“They’re all just Soviets at the moment; I wouldn’t call them mates, exactly.” They moved forward in the line.
“What do you expect, Dad?” young Jim cut in. “We don’t speak Russian, and all they can say in English is comrade.”
“That’s true,” Jack conceded. “The language is a problem, but they’re offering free lessons in the evenings that anyone can attend.” He stopped at the cash register.
“Lessons? Study?” Harry let out a sarcastic guffaw. “Have you seen my hands?” He showed them to Jack. They were callused all over. “I’ll be fifty-five in March. When I was six, I learned a few letters, and I’ve never needed to learn anything else since. My son can study if he wants. When I’m done working, I’ll go home to my wife, drink a glass of vodka, and watch the snow fall.”
Jack interrupted the conversation for a moment to buy the meal tickets. He was served by a short man with a dark complexion and an aquiline nose, wearing a curious red hat that resembled a sock. Jack said hello in Russian and asked him what kind of food was available.
“Americans, right? I heard you speaking English.” He smiled. “I have a few words, from tending to the foreigners, but I see you speak good Russian. You’ve just arrived here at the Avtozavod, am I right? I haven’t seen you before.” He smiled enthusiastically again. “You’ll like it here. With the kitchens right there, you won’t even notice the cold.”
Jack realized why they had waited so long in the line. The cashier noticed his expression.
“Oh yes! The food. Of course! It’s just you don’t often see new faces around here, you know? And I love to talk. Right. You were asking what kind of food we serve. Yes, very good. What chits do you have?” he asked. “Workers? Officials? Party members?” he said, switching to English.
Jack raised an eyebrow, as did Harry and his son. When they’d been given the chits in the morning, they hadn’t noticed that there were different types. Jack found his; the lettering said “Supervisor.” On the Danielses’ chits it said “Operative.” Jack asked what each category meant.
“Depending on the chit you’ve been given, you’ll receive either single or double rations. Let’s see . . .” He checked the different chits. “For you,” he said to Jack, “it’ll be three courses for five rubles. The other chits are standard, soup and main course. Also five rubles each.”
“Excuse me, but you must’ve made a mistake,” Harry cut in. “Did you just say that me and my son will only receive two courses?”
“That’s right.”
“So how is it possible that you intend to charge us the same as him, when you’re going to serve him an extra course?”
“Oh! I see it hasn’t been explained to you. Basically, the government subsidizes all meals, regardless of what they include, so the price is the same for everyone.”
Harry Daniels looked at the counter where rows of plates were waiting to be collected. He scratched his nose, struggling to understand. The soup was a greenish liquid in which little else could be seen, and the main courses consisted of some kind of purée accompanied by something resembling salt herring. “All right.” He took out two more rubles and added them to the five. “Give me a third course, as well. I’ve worked nonstop all day, and I deserve a piece of that cow, even if I have to pay its weight in gold.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s not possible.”
“What? Can you not see the two rubles I’ve added?”
“It’s not a question of money, sir. The problem is that there isn’t enough food.”
Harry looked at the row of steaks. “Are you joking?”
“I wish I was, sir, but those steaks are for management only.”
Harry broke into a string of protests that the cashier was unable to interpret. The little man reddened but held his ground.
“Please, sir. Do not cause trouble or we will all have problems. It’s five rubles each. Take your tickets and hand them in when you collect your dishes.”
Harry would not calm down. He left the seven rubles on the money tray, snatched up one of the steaks, and took a bite from it before the massive Soviet guard who watched over the canteen could stop him.
“Davay!” the guard yelled at him, grabbing him by the arm.
“Get your hands off me!” Harry wriggled away.
Jack came forward and stepped between Harry’s son and the guard, who looked like he was prepared to use force to achieve his objective. “Excuse him, sir. This man doesn’t speak your language. It’s all a misunderstanding,” Jack assured him in Russian.
“A misunderstanding? This American good-for-nothing thinks he can do whatever he wants?”
Jack was glad Harry couldn’t understand what they were saying. “I’m sorry if it looked like something else, but this poor man has done nothing wrong. It’s just that I wasn’t hungry, so I offered him my meat. Look. I’m not lying to you. I’m entitled to that steak.” He showed the guard the chit that proved he was a supervisor.
The guard glanced at it without changing his expression. “Is this true?” he asked the cashier.
Jack pleaded with the man with his eyes.
“Yes . . . yes, sir,” he said. “That man”—he looked at Jack for an instant—“that gentleman offered his third course to the old man.”
The guard grunted. He turned around and returned to his station. Jack sat on the long bench near where Harry had made himself comfortable. The older man was eating as if nothing had happened.
“What did that bozo want?” asked Harry. Jim, his son, was listening, too.
Jack looked at them, not sure how he should answer. “Nothing. Just eat your food.”
When they’d finished, the Danielses quickly left the canteen to catch the tram that went from the press shop to the American village. Jack decided to drink his tea without rushing. He was in no hurry to see Sue again, and had work matters that he thought would be better to review near the heat from the kitchens. He lit a papirosa and sipped on his tea.
He studied his notes for a long while, until a rasping voice pulled him from his thoughts.
“We’re closing.”
Jack looked up to find a cleaning lady who, rag in hand, was waiting for him to take his notes away so that she could clean the table. He snatched them up and checked the time on the canteen clock. It was seven. Too late to use the services of the crazy driver, and the next tram wouldn’t come until the shift change. He was about to leave the canteen, when he heard someone call to him.
“Sir. Here. Your two rubles.”
Jack turned around, surprised. It was the cashier. He was holding out his hand, offering Jack the two coins.
“Don’t you remember? Your friend paid two rubles extra for his steak, but he really ate yours, so this money belongs to you.”
“Oh! It doesn’t matter. Keep it.”
“Thank you, sir, but I can’t accept it.”
“You can’t? Why not?”
“In the Soviet Union, we don’t accept tips. If we did, it would be like saying that we’ve done an especially good job.”