Misha's Nutcracker

By Roman Yakub

Homeless 10-year old Misha sneaks into the back door of a large theater building where everyone is getting ready for the Nutcracker premiere. Misha dreams of joining the children-dancers, but his dream suddenly turns into a nightmare. This moving classic tale transports the reader into the modern day Russia where love, loyalty and the magic of theater battle with a corrupt and calculating world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roman Yakub
• Release date: Dec 1, 2009
• ISBN: 9781102469551

Roman Yakub

Roman Yakub is an acclaimed composer whose music was performed in Europe and USA. He received several prestigious music prizes including 1st Prize in the Ithaca College Choral Composition Competition, National Telly Award, ASCAP Annual Composer Award and others. After receiving his Doctorate in Music Composition, Roman Yakub together with his partners had started creating classical music computer games for children. The Nutcracker Music Game, Mozart's Magic Flute Music Game, Alice in Vivaldi's Four Seasons Music Game and Discover Bach! Music Game had received numerous awards at the national and international levels. It was the Nutcracker Music Game that inspired Roman Yakub to write his first book in collaboration with Elaine Ulman.Roman Yakub lives in Amherst, Massachusetts with his wife Irina and son Sasha.

Book preview

Misha’s Nutcracker

by Roman Yakub

in collaboration with

Elaine Ulman

Illustrated by Alexander Sasha Spivak

Additional drawings by Irina Lanina and Sergei Bukur

eBook ISBN-13: 978-0-9825407-3-2

eBook ISBN-10: 0-9825407-3-2

Text copyright © 2009 by Roman Yakub

Illustrations copyright © by Alexander Spivak. All rights reserved

Published 2009 by Arts and Music Games Inc., P.O.Box 1376, Amherst, Massachusetts, 01004, www.ArtMusicGames.com

Smashwords Edition 1.0, December 2009

All characters depicted in Misha’s Nutcracker are the property of Roman Yakub. These characters and events are fictional and any resemblance to persons living, dead, or fictional or situations past, present, or fictional is purely and completely coincidental.

Note to readers:

Names of Russian origin are listed

in the Glossary of Names with pronunciation.

Some words and phrases are explained

in the Glossary of Terms.

In memory of Katya Ponomareva

Misha had lived on the winding streets of St. Petersburg long enough...

Chapter 1

Wake up, kid. No free rides on this car. The trolley lurched, and Misha nearly fell into the ticket collector who was yanking the hood of his torn jacket.

Show me your ticket, if you have one.

There was no getting around it. The free ride was over. The old babushkas in their wool kerchiefs grumbled as the ticket taker shoved Misha up the aisle past them.

Look at that dirty little hooligan.

He should be in school, not running around on the streets.

It’s a crime what these kids get away with.

As he stood in the rain watching the trolley clang away, Misha didn’t feel like he got away with much. He had begun the morning with a breakfast of bread crusts from the tin garbage can behind a food booth at Sennaya Square metro station. When the gray northern sky began to dump barrels of icy rain over the streets and canals of St. Petersburg, he had jumped aboard a trolley and curled up against the heater in the back of the last car. His friend, Grisha-the-Ace, had taught him to hide on the trolleys and ride the local trains for free. Grisha called it rabbit tripping.

You hop on a car near the end of the train, said Grisha, who was fourteen and had been homeless for three years. Once it’s moving, you start walking forward. When a ticket collector comes, you pass him and stand on the platform between the cars or you duck into the toilet. You just keep moving. Grisha, who was taller than Misha, moved his body gracefully as though he were balancing on a rocking train platform. If you have to, you can jump off at a station and wait for the next train. Then you do it again. Ticket collectors never caught Grisha. He always seemed to come out on top, even when he played cards with the other street kids. That was why they called him Grisha-the-Ace.

The trolley left Misha in a neighborhood of immense palaces and open, empty squares. Its wide avenues were made for cars and trolleys, not for a boy on foot. Drops of rain slid down his back like icy worms, but there was no dry doorway in sight. He was lost. Misha had lived on the winding streets of St. Petersburg long enough to know that he could always find his way if he just kept walking in a straight line. He followed the trolley tracks straight down the center of the avenue until he came to a canal. Water sloshed in his shoes and bubbled in the stone canal like boiling soup. He kept walking straight along the rim of the canal until he recognized a small footbridge guarded by four carved white lions, two at each end.

A picture flashed before him from the day when he and Grisha had begged enough pocket change to buy a whole bag of fresh, tasty meat pies from a fancy bakery. Most of the time they grabbed food from sidewalk stands and ate on the run, but that day they didn’t have to run. They stood in the center of the lions’ bridge like two gentlemen while they savored every bite of the warm meat pies. Misha crossed the bridge and hurried down the street. That sweet-smelling bakery had to be nearby. He finally came to a large open square and spotted the bakery on the far side.

Misha was no fool. If a ragged boy entered a fancy shop and hung around without buying anything, the shopkeeper would think, That kid wants to steal something. Even if he only wanted a warm dry place to rest, he would be thrown out into the cold rain again. He had to find a way to sneak inside and hide.

The bakery window was full of tan poppy seed bagels, golden Parmesan brioches, and fancy French pastries, but the shop was empty. A saleswoman with a face like a round chubby bun snoozed behind the counter near a pyramid of plump meat pies. Misha could taste those pies. But he couldn’t let himself be distracted. He needed to get inside and find a warm place to hide. The narrow aisle between the counter and the cashier’s booth led back to a window seat with a radiator tucked underneath. If he managed to slip past the cashier unseen, Misha could curl up on that bench out of sight and be warm for a while.

