Easter Eggs for the Czar

                                EASTER EGGS FOR THE CZAR

                                              Vladimir Possipov

It is true, of course, you will not have heard of me. No, you will have heard of that fop who made jeweled eggs, everyone has. But mine was the true art, created from dark chocolate and spun sugar, butter creams and rare liqueurs, exotic fruits and nuts and secret spices. I was the Imperial Easter Egg Maker in the Court of Nicholas and Alexandra, and my art was even greater than Faberge's for its evanescence. A Possipov confection was like a Nijinsky entrechat-dix--impossible to capture, but once experienced, never forgotten.

I was working in my father's humble candy shop in the village of Kobal when the Czar's messengers came for me. I had no time to pack or change, off I went in the coach still in my apron, taking only my wire whisk and a sausage for the journey. My family waved farewell, proud tears in their eyes. "Remember the hard ball in the water trick," my father cried as the horses clattered over cobblestones.

When we reached the palace, it was ten days before Easter. "The Czarina has heard great things of you," said General Malinsky, Commander of the Royal Kitchen. "She wishes you to create Easter eggs for the prince and princesses. You make, we hide. We have a secret police for such things. Now, is there anything you need? Is the larder satisfactory?"

My poor naive peasant eyes grew wide. Never had I seen such treasures: peach halves in Cognac, figs the size of gourds, sacks of Indian cashews, barrels of coconuts, apricots glazed with honey, coffee beans and peppermint plants, gigantic slabs of Belgian chocolate...

I worked without ceasing, without sleeping, until dawn of Easter Sunday. I made chocolate eggs in the shapes of mosques, bears and ballerinas. I sculpted Cossack riders in butterscotch. I reproduced the Crown jewels in candied tropical fruits. I wrote Pushkin's poetry on chocolate with peppermint fondant.  Finally I fell, exhausted, in a corner of the kitchen. But before I lost consciousness, my heart sang at General Malinsky's words of praise: "Not bad, Possipov."

And so my career began, and gloriously it continued, for many joyous Easters. (I did, of course, create confections for other occasions--like the life-size chocolate St. Nicholas that stood in the square at St, Petersburg at Christmas. Children of the nobility were allowed to come and nibble on it.) But Easter was the great time of year.

Then, the changes began. First that grotesque pig Rasputin arrived, and began to demand X-rated eggs. Whole corps de ballet he wanted, jumping out of eggs at officers' dinners. Then, worse, came the Revolution. Lenin never ate chocolate. He had adored it as a young man, but now he forbade himself its taste, as a test of endurance. The toll such restraint exacted was the falling-out of his hair. As for Stalin, he ate nothing but yak jerky, and had the vilest breath in all the Caucasus.

Soon I realized my life was in danger. I began to plan my escape. And my escape was the culmination, the pinnacle of my art. I constructed an enormous chocolate egg--hollow, but with a shell six inches thick. I carefully drilled miniscule holes in the shell, crawled inside, and sealed the egg from within. I had already prepared a packing crate for the egg, and addressed it to Miss Pola Negri, Hollywood, USA--a particular favorite of Stalin's.

And that is how I came to leave Russia. Once in the United States of America, I made my way to a small town in Pennsylvania. There, with the chocolate egg as my capital, I went into business. (Under a new name, of course--they are everywhere. I became known as O. Henry, the chocolate maker.)

And--such undreamed of happiness! I fell in love with a maiden known as Sweet Marie, and we have lived happily ever after, with our children, Hershey, Reese and Godiva, and the twins, Masha and Moishe--or, as we call them, M and M.

Sweet wishes for Easter, and hopes for a return to the splendor and decadence of the glorious Romanov past!

                                                          V. Possipov.