was never even translated into English. But even as his career as a novelist was going, and went, nowhere, Sokolov had invented a powerful literary character, creating and recreating a fictional version of himself that was the perfect piece of propaganda: a falsehood so total and so flexible that it held for decades, across borders and governments, among Nazi officers, FBI agents, and members of the Yale faculty. The character was a Russian patriot, impressed into service by an occupying power; he had survived the war by a miracle, provided for his family, and worked hard to establish himself in America as a man of letters; he had convictions, stuck to them, and championed the oppressed; he was kind to students, patient in class, modest to a fault; he led a quiet life in suburban Connecticut. This character was believable, sympathetic even. But he was not Vladimir Sokolov. Sokolov was a Nazi. Zachary Groz is a sophomore in Jonathan Edwards College and Co-Editor-in-Chief of The New Journal.
EDGEWOOD AND EDGERTON PARKS BY ELI MENNERICK
East Rock and West Rock, the twin deities of New Haven parks, each have an attendant god. Just west of East Rock, across Whitney Avenue, is a park called Edgerton; four blocks south of West Rock is one named Edgewood. Edgerton is small, squarish, and manicured. It has tall stone walls, a greenhouse, a conservatory of exotic plants, a terrace with a fountain, and chickens. Eli Whitney’s niece once lived on the grounds in a mansion called Ivy Nook. Edgewood, meanwhile, is lanky, and sometimes overgrown. There is a skate park, and a dog park, and a duck pond. There are nice trails, particularly along the tiny, ruler-straight West River. Once, I saw the river teeming with hundreds of alewives, which swim from Long Island Sound into the West River to spawn. The water was low, and the fish flopped on top of one another, straining upstream.
POEM
BÁT QUÁI (BAGUA MIRROR) BY JOHN NGUYEN
To my many siblings, the alive and lingering. He cooks sticky rice cakes, brings orchids and forsythias in from the car, hangs that octagonal golden charm on the front door to ward off evil spirits—all in preparation for the Lunar New Year. The house is clean, though only in the living room. That’s okay, guests won’t enter the others. While his baby wails and he lulls her with shhh, the TV plays in a tongue he has yet to tame: A 55-year-old woman was punched to the ground in Chinatown. A poppy bloomed on her nose—another bullet point on a list longer than all rivers of a motherland. It’s supposed to protect us, he tells his kids, who stare at the just-hung, teal-eyed talisman. Then fireworks fly.
Bang.
John Nguyen is a sophomore in Davenport College.
SEPTEMBER 2021
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