A Skeleton in the Closet

 

I have to write about this. I can’t not write about it. The pain is unbearable. It dulls my thoughts, paralyzes my life, and won’t let me think or feel anything else.
Americans have this saying: "a skeleton in the closet." It means there is some family secret, some shameful thing hidden away from prying eyes, something seen as an embarrassment, if not an outright disgrace.
So, what’s my skeleton? I’ll tell you…

My sister called and told me to come to our father’s apartment first thing in the morning. He’s ninety-five years old now. He’s been living alone for the past eleven years since our mother died. He’s practically blind and never goes outside. My sister brings him groceries and cooks for him. Old age is no picnic, but it’s unavoidable.

Honestly, I didn’t want to even set foot in that apartment. I didn’t want to see my father. It wasn’t just a passing thought; I couldn’t bring myself to do it. But my sister practically shoved me in there. I entered, silent as a ghost. My father couldn’t see me, but I didn’t want him to hear me, either.

I slip past him into the smaller adjoining room. The place is a wreck. It’s not for the faint of heart. There's no dirt, no filth—it’s just empty. The wallpaper’s peeled off the walls, leaving only a few tatters clinging on. Two crooked reproductions of paintings by Shishkin and Repin hang on the wall. Back when he was young and could still see, my father painted these copies of the classics. If you put them in the Tretyakov Gallery, most people couldn’t tell the difference.

There is no furniture in the room. There used to be some decent stuff—a bed, a sofa, an armchair, a china cabinet, a kitchen cupboard. It was just a regular apartment. He even had these shelves for dishes that he built himself—he always was good with his hands. He knew how to use tools. Now everything’s gone. He chopped it up, hacked it apart... If he couldn’t get the hang of something, he would throw it out.
My father was driven by one burning obsession his entire life: everything around him had to be just right. If something wasn’t to his liking, it lit a fire inside him—a rage that couldn’t be tamed. He was a country boy, and he despised the city and its lazy city folk. Drafted into the army as a teenager during the war, he burned with hatred for the fascists and was desperate to go to the front. But he was never sent. The boys in the last reserve weren’t thrown into battle.

After the war, he worked himself to the bone at the factory. He was contemptuous of his coworkers, calling them drunks and loafers. But he worked like a madman. The bosses respected him and hung his portrait on the factory’s wall of honor. They even gave him a medal for his relentless dedication. But he had no friends, no close buddies. The idea of him hanging out with the guys after work, playing dominoes, or grabbing a beer on the weekend was unthinkable. He was a different breed. "I’m a peasant, not a freeloader!" he’d say, then set about doing some kind of public service, whether it was putting up a small fence around the lawn to keep it from being trampled, fitting a shade over a light bulb in the stairwell that someone kept unscrewing, or reinforcing cracked staircase railings. If my father didn’t do it, it wouldn’t get done. None of the other residents in the twenty apartments you could get to through his entryway would take the initiative.

He tackled every job like it was a mortal enemy he had to defeat, completely and without compromise. He had to be victorious. And he treated objects the same way, as if they were living beings challenging him and threatening all humanity. Hatred gave him strength; it was like an elixir powering his body.
He gleefully knocked down a partition he’d built himself when he first moved into the apartment, just to make the tiny hallway a little bigger. In his need to vent his boundless fury, he destroyed everything in the place. Everything, without exception. I left personal items behind when I moved out to live with my wife—books, photo albums, chess sets, even these unique little wooden toys I had as a kid: wooden mushrooms you had to learn how to pick up with a stick and a ring. I’d love to pass those toys on to my grandkids now, but their great-grandfather destroyed them in his blind rage.

I don’t really miss the sofa I bought or the armchair where I used to sit and watch TV. What I do miss are the postcards I’d hidden under the seat of that armchair, a set of illustrations called Heroes from Favorite Books. It was an amazing gift my neighbor Volodya had given me when I was seven years old. He sent them from Kyiv while he was serving in the army. I grew up with those cards, and they’d always been part of my life. Everyone has little things like that, trinkets that mean nothing to others but are precious to their owner.

Now, I’ve got nothing. All those mementos of my childhood are gone.
While my mother was alive, there was some semblance of order and humanity in the apartment. She tried to make it cozy, to keep it nice, like a real home. But my father shot down her efforts at every turn. No need for a TV. No need for a fridge. And an alarm clock? Forget it. "I’ll get up when I need to; I never oversleep," he’d say. "In the village, we didn’t have alarm clocks, and we got along just fine." There was no reasoning with him. If you tried, he’d blow up, his language turning crude and vicious.

