The genius under the table Growing up behind the Iron Curtain

Review by Booklist Review

This warm and wonderfully illustrated autobiography comes from the author of Newbery Honor Book Breaking Stalin's Nose (2011). Yelchin describes his 1960s Leningrad childhood in the former Soviet Union, where his entire family crowds into a one-room apartment right next to the resident KGB informer. Mom is hopelessly in love with Misha Baryshnikov. Dad weeps over his favorite Russian poets. Big brother Victor is a champion figure skater. And little Yevgeny? His talents seem . . . elusive. Yevgeny is frustrated not only because of his cloudy future but also because of the questions he isn't allowed to ask, let alone get answered: "How heavy is the Iron Curtain?" "What does it mean when people 'defecate' and seek asylum?" "Why is Grandpa cut out of all our family photos?" Yevgeny finds solace in drawing on his secret canvas--the underside of Grandma's table. Luckily, when his pictures are discovered, he is declared a genius and starts art lessons. The self-effacing narrative seamlessly blends in Cold War history, Soviet politics, and loving family interchanges, and Yelchin's sly illustrations appear on almost every page. There's not a lot of material about this time period, and this humorous, informative, and engaging memoir will keep readers entertained.

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

In this frank, engaging memoir, Yelchin (Spy Runner) recounts his childhood in the U.S.S.R. as his boyhood self, Yevgeny, perceives and ponders it. Living in one room of a communal apartment with his grandmother, parents, and figure-skating champion older brother--and a government spy eavesdropping on them next door--Yevgeny searches for the talent that will make him "free" like the famous ballet dancers and ice skaters who have private apartments and travel abroad. At night, sleeping on a cot under the dining table, he tries to make sense of life by drawing on the underside of the table with a pencil stolen from his father. Yelchin humorously and sympathetically depicts his Jewish family--his outspoken mother who worships Mikhail Baryshnikov, his "tight-lipped communist" father with a passion for Russian poetry--as well as his tender sibling relationship. The penetrating pencil-textured drawings that accompany Yelchin's perceptive text ("No chewing gum was sold in our country... We barely had stuff to eat, let alone stuff to chew") are, he writes, rooted in memories of those early table sketches, and complement young Yevgeny's earnest, often baffled, voice. At once comical and disquieting, the book is an illuminating introduction to a young life in the former Soviet Union. Ages 9--12. (Oct.)■

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Review by School Library Journal Review

Gr 5 Up--Yelchin has created an unforgettable portrayal of one family's experiences living in the Soviet Union during the Cold War in his ingenious memoir. Using expressive drawings, Yelchin enhances his story of growing up in Leningrad. Yevgeny, his brother Victor, father, mother, and grandmother all share one room in a communal apartment. Each figure is shown to be beautifully human, flaws and all. Victor is a wonderful ice skater who began by skating behind trucks in traffic; the father is a stern Communist who loves Russian poets, such as Osip Mandelstam; the mother works for the Vaganova Ballet School and adores Mikhail Baryshnikov; and the grandmother is keeping a secret about their grandfather. Every evening, all the furniture in their one room living space has to be moved to convert it into their bedroom. Yevgeny sleeps under the dining room table, where he draws on the underside of the table each night with a pencil he has taken from his father. When his drawings are discovered, Yevgeny earns the nickname of "The Genius Under the Table" from his family and begins to study drawing. With an engaging and likable subject, Newbery Honor author Yelchin offers a poignant look at growing up during Cold War--era Soviet Union that will fascinate readers. VERDICT Recommended for those who love captivating memoirs mixed with humor.--Susan Catlett, Green Run H.S., Virginia Beach

