Undercaffeinated

“Tola, did you and your friends drink coffee again?” My mother’s voice rings with sincere offence, an expression of utter disdain on her face.

The maples outside persist at being themselves. Our small kitchen in Leningrad is light and cozy, with a large radiator snaking under the window, inelegant furniture, and an ugly old stove with a teapot on. It’s 1985; I’m seventeen. I don’t know what to say. True, my friends stopped by last night. We sat here in the kitchen; I made some coffee. I had to offer them something. Hospitality is supposed to be a Russian tradition, but finding food in stores is increasingly difficult, coffee in particular. Any generosity is bound to erode from lack.

“I did,” I say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t use much.”

My parents practice a religion of coffee in the morning, not extended to me. I understand that they are the breadwinners and I’m just a freshman college student. Still, it seems unfair to be excluded from access to something that all of the world’s literature references as a common commodity.

“You know we need it before work.” An edge remains in her voice, but I can tell she’s not in the mood to make a big fight out of this. Nothing will bring the coffee back anyway.

I’m allowed to brew a second round with the same coffee grounds, which produces a mere hope of caffeine in light-brown water. I don’t do this often. Weak coffee might be worse than none at all. At least black tea is still available, even if it occasionally smells of tobacco harvested nearby or processed by the same factory.

*

Other times, the conflict might be about the family’s supply of bologna. When I move to the United States some years later, I’ll learn how low this item is on the food hierarchy, but our choices are so limited that anything meat based tastes delicious. Bologna is one of the more common rarities. Salami is beyond reach. In the late 1980s, food availability has grown particularly sporadic, with the exception of the most undesirable items like seaweed and expired-looking fish.

This state of affairs presents a challenge. Do I sit around hungry amid hungry friends, acting as if the small, beat-up ancient refrigerator didn’t exist? My parents are half-hearted at reprimanding me for the food. It’s not their fault that the USSR is experiencing a shortage, all these years into the bright future.

It’s no one’s fault. Lenin begat Stalin begat Brezhnev. The dictatorship of the proletariat ended up just a dictatorship after all: a brutal regime that has exterminated the country’s character, culture, and well-being. No one is hopeful about the future. We hate the regime even as we must officially praise it in public. I’m resigned to being a Soviet citizen for the rest of my life.

It’s not [my parents] fault that the USSR is experiencing a shortage, all these years into the bright future.

“Why don’t you meet at Kesha’s place?” Mom says.

“We did, last Tuesday.” Kesha’s family bologna supplies must also be limited, but they were generously offered.

“You spend more time here,” she grumbles.

“No, we don’t.”

I feel powerless. I can’t be mad at her; her concerns are valid. And yet, I can’t not be mad at her: Hadn’t she thought of this when she was deciding to start a family? Unfair, I know. The situation in the Soviet Union had never been as dire, except for the war and postwar period. But I do find myself thinking: Couldn’t my parents have found a way to escape this country, somehow?

*

Special collections of gourmet foods on display in some shops include an intricately shaped caviar jar, two types of crackers, a cheese or two, and several sorts of rare chocolate alongside a beautiful Champagne bottle. These are available only with a special card. Communist Party members distribute these cards among themselves. We can still buy potatoes and cottage cheese.

If I pass a store and see a line, I get in line. Once my place is secured, I ask, “What’s in stock today?”

“Bologna.”

Excellent. Bologna sandwiches are delicious, especially when made with our favorite sixteen-copeck baguettes that are still available, on most days. With a little more effort, fried bologna sizzles onto one’s plate. A sheer delight, especially with fried potatoes. My only worry is how long I might be in line. An hour? Two? Good thing I have no plans.

I wait an hour or two for my delicious award. On other days, I may walk away with two pounds of beef from an ancient cow or a package of pelmeni, the Russian dumplings with pork or beef filling made from who knows which body parts. Or it could be an all-around useful item like a pound of butter. There is a limit, per customer.

I may walk away with nothing if the supplies run out.

I bring a book whenever I leave the house, just in case there’s a moment or a couple of hours to read. This habit helps with lines. It’s a lucky day. I can get some bologna for the family and read a few chapters.

Years later, when I find myself in the United States, I will seek out a similar kind of bologna, made in Brooklyn. I’ll make bologna and fried potatoes for my mother during her visits. We’ll reminisce. I’ll think, again, how unbelievable it is, not being a Soviet citizen anymore. But at the moment, that future is less conceivable than dreams. It’s impossible.

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