It was only following years of stubborn resistance, after every neighbor had already acquired a TV and a fridge, that we finally got those things ourselves. After all, they weren’t the most useless of gadgets. My mother brought the fridge from Moscow almost fifty years ago. Father grudgingly accepted it, because even he had to admit it was a necessity.
In his mind, a real man—especially a peasant like him—needed only the bare minimum. Anything more was frivolous, unworthy of a real man (and he was a real man, of course). Living with him was an ordeal. And as for my mother, I can’t even imagine how she coped. Actually, I can. I saw it with my own eyes, their endless shouting matches, the constant battles. My mother, kind and sentimental, wasn’t the type to back down. She’d stand her ground to the bitter end, which only made things worse. For my father, her defiance was like a red flag to a bull, driving him into fits of rage. He could even get physical if she kept pushing.
My relationship with my father? Let’s just say it’s complicated—or rather, it’s almost nonexistent. Starting at the age of twelve or fourteen, I started to distance myself from him. When I got into college, I practically vanished from his life. I would spend all my time on campus or crashing with friends in the dorm. Being around a man who treated me like I was nothing and was ready to tear me down over the slightest thing was unbearable.

Still, I kept up some minimal level of contact. I’d call him. I’d stop by the apartment. I even thought I’d be the one to take care of him in his old age when the end was near. But after each visit I left shaking, on the verge of a breakdown.
Then one day, my sister called again: "Come over. There’s been another incident."
I went, took one look around, and was in shock. I wanted to grab my father by the collar, yell, "What the hell have you done?!" and throw him out of the apartment. But my sister got between us. "Don’t," she said.

My dictionaries, textbooks, books, and notebooks were scattered all over... The bookshelf stood upside down with a broken leg. Ilyish’s Theoretical Grammar of the English Language, the two-volume German dictionary by Lepping, my notes on Arabic, Larousse’s encyclopedic dictionary that I bought on my last day in Cairo... all had been tossed around the apartment.
My eyes glazed over.
“What have you been doing?” I asked.
“What do you need this shit for?” my father yelled.
“This is my job. My life! Why did you do this?”
“Why the hell do you need so much? And in foreign languages at that? You've cluttered up the whole damn apartment! Get out it the fuck out of here!”
I couldn’t breathe...
“Fine. I’ll take it. But this is the last straw.”

I hired a moving van, bought some bags in a store, packed up my books, and took them home. Our house is small and cramped. I had to put the bookshelf in my son's garage. After that, I didn’t see or hear from my father again...
And yet here I am, standing and listening to him from the next room. As usual, he’s holding forth on how life should be lived. How everything used to be right under the Communists in the Soviet Union, and how (insert some unprintable words here) things have become now.

I look around. My father had hung family photos on the wall in a big homemade frame, in a country-style arrangement. I don't know what prompted me to do it, but one day I took a thick stack of family photos home with me. As it turned out, I did that just in time. My father cut up and tossed out most of the photos I didn’t take, because he didn’t approve of some of the people in them. He used the remaining photos—ones that had his approval—to create that collage behind glass.

He included a picture of his mother (my grandmother Sonya, small and frail, her hands twisted from constant work in the village). His father (my grandfather Afanasy) was there, too. I have a vague memory of him. He was the chairman of the village council, a respected man, president of the village. When the Germans were approaching the village, he refused to evacuate despite the mortal danger they presented. How could he leave his people? It wouldn’t be right. The villagers didn’t betray him.

Here’s his middle brother, Nikolai. Uncle Kolya was the kindest soul, a shepherd. He taught me how to crack a whip and made me little whistles. He had diabetes and didn’t live to collect his pension.
And there’s his youngest brother, Volodya. He was a jokester, a wit, the life of the party. He loved electronics and all sorts of gadgets. Uncle Volodya was like a real father to me. He was killed by a drunk driver. I was devastated with grief. Decades have passed, but the pain still lingers.
In the lower left corner is a slightly yellowed photo of my father’s oldest brother, Vasily. He died on the front lines. All we got was an official notice. He died like millions of other Soviet boys (and girls). Grandmother Sonya grieved until the end of her days.
I chanced on something about him only recently while wading through the Ministry of Defense’s archives. According to a record I found, platoon commander Lieutenant Vasily E_, a member of the VKP(b), "armed with an anti-tank rifle, crawled to the enemy’s front line and destroyed a machine-gun position." So, he actually did the same thing that Hero of the Soviet Union Alexander Matrosov did. My father doesn’t know about this. None of our relatives knew at the time—or know even now.
My father is brave, too. Once, shots were fired outside our window at night and he rushed outside in his underwear. He saw a disheveled, blood-covered policeman pressed up against a wall, firing his pistol into the air to warn off some thugs who were advancing on him. My father charged them without a second’s hesitation...

What am I doing here? My sister said a social worker was coming to talk to my father and try to persuade him, as a war veteran, to accept fifty thousand rubles to improve his living conditions. On the eve of a jubilee anniversary, the state decided to allocate a decent amount of money to every WWII veteran (there aren’t many left). My father refused the money. He was probably the only one to do so. And now an official representative is coming for a face-to-face talk.

