and animal husbandry. But with the dissolution of the U.S.S.R. in 1991, the funding dried up and those students returned home.
A few like Fatuma stayed due to having kids and falling in love with Russians.
To her, that time was a golden age for free thinking about race. She argued that now the accepting social climate had changed. Currently, Russia struggled with a reputation for racism—from the abuse of black footballers, skinhead attacks against Africans, and violent policing of all immigrants. In fact, Boris’s sister Nina had joined other African students in St Petersburg’s streets to protest Russian racist behavior against minorities and immigrants.
I thought back to what she’d told me.
“Kids like my Boris have always had to prove to others here that he is also Russian. That he was born and raised here just like them.” Fatuma scowled. “Even when he was a little kid, they would come up to him and touch his hair like he was the oddest creature that ever lived.”
I took a sip of my soup. “I dealt with that a little from some of the White people back home, although it didn’t happen much for me. New York has a lot of diversity.”
“Not the same here.” Fatuma picked up her cup of tea. “When I first arrived in Moscow, I would always hear the Russian word ‘obezyana.’ Forever, I thought it mean ‘black person.’ Later, I learned that it was the word for ‘monkey.’”
Pushing that past conversation out of my mind, I walked deeper into the kitchen.
When Fatuma spotted me, she set the spoon next to the pot and hurried over. “Emily, I’m so glad you came. Look.”
Excitement evident in her voice, she gestured to the doorway of the cafeteria. “Look. Did you see? Did you see what you’ve done?”
“Well, I saw what you have done.” Smiling, I hugged her. “This is amazing. Thank you for committing to get everyone fed and off the streets in Kapotnya.”
“This has warmed my heart more than anything.” Fatuma’s eyes watered. “There’s only a few homeless shelters in Moscow. And that is too far for ones that have no money and no way to get around. Many homeless have to sleep in train stations and abandoned areas—women with little kids. None of these places are safe.”
I nodded. “I know a lot about sleeping in train stations and abandoned areas.”
“Boris told me a little about your childhood.” Fatuma squeezed my shoulder.
“Yes. However, I imagine being homeless in Russia deals with an unbearable cold.”
“And serious police violence. Do you see the ones with black eyes?” She gestured behind me. “Look.”
“Yes. What happened to them?”
“If the police find the homeless in the wrong place, they’ll beat them. Others deal with health problems frequently encountered by constant exposure to cold, damp, and filthy conditions. Boils, ulcers, and necrosis. . .” Her words disappeared. Tears left her eyes.
Boris frowned. “Mother, we don’t have time for tears today. We have a lot to do.”
I frowned. “Boris, it’s fine.”
“Hush.” Fatuma swatted Boris’s shoulder. She was small, and he towered over her. I doubt he even felt her hand.
Fatuma wiped her tears. “I want Emily to understand what she’s done. How she’s helped. Boris, did you tell her about our life? We lived in the streets. Many times we slept under the pipes like other homeless have—”
Boris uncomfortably stirred. “I’m sorry, Mother, but we came to find out about the book.”
“I am talking.” Fatuma hit his arm again. “And you don’t say hi. You come and demand things—”
“I’m sorry.” Boris lowered his head. “Can we please get the book now? I don’t want to keep Emily for too long.”
Giving up, she murmured in some language and marched away.
We followed.
I nudged Boris. “Be nice to your mother. She’s awesome.”
“Sometimes she can be too much.”
“You’re lucky to have a mother at all. I don’t remember mine. She died when I was young.”
Boris frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Just be nice to yours.”
Fatuma opened the door and took us in the hall. There, she led us down a smaller path, stopped us in front of a room, and went in.
“I’ll be right back,” She yelled out.
We stayed in the hall.
She returned, looked around, and then handed me a jean bag that clearly had a book inside. “Tell no one that I gave you this.”
I held the bag. “I promise, Fatuma.”
“I am not supposed to have it myself.”
“Where did you get it from?”
“That. . .” She shook her head. “That is not a story I want to tell, but Boris showed