He stood by the steps that led up to the thick glass door and waited for the next customer to arrive. A crooked grandmother in old-fashioned rubber galoshes came around the corner carrying a huge black umbrella. Misha silently prayed, Please, Granny, please go into the bakery. But no, she passed by. The streets were empty. His feet were numb. Perhaps he would freeze before anyone else appeared. Finally a broad-shouldered hatless man in a long leather coat came toward him across the square. Misha could tell that he was also looking for a place to get out of the rain. What luck! This bear of a man would make a perfect screen. Misha crouched by the door like a tiger ready to pounce. The moment the bear heaved the glass door open, Misha leapt nimbly up the steps and slipped inside right behind him.

The blast of warm air and the smell of freshly baked bread were overpowering. Misha got a grip on himself and scurried past the cashier’s booth to the back window while the chubby saleslady served the bear. The boy tucked himself into the window seat and stretched out his legs over the radiator. An unseen radio was playing a gentle waltz. If he wasn’t so hungry, he could have drifted off to sleep. The man put a plate of three meat pies and a steaming cup of tea on a small round table. He set a bag of pastries on a chair and hung his dripping coat over the back before he sat down. Misha could not bear to watch him eat. Instead he looked at the sheets of rain that washed down the store window.

Look how it pours and pours, the plump saleswoman sighed. The streets will be flooded.

Think of the good side, said the cashier from her little booth. With so much rain, the honey mushrooms will be popping up like crazy. Last Sunday we went to the forest and picked a basketful.

Suddenly, Misha felt awfully sad. He remembered how once when he was very little, his mother took him into the woods where he found a huge brown mushroom right in the middle of the path. He ran back laughing with delight to show it to her. His mother laughed too, then lifted him up in her arms and started spinning him around until everything, the trees and the clouds and the sky, turned into an endlessly whirling carousel. He could not have been older than four at the time, and three years later she was gone. He never knew why she had to go to the hospital or why she never returned. Her aunt, a sour-tempered, bad-smelling woman who never had a family of her own, came to stay with him in their apartment and never left.

Misha didn’t weep over this anymore, of course. He had run away more than two years ago, and he would never go back. He clenched his fist and pressed it against the window.

Look how many people came out for the show in this rain, the cashier said, gazing out at the vast square. Misha craned his neck to look through the shop window at the beautiful pale green building across the square. Why hadn’t he noticed it before? It took up the whole block. With its smooth domed roof and white columns, it reminded him of an enormous mint-frosted cake decorated with strips of white candy. Oh, how he longed to eat a hefty piece of a cake like that. Just then a long shiny car pulled up in front of the building and a well-dressed man swung out. He opened an umbrella and extended his arm to the lady in the car. Misha watched the couple rush up the wide staircase and disappear through the building’s massive double doors.

With a satisfied groan, the bear dabbed his mouth and then dove out into the rain. Nearly half a meat pie was left on his plate. Misha was tempted to grab it and run, but for such a small bite it was hardly worth giving up a warm, dry nest above the radiator. Then he spotted the bag of pastries left on the chair.

In a flash he jumped off the bench, snatched the bag, and gulped down the leftover meat pie as he flew out the door.

Oh goodness, that little hooligan scared the life out of me, said the saleswoman, more amused than angry. Where the devil was he hiding?

Misha raced across the square toward the beautiful building. The crowd outside was so big he could easily hide from view. If the bear came back looking for his bag, he would never find it. The line of large automobiles and taxis letting off passengers blocked the view from the bakery window. More people poured out of the buses that had stopped at the edge of the square. Some rushed directly into the building while others lingered on the steps, scanning the street and checking their watches. Misha realized that this crowd of well-dressed people might be able to spare enough change for at least a hot cup of tea. He slipped the bag under his jacket. It would not look right to beg when he already had something.

The rain was subsiding. Whom should he approach first? Grisha had taught him to spot the ones who were most likely to give. Clothes did not matter at all. Some granny in a threadbare coat would draw a few coins from her tattered purse sooner than a potbellied cigar smoker in a fancy fur hat would peel one ruble off his fat roll of bills. Misha caught the flash of a bright jewel shining on an elderly lady’s neck. She was clinging to her husband’s elbow, smiling at the crowd and looking excited. A definite possibility.

Stepping softly to the man’s side, Misha looked up at him and sang in a quiet, pleading voice. Excuse me please, Sir. Please Madam. Could you spare some change, just to buy me bit of food?

No. Go away, the old man said, frowning.

Wait, Boris, don’t be like that, his wife crooned, tugging at his arm. You see, the poor little boy . . . Look how wet he is … Here, sweetie, I’ll give you something. She drew her purse up to her near-sighted eyes and started digging inside for change.

Just then a black glove grabbed Misha by the shoulder. He jerked violently, trying to free himself, but the steely knuckles closed like a vice.

I’m sorry, Madam, a deep voice boomed. I’m going to take this young man aside. You’d better hold tight to your purse. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to it in this crowd. The startled old woman clutched her purse to her chest.

Misha twisted his head to see the barrel-chested, square-faced policeman who had such a tight grip on him. How could he have missed this big cop with the red-striped hat? Misha knew enough to avoid cops, especially in crowds, where they liked to make a big show of catching street kids.

Let me go, Misha hissed, trying to yank himself loose.

Quiet down, pal, said the cop calmly. He pulled Misha through the crowd though he just as easily could have lifted the boy’s bony frame with one hand and dangled him like a kitten.

Misha