“Здравствуйте, вы любите танцевать?” He asked, twirling me around.

“What?” I asked, holding onto his shirt sleeve. The dance was wholly unfamiliar, and I am not the most graceful on my feet.

“Do you like to dance?” He asked. “вы не знайте, говорить по-русски?”

“я говоро по-русский плохо,” I assured him.

“No, no, you’re very good. I can understand you!” He laughed. I tried to let him lead the dance, he seemed to know it better than I did.

“очень плохо,” I confirmed. He laughed again.

“Aren’t you a Russian Jew? Are your parents Russian?” He spun me around again, and I tried not to fall.

“No, no. Not Russian at all!” I answered. “Not Jewish either.” I wanted to escape over to the piroshkis, or maybe take off the heat of dancing with a bowl of the cold borsch they were selling. The dollops of sour cream looked like white islands in a blood sea.

“Okay, okay. Goodbye, Miss Not-Jewish-not-Russian.” He spun me off to my next partner. He was very graceful.

“Здравствуйте, вы любите танцевать?” He asked.