The Human Heart

Catherine Park

After some twenty minutes of walking through a mud path to the center of Children's Village, I finally came across the infamous but out of place Egyptian Gates in the heart of Russia. They always looked funny to me, how they stand there to this day as if they guarded a Pharaoh's tomb, only to guide you to what I think is perhaps the most European landscape you could imagine.

On my arborous path to the old Catherine palace there was a statue of to the Fairy Tale author Aleksandr Pushkin surrounded by a bed of flowers immediately to my left after crossing the gates. Then, three more palaces along the way separated only by miles of autumn red trees as if I were walking through a neighborhood for royal families.

And in a way, I was. Only royal families didn't exist in Russia anymore. Sometimes I'd feel bad that there are no princes or princesses anymore like in the fairy tales. But then, if there were, then I couldn't go to the park anymore because somebody lives there. And the park is too big for just one family to play in. Now, Catherine park belongs to everyone. 

Like Deborah said, the park was crowded that Sunday. Many children played airplane, jumped into leaves, leaped into the lake, and I rolled my pants up and rode my toy boat around in knee-deep water pretending to be a captain on a voyage to Finland.

"There room for one more on your crew, Captain?" It was the voice of a grown man hollering from the lake shore. I looked to see it was none other than a Bolshevik soldier offering to play with me. I was three when the reds retook Petrograd; too young for me to remember any of it. All I know is that I was there when it happened. At that time, the civil war was practically over, with the whites only holding out in the easternmost tip of Russia. Because he was in his uniform, I obliged. "You're on the last spot I have left, sir!"