Mom read my sister and I the birthday cards and letters because we couldn’t decipher the cursive writing. The smell of the dark chocolates and shaved wood from the toys permeated the parcels. Twice a year, our Leningrad relatives mailed us packages with black-and-white family photos, vinyl records from the state-owned Melodiya label, children’s books, stacks of Russian matryoshka nesting dolls, dark chocolates and wooden toys with stencilled Cyrillic writing on the boxes. My sister and I learned about life in the former Soviet Union through bedtime stories, infrequent letters and middle-of-the-night phone calls.
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