Guards in the Pushkin Museum by Sharon Chmielarz No one will take begging lessons from the gypsies. Especially not the old women who need them, who, in a rickety hour, took their money from the mattress and handed it to a Russian banker, a mistake they’ll work the rest of their lives for, one to a room, back to the wall, avoiding your eyes, stopping you from touching crumbling objects. If they laid on you a most genteel panhandle— Please, I have no money, no savings, no pension, no husband, I lost him at Stalingrad—you’d see in their palms a reminder of Lenin, the sickle-shaped heart line. A deep cut around the thumb. Not to be re-opened. They keep their hands tucked under sweatered elbows, guarding their borders. They go on, standing like willows while every ruble you have on you weighs a ton. © 2003 by Sharon Chmielarz. All rights reserved. Home