

“But she’s a fully qualified cook,” said Dimitri.

“What was your last job?” asked the manager.

“I was the head cook in an officers’ club in Leningrad.”

“In Queens?”

“No, in Russia.”

“We don’t employ commies,” said the manager, spitting out the words.

“I’m not a communist,” protested Elena. “In fact I hate them. I would still be there if … but I didn’t have any choice.”

“But I do,” said the manager. “The only job fit for a commie is as a washer-up. The pay’s fifty cents an hour.”

“Seventy-five,” said Dimitri.

“You’re hardly in a position to bargain,” said the manager. “She can take it or leave it.”

“We’ll leave it,” said Dimitri. He began to walk toward the door, but this time Elena didn’t follow.

“Where’s the kitchen?” was all she said, rolling up her sleeves.

*   *   *

As Elena didn’t have to clock on at the pizza parlor before ten, she went straight to City Hall the following morning. After checking the board in the lobby she took the elevator to the third floor. By the time she left a couple of hours later, Elena knew the only school she wanted Alex to attend.

She didn’t make an appointment to see the principal, but in her afternoon break sat in the corridor outside his office until he finally gave in and agreed to see her.

Alex reluctantly joined the twelfth grade of Franklin High the following Monday, and it wasn’t long before the principal had to admit that Mrs. Karpenko hadn’t exaggerated when she suggested he would be top in math and Russian. They weren’t the only subjects he excelled in, although Alex was far more interested in several lucrative activities that were not listed on the school’s official curriculum.

10

SASHA

London

It was at least a week before the other boys stopped staring at Sasha. Although the lower sixth had experienced their fair share of overseas students, he was the first Russian the boys had set eyes on. What did they imagine would be different about him, Sasha wondered.

As English was his second language, it was assumed that he would have difficulty keeping up with the rest of the class. But within a month, several of his classmates had abandoned trying to keep up with “the Russki,” and when it came to math, his third language, Mr. Sutton admitted to the headmaster, “It won’t be too long before he realizes there’s not much more I can teach him.”

While his academic prowess was admired by many, what made Sasha particularly popular with the other boys was his ability to keep “a clean sheet.”

“A clean sheet?” said Elena. “But you sleep at home, so how can the other boys know if your sheets are clean?”

“No, Mother, I’ve just become the school’s First Eleven goalkeeper, and we’ve gone three matches without the opposition scoring.” What he didn’t tell her was that Maurice Tremlett, the boy he’d replaced as goalkeeper, couldn’t hide his anger when he was demoted to the Second Eleven—and it didn’t help that Tremlett was school captain.

Toward the end of his first term Sasha felt he was becoming accepted by most of his fellow pupils. But that was before the incident, when overnight he became the most popular boy in the school and also made a friend for life.

It was during a playground kick-about in the mid-morning break that the incident occurred. Ben Cohen, another boy from the lower sixth, who played center-forward for the Second Eleven, was running toward the goal looking as if he was certain to score, when Tremlett came charging out of his goalmouth, so Cohen passed the ball to another boy, who struck it into the open net.

Cohen raised his arms in triumph, but Tremlett didn’t slow down, and ran straight into him, knocking him to the ground. “Try that again,” he shouted, “and I’ll break your neck.”