My sister's belt

I was not a bony girl at thirteen. To become a mountain climber, I’d been working out. It became my habit to exercise, and watch every gram I put into my stomach. Exercise and watch. Still, I couldn’t get down to my sister’s weight that was an irritatingly constant fifty kilograms. My obsession was to get down to her weight but, even at fourteen, I was fifty six.

“You have a different constitution.” My Papa tried to appeal to my common sense that was not developed yet. I wanted to eat anything and stay thin, as my sister. My sister didn’t have to exercise and ate anything she wanted, but her waist was smaller than mine.

“I do not want any constitution different from Irina’s! Constitution! I am not a country to have a constitution!”

“This is a word that defines a body type. When you start studying physiology, you will know. Remember how we played carousel when you were little?”

“Yeah! That was cool!”

“Remember, how you would grab my fingers with your little hands, each on a different side, and I would spin you?”

“Yes, yes!”

“Even though you were almost two years younger than your sister, you were taller and heavier. I discovered it when I weighed you on my fingers. Irishka was as round as a ball, and you looked slenderer, but she was as light as a feather. This is what body constitution is - body type. Your bones are heavier. You will never be a ballet dancer, but your sister could.”

“It is not fair! We are sisters! Why should our constitutions be different?! Irina couldn’t care less about being a ballerina, but I can’t sleep without my ballet shoes.” That was true: I even mopped the floor on my toes, not noticing that my legs were getting even more muscled.

To add to my suffering, Irina made a six-inch belt that she wore to school over her uniform to prove that her waist was even smaller than of a famous actress Liudmila Gurchenko, known for having the tiniest waist in the whole country – hers was less than eighteen inches. I had to fight my adolescent pudginess and, by the time I turned sixteen, I wore the same belt to school with pride, but it cost me two years of yoga and walking to and from school. It also gave me a new skill of unhealthy shallow breathing to feel comfortable inside of her belt for hours. But I did wear my sister’s belt, even though I was never able to use the farthest hole on it.

Nobody knew that my fifteen-year-old sister was a dissident. One early afternoon she started on the subject that she shouldn’t have. Our father, normally a very calm man, took it very seriously. Never emotionally or physically abused, my sister was astounded at our father’s stern voice, “Irina, stop it! I am a communist; I can’t let my daughter say things like this.”

            “Our system sucks! Everybody is a liar. It is not a Mother Russia, this is a step-mother Russia, who could not care less whether we survive or not! Our Soviet Constitution is not designed to protect us!”

            “Irina, stop it!” Our father’s face turned pale, his narrow lips looked almost bluish. “What are you complaining about? You have so much more than others! You travel, you go to one of the best schools, and because of all these you have a future, unlike some of your friends. Your mother and I work two - three jobs to make it work!”

            Irina protested, “We live like slaves! We think like slaves! We can’t say what we think! Look at those children with dirty faces outside going through trash – the only difference is that they are white!” 

            “You know that this is not true!” countered Dad. I traveled almost around the world. I say what I think!”

            “Only because you are special, you are a communist! What if I wanted to travel? People get arrested, if they say the truth!”

            I couldn’t comprehend what she was talking about at my happy and naïve thirteen years of age. I never heard about any arrests, but I did hear about the constitution. We lived in the best country in the world! No wonder our father turned white and looked so agitated.

            “Irina, stop it! This is our country, we should be patriots! What are you talking about?!”

            While Irina was getting louder, louder, and almost hysterical, Dad’s face continued turning whiter and whiter, until he all of a sudden grabbed my sister and thrust her up above his head, yelling, “I should throw you off of the balcony, off of the fifth floor! It will be better for all of us! I should serve my duty! I am a communist, for God’s sake!”

            I was glued to the wall out of fear, watching my father in rage for the first time in my life. I always wanted to be the best for my Dad, and now, compared to my rebellious sister, I felt like I had an even better chance. I was quiet and calm, unlike Irina, who continued screaming in anger,

            “Do it! Throw me out, throw me out! Just do it! It is better to die young than to live in this stinky country! If you do not throw me out, I will jump off of the balcony myself!”

My father swiftly ran out on the balcony, holding my sister up high in his strong arms, parallel to the floor. “I am serious! Better that I should throw you down from the fifth floor than face the shame of raising a dissident, a traitor! Because of people like you, we have no progress!”

I hung on my Dad’s arm, “Put her down, Papa! She didn’t mean what she said!” I didn’t know what got into my sister’s head on that day until later.

“Lidooshka, I saw children just like us eating out of a trash container on the street. We are told that capitalists do not care for their children, but what about us? How could it happen in Russia - the BEST COUNTRY in the world! It is all a lie what we hear on TV and at school! I hate where I live!” I was proud of my sister and I was proud of myself that I almost fit into her belt.