The irony is in a criminal riddled country, in a crime heavy time, I was inactive in criminal activities for the most part. My first dip into rebellion wasn't for the reasons of my peers like survival or a touch of power. No. My first rebellion was for love. I was eighteen, young and dumb, as we all were then. I worked in a factory and was dreaming of more, as we all did then. One day I was beckoned by a man who looked nothing like the men I interacted with. His hair was long, his hands were soft from lack of meniel labor, his smile was easy, and he spoke with a confidence that was quite alluring. Perhaps it was the dim lighting, the western tunes or the thrill of selling a product my suffocating government called "capitalist propaganda" that made me fall helplessly under his spell.

I sold blue jeans in dark allys and dingy basements with the smirking gentleman for six months. It was exciting and terrifying. I still shiver at the memory of Pavel pinning me against the wall of his apartment, in a sea of blue denim, feeling him pulsate inside me. "Dangerous girl" he would growl in my ear and I would howl like an animal in heat. I thought he was a power beyond anyones control. I thought he was fearless and it made me fearless. But as soon as the fantasy began it ended, it ended the moment I told him that my friend had gone missing selling his product and his only response was to tuck his tail behind his legs. He disgusted me but a part of me still loves him because he ignited a rebellion in me that keeps me alive to this day.

The girls I now reside along side with speak through pained breathes and shocked gasps after another beating from a guard. They are annoyed and shaken from another small man with a big fist. They call this prison and I call this life. The first time I really experianced the full effect of an unhappy man was when I was four. It was evening, shortly after supper and I was sitting on the kitchen floor watching my mother do the dishes. I loved the way her skirt billowed when she would move about her domain.

My mother was grace. I still can't help but feel smug that I was gifted with her long legs and nimble fingers. She was like a ballerina dancing about the soaking dishware. I was capitvated. As men do, my father interrupted such beauty. He burst through the door saying he had forgotten his hat. He looked down to his small daughter.

"Girl!" He called to me "Get your Papa his cap!"

I didn't listen.

"Girl!" He stated once more "Do as you are told!"

I didn't respond. I was distracted by the moving waves in the fabric of my mothers skirt. Suddenly, I was wrenched up onto my feet and the waves of fabric were gone. The smell of alchohal filled my nostrils and steel orbs peered into mine.

"Are. You. Deaf!?" he rumbled like thunder

"Da?" my little voice replied. A good daughter always says yes to her Papa.

What I believed to be the only right answer was interpreted as back talk. Once again I was jostled and found myself flying across the room into Mama's favorite chair by the window. As any toddler would, I began to cry.

"Ruslan" my mother said queitly only to have her husband storm to her, blocking her into a corner. Even then I knew he was planning to make her pay for my mistake.

With percision impressive for a child my eyes immidiatly spotted the tattered cap laying on the ground a few feet from me. The pain radiating in my body as a sobbed I stood, snatched up the garmet and ran towards the towering giant. I pressed the cap agaist his leg.

"Prosti! Papa!" I bellowed "Papa! Prosti!"

He smacked me off. I stumbled back but persisited. Finally, he noticed me holding his cap up high above my head as I continued to cry out my apology. With trembling hands my mother took the cap from me and placed it on my father's head.

"Prosti, Papa." she repeated but with a different tone I didn't recognize until I was a young woman.

He grunted. Turned without a single glance at his weeping daughter and his trembling wife then exited the home.

Even as the years have passed I remember it all so clearly. I was taught so much in a matter or two minutes. The fury of a man, the pain of fearing a parent and the the secret power of a woman. I don't fear angry men, not anymore atleast because I know them well.

I didn't know that Dimitri had any anger in him. He has always been so docile, he stuck to the rules as if they were his religion. Or so I thought. He found me walking to work, dejected and humbled after my time with Pavel. He was soft and kind as usual but what surprised me was when his demeaner darkened when he hinted towards his plans of espionage. He had contacts, contacts who were willing to fake jewish passports to get him to America. What he had to pay to get that kind of papaerwork is still beyond my imagination. He wanted to take me but only if I agreed to marry him.

"We can go seperate ways when we get there." he promised.

Something inside me knew it would not be the case but I jumped at the chance. We married in the courthouse the next day and made out escape in the dead of night a week later. Months later, we were in Rome where we would be taught English while our papers were being processed. As we lay in the dark of our shoebox of an apartmanet listening to the sounds of the lost souls outside our window, Dimitri would tell me of how he silently watched his government starve and toy with the people he loved. He spoke of lying on employment reports so factory workers would not be punished for tardiness due to illness or age. He spoke of how he was trained to mentally trick employees into admitting fault not of their own in order to keep everyone in line. His large hand would grip my hip as he darkly recalled all what he had seen. His anger was not obvious but ever present. His anger brewed deep within the confines of his heart. He was furious but it was so carefully controlled. He would take a deep whiff of my hair before telling me of watching a mouthy redhead from afar and living with the fear that one day an officer will decide to "teach her what is decent" once and for all. He had sweet talked officers out of many planned "lessons" only to later have to the red head scoff at his advances and ignore him completely.

"Prosti" I whispered to him

He replied by pulling me deeper into his embrace. Comforting me. Forgiving me.

"Prosti, Dimitri" I repeated with tears in my throat.

"Gal…" he began before I silenced him with a kiss.

Men who are angry love apologies from women who are stubborn. Men who are furious are aroused by tears, especially when they are sincere. I know this to be true because that is how we brought most of our children into this world.

This including the child who left ne weeping in a visitation phone booth.