1<br > BEFORE THE GREAT WAR， when I was a boy， we used t<br > dream of what life was like in Enemy Number One.<br > It was a time when dreams were precious. Terror hun<br > like a fog in our city， and even though we were very young， w<br > still knew about the midnight arrests and the deportations goin<br > on all around us. And what we didn t know， we could sense fror<br > the fear-etched faces of our parents， who would talk even to us i<br > heroic and heavy phrases of socialist realism like we heard frol<br > the loudspeakers at the May Day military parades. It was as<br > our parents were afraid that we would turn them in.<br > Enemy Number One seemed like a distant paradise to us theJ<br > We knew all about it from the pages of smuggled copies of L/~<br > magazine. Of course it was dangerous to be caught reading suc<br > a foreign magazine. (But how were we to know you could be sht<br > for it?) All we cared about was hurrying home after school， runni~<br > throtrgh the freezing streets where steaming horses wheezed undo<br > heavy loads and streetcars clanged and clattered among the grin<br > ragged throngs.<br > No one was home in our apartment for at least an hour aft，<br > school， so my brother Yuri and I spent those precious momen<br > staring into the pages of Life， with its photographs and advertis<br > ments of all those sleek people and those big Cadillacs and tl<br > skyscrapers in New York and Chicago. My imagination would sta~<br >i<br >
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