Behind linoleum-covered tables in the small kitchens of their small apartments, the Old Russians are sitting down to lunch. They are ladling borscht into floral bowls that they pull from their china cabinets. Their fingers are stained purple. The Old Russians are not age-old, but their minds are worn around the edges, like the Beatles albums in their cupboards. They call St. Petersburg Leningrad, imitating their parents. The Old Russians are thinking about the money under their mattresses. They listen to the radio and shake their heads. Their hair smells like cabbage. Their frowns grow into furrows around their mouths. Their teeth are yellow. The Old Russians do not trust anyone, not even each other. They listen to the sound of utensils against plates and think about governments. Their children’s feet find each other under the table. They do not ask questions, the Old Russians’ children. They watch their parents’ backs. They avert their eyes. They refuse seconds. The Old Russians go to the market on Saturday and haggle with other Old Russians for potatoes. They wear clothes that were made in Poland. They call their mothers on rotary phones. They get postcards from Vienna and hide them behind books on their living room shelves so as not to appear traitorous. They watch TV. They make love. They stand in line for butter, and then again for chicken breasts. They carry two at a time. Deep in their mouths are silver fillings that do not get radio signals. They are not surprised.