THE IRON CURTAIN
<p>A few years after the fall of the Soviet Union, my family and I immigrated to Montreal. My maternal and paternal grandparents followed soon after, setting up house a few blocks away from each other, in Côte-des-Neiges. Every weekend of my childhood was spent divided between those two apartments. On an alternating — and ironclad — schedule, I would shuttle between their respective houses on foot, escorted right to the door when I was little, then later, on my own. The two couples never spoke, at best coldly tolerating the latest news of each other, delivered with each of my visits. In fact, they were so diametrically opposed that the few blocks’ journey between their houses always gave me the sense I was slipping back and forth through an iron curtain.</p>
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