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Review by Horn Book Review

When it becomes clear that unathletic Yevgeny is not going to follow in the footsteps of his figure-skating-whiz older brother Victor, their mother hopes -- against all evidence -- that he might make it in the world of the Soviet Union's other big artistic export, ballet, where she herself works and even has the acquaintance of the rising star Mikhail Baryshnikov. But Yevgeny's genius lies elsewhere, literally under the family's noses, if they only thought to look beneath the dining table where Yevgeny sleeps (and draws) each night. (It's a one-room apartment in 1960s Leningrad, housing Yevgeny, his brother and parents, and his grandmother, who gets some of the best lines in this book.) We now know Yevgeny as Newbery Honor-winning author and illustrator Eugene Yelchin (Breaking Stalin's Nose, rev. 9/11), and this memoir of his adolescence is a forthright, darkly humorous, and indelible portrait of an artist emerging. Family crowding and dynamics aside, the obstacles in Yevgeny's life are large (Soviet authoritarianism and antisemitism chief among them), but always grounded in the particulars of this kid's story: "Don't cry, boy," says a neighbor to an upset Yevgeny. "Have a cookie. You yids like sweets." As you can see from the excerpt on pages 21-28 of this issue, Yelchin, wonderfully, allows his text and pictures to interrupt each other with glee, reminding us how life begets art. It certainly does here. Roger Sutton September/October 2021 p.129(c) Copyright 2021. The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

