Author and narrator Eugene Yelchin dazzles with his memoir of growing up in the USSR during the Cold War. Listeners meet Eugene (Yevgeny), his parents, brother, and grandmother, who live in a tiny apartment and share a kitchen and bathroom with many others. Yelchin delivers his mother’s bellowing voice, his grandma’s Jewish witticisms, and young Yevgeny’s own apparent lack of talents likely to ensure a comfortable future, along with his innocence and humor. Atmospheric conversations reveal small personal pleasures, including his mother’s love of ballet and Mikhail Baryshnikov; his Communist dad’s sentimental poetry; and Yevgeny’s own pictures, which he draws under the dining table. Yevgeny grows up fast when the family faces anti-Jewish sentiment. However, his artistic talent suggests a hopeful future in this bittersweet listen. S.G.B. Winner of AudioFile Earphones Award © AudioFile 2022, Portland, Maine
The Genius Under the Table: Growing Up Behind the Iron Curtain
Narrated by Eugene Yelchin
Eugene YelchinUnabridged — 2 hours, 53 minutes
The Genius Under the Table: Growing Up Behind the Iron Curtain
Narrated by Eugene Yelchin
Eugene YelchinUnabridged — 2 hours, 53 minutes
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Overview
Editorial Reviews
★ 08/30/2021
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.)■
Darkly humorous. . . Yelchin’s breezy pencil illustrations brim with a charm and childlike energy few artists can capture.
—The New York Times Book Review
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.
—Booklist (starred review)
This memoir of [Yelchin's] adolescence is a forthright, darkly humorous and indelible portrait of an artist emerging. . . Yelchin, wonderfully, allows his text and pictures to interrupt each other with glee, reminding us how life begets art. It certainly does here.
—The Horn Book (starred review)
Yelchin delivers a darkly humorous slice-of-life account of growing up in the Soviet Union. . . . Humorous, heartbreaking, and ultimately hopeful
—Kirkus Reviews (starred 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. . . . At once comical and disquieting, the book is an illuminating introduction to a young life in the former Soviet Union.
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
The multitalented author/illustrator here turns his lens on his own life as a child in Soviet Russia during the 1960s and ’70s. . . . with any luck Yelchin will follow this with a second autobiographical volume.
—The Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books (starred review)
Yelchin has created an unforgettable portrayal of one family’s experiences living in the Soviet Union during the Cold War in his ingenious memoir. . . . Recommended for those who love captivating memoirs mixed with humor.
—School Library Journal (starred review)
In this splendidly entertaining memoir of a bleak childhood in Cold War Russia, Yelchin turns a dark, drab world into a kaleidoscope of humorously enlightening anecdotes. . . Yelchin adorns the story with his distinctive art, perfectly complementing the text. . . Simply beautiful!
—Shelf Awareness (starred review)
Author Eugene Yelchin gives readers an honest look at what his life was like growing up in Soviet Russia. . . . I believe this book definitely should be included in upper elementary and middle school libraries.
—School Library Connection
‘The Genius Under the Table’ is Eugene Yelchin’s idiosyncratic illustrated memoir of boyhood behind the Iron Curtain, a chronicle that manages to amuse with its quirky details and disturb with the broad picture it paints of life under communism. . . wry and humorous artwork adds to the levity.
—The Wall Street Journal
Who knew you could pull a deft memoir this funny out of Communism?
—NPR
Steeped in wry observations and black humor. . . . A beautiful, layered memoir about how people thrive when their country is doing its best to stifle their dreams.
—The Star Tribune
With the same deadpan, comic style he used to great effect in 2011 children's novel ‘Breaking Stalin's Nose,’ author-illustrator Eugene Yelchin offers a poignant memoir of growing up in the Soviet Union.
—The Buffalo News
So many of the faces in Eugene Yelchin’s illustrated memoir are doleful, but somehow his tale of curiosity and artistic passion — yes, he is the “genius” of the title — has lightness and humor despite the dark parts of his family’s story. . . . a strange, surprising and satisfying tale of growing up with not just artistic skill but also an ever-questioning sensibility that even his dour surroundings can’t stifle.
—The Virginian Pilot
Yelchin’s book, which was published earlier this year, deserves top billing among children’s historical literature—and strong consideration as a holiday gift… The Genius Under the Table is filled with both history and heart. And who knows? Perhaps the independence of thought it fosters in children is the ingredient this modern-day, politically divisive world needs to address existential threats to humanity.
—The Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists
A heartbreaking, yet amusing, exploration of what life was really like as a child, citizen and Jew in the Soviet Union. Despite the turmoil that Yelchin and his family went through, the book, which includes exaggerated caricatures of his story’s subjects, is also hopeful.
—Jewish Journal
Eugene Yelchin’s new memoir, The Genius Under the Table, is an extraordinary work of memory told with clear-sightedness and ironic good humor, both disguising a great deal of pathos. This book is a recipe for survival for us all in a world growing tougher by the day.
—David Small, Caldecott Medal winner and National Book Award Finalist for Stitches
I read Eugene Yelchin’s sad, funny memoir with tears and laughter. It is told with such exquisite humor and illustrated with such wonderful, biting drawings that, in spite of its darkness, I savored every word and every picture. A treat.
—Uri Shulevitz, winner of the Caldecott Medal and three Caldecott Honors
What was life like behind the Iron Curtain? Yelchin wittily recounts his hardscrabble upbringing in Cold War Russia.
—PEOPLE Magazine
Words and images interact with one another, each essential to understanding Eugene’s experience. . . . Yelchin’s genius, which first appeared under the table, is here to enlighten everyone.
—The Jewish Book Council
Eugene Yelchin’s illustrated memoir is shaping up to be one of the most celebrated books of the season. And with good reason – It’s funny, surprising, and heart-wrenching.
—100 Scope Notes
★ 10/01/2021
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
Author and narrator Eugene Yelchin dazzles with his memoir of growing up in the USSR during the Cold War. Listeners meet Eugene (Yevgeny), his parents, brother, and grandmother, who live in a tiny apartment and share a kitchen and bathroom with many others. Yelchin delivers his mother’s bellowing voice, his grandma’s Jewish witticisms, and young Yevgeny’s own apparent lack of talents likely to ensure a comfortable future, along with his innocence and humor. Atmospheric conversations reveal small personal pleasures, including his mother’s love of ballet and Mikhail Baryshnikov; his Communist dad’s sentimental poetry; and Yevgeny’s own pictures, which he draws under the dining table. Yevgeny grows up fast when the family faces anti-Jewish sentiment. However, his artistic talent suggests a hopeful future in this bittersweet listen. S.G.B. Winner of AudioFile Earphones Award © AudioFile 2022, Portland, Maine
★ 2021-08-31
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)
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940176284553 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Dreamscape Media |
| Publication date: | 12/07/2021 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
| Age Range: | 10 - 13 Years |
Read an Excerpt
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.
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