It is a calm and unusually snowy New Year’s Eve. I open the front door to get a breath of fresh winter air and immediately find myself surrounded by sparkling white snowflakes illuminated by a street lamp, drifting down from a dark abyss. After stepping back into the house, I sit in front of my trusted partner and good friend-- my grand piano. I test the cold pedal underneath the set of keys before me. The musical score in front of me is a jazz composition called Snow over Leningrad from the soundtrack to a cult Russian romantic movie typically aired every year on New Year's Eve: The Irony of Fate. My fingers gently start moving along the keyboard: G-F#-G... G-F#-G….

I’ve always enjoyed my father’s stories about his bittersweet childhood in the Soviet Union. It is hard for me to relate to most of the details from his Soviet life. One of them, however, which happened right around the New Year and which I heard at a very young age, seems to have resonated with me.

I heard this story right before falling asleep. My father sat on the armchair across my room, and I laid down, pulling the blanket up to my chin. I closed my eyes…

He narrated a winter morning; his school called it an unusual “snow day,” a rare occasion in winter-accustomed Moscow. Instead of walking to school, my father went sledding at a local park with his friends. His new sled, which he fiercely held onto as he streaked down a steep hill, featured bells at each corner. His fingers were numb from the cold, eyes watering from the flurry of snowflakes, but he was laughing. These moments were the epitome of his childhood. He was happy. 

I don’t remember anything after that; I fell asleep, dreaming about the wooden sled, jingling its bells, speeding down a mountain of snow. When I woke up, I decided not to ask my father for the rest of the story, having been content with its joyous yet unfinished ending.

As I grew older, my dad’s “Russian” stories became more resentful and dejected, more realistic. My father recounted when his school principal, out of courtesy, was advising on to which colleges Jews weren’t “recommended” to apply to, and when a thug beat his grandfather in a grocery store yelling “Jews are eating all our food!” Such experience ultimately molded my father into an 18 year old teen who had enough courage to board a flight to New York, bringing only two suitcases and the clothes on his back. The wooden sled, along with its history, had to stay behind.

The New Year had a special place in Russian culture because it was the only apolitical holiday in the entire year. There was no communist propaganda, no infused ideological message, just a festive family day filled with ethnic food, music and the notoriously snowy Russian winter. A little miracle that uplifted hopeful spirits in a dark reality, making the holiday feel like a magic fairytale. Naturally, the New Year has a special place in my family's tradition too. I like to play this lyrical and a bit melancholic melody as my mom sets up the table and the family is getting ready to celebrate before the clock strikes 12. 

I leave the lights off  and let my imagination free. My fingers begin to dance to the repetitive tunes. By playing Snow Over Leningrad, I choose to connect with the parts of my culture that make my father miss Russia, rather than with those which traumatically forced him to seek refuge from it. I close my eyes. G-F#-G... G-F#-G…. As my fingers begin to move faster, I envision myself sledding down a soft white mountain of snow. The glistening snow under the midday sun is so bright that I have to squint my eyes. The bells on my sled jingle along with the melody. G-F#-G... G-F#-G…. As my sled slows to a stop, I hear beads of water from a melting icicle striking the ground and also sounding G-F#-G... G-F#-G…. I stare at the dancing snowflakes and think that if sparkling snowflakes could sing, this is what they would sound like.

“I know, right?” Says a shaky voice.

Did I say that out loud? I open my eyes and look around, finding my father sitting in the armchair across from me and listening. His eyes are watery. I don’t know if he feels moved by the beautiful melody, or by the nostalgia about the childhood years spent at his old home. 

“Happy New Year,” I say, as we embrace.