Yelchin delivers a darkly humorous slice-of-life account of growing up in the Soviet Union. Living with his mother, father, brother, and grandmother in a tiny room inside a communal apartment in Leningrad, young Yevgeny does not have much privacy. He sleeps underneath the family table, where he spends his nights drawing in secret on the underside of the table. He draws to try to make sense of the confusing world around him, where neighbors spy on one another, everyone seems to be keeping secrets, and only the most remarkable, talented citizens are allowed luxuries like private apartments, cars, and the opportunity to travel outside the country. Yevgeny's older brother is a talented figure skater, and his parents are desperate to uncover a latent talent in him so that he can make a good life for himself, yet he unwittingly foils their well-meaning attempts in several comical incidents. Furthermore, the family's Jewish identity puts them at a disadvantage in a country where antisemitism regularly rears its ugly head. Yelchin's line drawings, re-created from his childhood sketches under the table, punctuate his story with visual humor and pathos. The vivid dialogue exchanged among his elders provides comic relief to many of the stark situations depicted as Yevgeny tries to hang onto hope amid the chaos and uses what considerable artistic talent he certainly possesses to try to envision a better future for himself and his family. Humorous, heartbreaking, and ultimately hopeful. (Memoir. 10-adult) Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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1 The first time I saw real American tourists, they hopped out of a tourist bus in Red Square in Moscow and cut in front of us in line. "Nice manners!" my mother shouted. "We've been freezing our butts off for hours and they just breeze in like that?" We were in line to the mausoleum where the founder of our country, Vladimir I. Lenin, was laid out embalmed like an Egyptian mummy. To see him, you had to wait your turn. Making noise near Lenin's mausoleum was forbidden, but the Americans laughed and spoke in loud voices. The Americans and my mother were breaking the rules. Everyone in line was staring at my mom for shouting, but I was staring at the Americans. The Americans' clothes were in vibrant colors I did not know existed. They did not fit in Red Square at all. The square may be called Red, but it is black and white in the winter. Most citizens in line were also dressed in black and white. Other colors were brown, army green, navy blue, and the red of our country's banner, flapping above the mausoleum. Those were the colors of the Soviet rainbow. My family had come to Moscow to watch my older brother, Victor, compete in a figure-skating competition, but Dad said that it was our patriotic duty to see Lenin's mummy first. No one in the long line was allowed to complain. Except for my mother, of course. "What are you complaining about, citizen?" the security guard whispered to Mom. He looked nervous that she was making a scene in the most sacred place in our country. "Complaining?" my mother shouted. "You didn't hear me complaining yet, young man! I demand to know your name and rank! Write it down, Victor. Who's in charge around here?" At last the line began to move, and Mom, having let off a little steam, became perfectly calm. She took my hand and we stepped into the mausoleum by the rules, in silence. The mausoleum was spooky inside. The stone walls reflected no light, and what light could they reflect? There was not a single light bulb anywhere. I rose on my tiptoes, hoping to glimpse the American colors up ahead, but a citizen's back blocked my view. The guards hurried us along the platform on which Lenin lay. I had never seen a dead person before, and this one had been dead since before I was born. "Don't be scared, Yevgeny," Dad whispered to me. "You love Grandfather Lenin." Lenin was grandfather to all Soviet children, which was a little confusing. So many children in our country! How could all of us have the same grandfather? I did not know, but it was better not to ask. Asking questions was considered not patriotic. I was six years old, and it was my first trip to the capital. While waiting in line I had been looking forward to seeing Lenin's mummy, but with these vibrant Americans nearby, I suddenly was not so sure. Why did I have to look at Lenin anyhow? I knew his face better than my own. Lenin stared at us from everywhere. From postcards and paintings, from banners and pins, from teapots, from money. His statue was in every square. His head and shoulders in every hallway. As for his name, streets, parks, and sports arenas were named after him. Even the city we lived in was called Leningrad. I shuffled by the mummy with my head turned away, but at the last moment, I could not help myself. I peeked. Lenin's face, glossy like fruit made of wax, glowed in the rosy spotlight. Just below his thin red beard, I saw a narrow strip of tape covered with paint the color of the mummy's skin, but this close, still perfectly visible. Oh, why did I look! Lenin had a bandage under his beard. 2 I stumbled out of the mausoleum, hanging on to my mother's arm. Why did Lenin have a bandage? Could a mummy scratch itself ? I wondered if I could ask Dad about it, but no, it definitely would not be patriotic to ask him such a question. The Red Square was only white now. It was snowing. Behind the snowflakes, the American colors were flashing toward their bus. The Americans would be gone in a minute. A picture of Lenin's bandage caked over with rosy paint appeared in my mind. The color made me ill. Why did we have to stay in line all day to see someone dead? Why did we have to learn a poem at school with the line "Lenin is more alive than all the living"? And why could these Americans take one quick peek at Lenin and board their bus to go back home and never have to see the mummy and its bandage again? Why? I could not ask anyone, but a crazy idea shot through my head. If we ran fast now, my family could get on that bus to America, too. Instead of us running, a young American--turquoise at the bottom, canary yellow at the top--sprung toward us. His colors sparkled so brightly in the falling snow that he seemed to float, and I wondered if our Soviet force of gravity did not apply to the Americans. He was yelling at us in his language. "What is he saying?" Mom demanded of Dad. To the American, she said, "Parlez-vous français?" Dad's face turned banner red. "Verboten, understand? Go away." "Juicy fruit! Juicy fruit!" The American thrust something into my brother's hand. "Give it back at once, Victor!" Dad said. "Say thank you, Victor," Mom said. I was staring at the narrow strip of glossy wrapper in my brother's hand, the same shape as Lenin's bandage but of the brightest yellow. I could not take my eyes off it, but somehow, I also saw men running at us from all directions and knew without being told that they were secret policemen disguised as regular citizens. The American saw them, too. He turned around and bolted toward the bus. All at once, it got dark. A circle of men in black overcoats had closed around us. "What did he give you?" one said to Victor. The yellow wrapper disappeared into my brother's pocket. "Leave my son alone!" Mom shouted. "Excuse me?" the man said to Mom. "No, young man! You will not be excused! Permitting foreigners to cut in line to see our beloved Lenin! Outrageous! Your superiors will hear from me, you can be certain of that! Step aside, citizens. My son is expected at a national figure-skating competition." "Figure skating, my ass," the secret policeman said. "Get out of here before I lock you up, you filthy yids." "What are yids?" I asked my brother as Dad hurried us away. "That's what some people call Jews," Victor said. "We're Jews--don't you know anything?" I did not care. Being called a filthy yid did not matter to me at that moment. What mattered was the stick of American chewing gum in my brother's pocket. No chewing gum was sold in our country, and for a good reason. We barely had stuff to eat, let alone stuff to chew that you could not swallow. For three weeks afterward, Victor chewed on that stick of Juicy Fruit. Nights, he soaked the chewing gum in a cup of tea to keep it soft. By the time I inherited the gum, it had neither taste nor smell. Still, it was better than what I used to chew while pretending to be an American--black chunks of tar left over from street paving. The tar was so hard, I broke a tooth on it once. Excerpted from The Genius under the Table: Growing up Behind the Iron Curtain by Eugene Yelchin All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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