Igor and the Butter Sandwich
I have a bad habit of waking up sometimes between one, two, or three o’clock in the morning. I try to go back to sleep, but sometimes it’s a losing battle. That night was one of those nights. After tossing and turning for a long while, I finally did what I usually do. I went down to the kitchen for a cup of tea. With heavy and tired steps, I trudged back up and sank into my chair in the bedroom, sipping my tea as I read a book. Very soon my eyelids began to droop. Knowing I would fall into a deep sleep soon, I got into bed and curled up into a ball. I covered myself and snuggled off into a deep, dreamless slumber. When I woke up, the sun had washed the bedroom behind the curtains with muted sunshine. It was late in the morning. I felt a moment of guilt for oversleeping, but most important of all, I found myself bursting with energy! I could not remember the last time I felt like this. I took my shower and got dressed. Downstairs, I opened the front door and took a deep breath. Aah! It was a perfect day!
I had been meaning to go to the bank for quite a while, but the weather had been against me; it was either snowing, raining, or unbearably cold. I made myself a quick breakfast then maneuvered my walker out the back door and along the avenue. Birds were singing, joggers were jogging, a young mother was sedately pushing her baby in the stroller as she contentedly hummed to herself. As I continued on my way, I noticed a young man with a baseball cap with the name “Igor” emblazoned across it. He was jogging. I hadn’t heard the name Igor in such a long time!
It took me back to Tehran to the time when I was eight or nine years old. I was a picky eater and Papa liked to be at his office early. Our chauffeur would be sitting in the car, waiting for us to come down. If we were not on time, Papa would not be too happy. My mother made sure that I had the usual thick slice of bread spread with fifty grams of butter and sprinkled with Demerara sugar. I think she thought I needed to eat along the way to school. Until today, I cannot eat much in the morning. That sandwich, along with warm milk, the soft-boiled egg, and the spoonful of the Haliborange that each of us girls had to have at the breakfast table, was a bit excessive.
When I arrived at school, I would sit on the bleachers waiting for the school bell to ring. I sat there swinging my legs back and forth with the uneaten sandwich in my hand. At our school there were children from many countries, for it was an international school. Amongst the pupils were a Russian brother and sister whose mother worked at the cafeteria. I do not think that their father was alive, for if he was, their mother would not have had to work there. It was not done in those days. Her children, Igor and Mila, were light-complexioned; their hair was so blonde it was almost white. They had striking deep blue eyes. Their mother, on the other hand, was scrawny looking. She always looked tired and sad. The three of them went back and forth from school together. Everyone else’s father showed up for PTA; theirs never did. Word about the school was that they had no father; he had passed away. We never mentioned it, for we could not imagine such a tragic calamity.
Mila was well liked amongst us, but Igor was a bit of a terror. He always pulled the girls’ pigtails and found other ways to torment us. He was rowdy and would not sit still. We all seemed to congregate in groups. He did not. He seemed to wander in and out of different ones.
One of the mornings, as I sat on the bleachers, holding my usual uneaten butter and sugar sandwich in my lap, I stared into space as I waited for the school bell to ring. Suddenly, Igor crept up behind me, snatched the sandwich, and began to take big, huge bites from it. I stared at him in shock. I was speechless. I did not know what to say. Eventually he stopped. He looked at me rather sheepishly then gently placed the sandwich back into my hand. I stood up, walked to the garbage can, and dumped it! Many years later I still remembered that incident. Even today, seventy-odd years since that incident, I feel my face flush in shame at my lack of sensitivity. I was not aware of the meaning of hunger at that age, even though we were surrounded by poverty, misery, and hunger in Iran. It was only as I grew older and gained maturity that I realized that not everyone was blessed with parents who were able to take good care of them, nor does everyone have a roof over their heads and food on their table. Because of that and much more, I became conscientious of other people’s circumstances. At that time, I took it for granted that all the children in school lived the same way as I did.
Sometimes I wonder where Igor and Mila are and if Igor remembers that incident and thinks of the little girl who was so insensitive to his hunger. If so, Igor, I apologize. I am so terribly sorry, I did not know any better. I pray you and Mila have had a good, contented life.