I head for the door to leave. I don’t want to meet the social worker. What will I say to him or her? That my father is difficult?
Suddenly, the door opens, and, to the amazement of my sister and me, people start filing into the apartment through the tiny corridor. One, two, three... About twelve or thirteen people, mostly women. What a delegation! There have never been so many people in our apartment. They’re still in their outerwear, but I can see that some have public prosecutor's insignia under their coats. The women vary in age from young to middle-aged. Wow! Russia sure has some beautiful women, even in administrative positions!
Leading the procession is a hefty man in his fifties, with a pasty, arrogant-looking face. He’s clearly the big boss. He pulls a portable video camera out of his pocket and starts filming, as if that’s what he came here to do. Some women take out their phones and begin filming too.
“Who are you people? What are you doing?” my sister asks in surprise.
“We’re doing our jobs,” answers the man with the pasty face, sweeping his camera across the shabby walls.
“Who gave you permission to film in someone else’s home? What right do you have?” I say.
“I represent the authorities, and I have the right,” replies the Big Boss. “But apparently you don’t know your obligations.”
He turns to my father.
“We’ve come to offer you financial aid as a war veteran.”
“And who are you?” my father asks.
“We’re the administration. Government representatives. We want to help you.”
“I don’t need anything.”
“Come on, living in conditions like these, you...”
“I live the way I want!”
“Maybe you could use some help? Think about it,” says someone in the delegation.
“I have everything!” my father exclaims, walking over to his fifty-one-year-old miracle refrigerator. Using some tricks only he knows, he opens this iron box that is covered in felt and held shut with springs, hooks, and levers.
“Look, I have sour cream. Here’s some boiled chicken. Eggs. I’ve got honey in the pantry. Potatoes in the cellar. Real, good-tasting potatoes. I get them only from my district. And what do you feed people with?”
“What else? With food, of course.”
“I know all about your food. I wouldn’t eat it. It’s all chemicals. That’s why people are dying like flies. Why do you think children are born sick? It’s because their parents eat poison!”
“Tell us then, why won’t you accept the money?”
“I don’t need your money! Where does it come from? From the banks? Those crooks! They make money out of nothing. You have to work, produce food. What have you built? What did you do to the collective farms? The factories? Everything's been destroyed. There’s nothing but banks, offices, and crooks everywhere. And nobody wants to work!”

How can I describe the scene? Standing in the middle of the room is a ninety-five-year-old blind old man, dressed in a bizarre outfit that only Gogol’s character Plyushkin would wear. He looks like a human blight. And this is my father?! Surrounding him are officials with sour expressions, listening with indifference (or rather, not listening) to his geopolitical lecture while casually scanning the room with their cameras. And here we are— the skeleton is out of the closet! What a nightmare.
Is this really happening in my room? Is this the same room where I would use the bridge position to train my neck for wrestling, or pace back and forth during exam time with a textbook on scientific communism in my hands? And now the room is packed with strangers. It’s hard to believe.
My blind father realizes that no one is listening to him. The visitors don’t care about his opinions or rationales. He understands that they only want to give him money.
“What, you're not interested in what I’m saying?” my father bursts out. “You don’t want to listen?”
Their silence tells him they don’t.
“Get out!” my father screams, stomping his feet. “Get lost! You ruined the country, and now you come here with money? And you don’t even want to hear the truth from me? Get out! And don’t come back!”
The crowd, followed by my father's screams, exits the building onto the street. Wow! They came in a whole fleet of expensive cars.

“All right,” the Big Boss says to my sister and me. “I’m ordering you to send your father to a medical facility and get the apartment in shape in three days. We’ll provide you with the funds. And on Monday, I expect you to come to my office. Report back to me and we’ll talk.”
“How am I supposed to send a healthy person to a medical institution against his will?” my sister asks.
“Didn’t I make myself clear?” says the Big Boss. “If you fail to comply, the police will deal with you. I’ll make sure of it. It’s obvious that the only thing you what from your father is money. You don’t seem to like the authorities either. I’ll also involve the prosecutor's office.”
The car doors slammed shut, and off they went, leaving my sister and me standing at the entrance to the apartment building. Up to this point, she’d been holding it together, putting on a brave face. But now she broke down and started to sob.
"Why? Why is this happening to me?" she cried.
I tried to calm her down. "Don’t cry. It’ll be okay. We’ll figure something out." (What and how, I had no clue.) "Maybe we should find a lawyer, or even go to the police right now."
"Police? Are you serious?" she snapped. "They’re all in on it together."
"Maybe not all of them," I said, trying to sound hopeful. "There have to be some honest people out there."
We headed back up to the apartment, where our father, who seemed to be running on pure adrenaline, was still raging like a typhoon.
"Sellouts! They ruined the country and now they think they can buy me off with their filthy money… To hell with them all!"
I went home, my nerves completely shot. I found the number for the Department of Social Services, gave them a call, and got through to the right person.
"Yes, yes," a woman's voice answered. "I was on the committee. I saw and heard everything. It’s a difficult situation."
"You realize he's been like this his whole life, right? All he cares about is his principles—being right, justice. Can you imagine what it was like for his wife and us as kids to live with that?"
"I can imagine," she said. "But try to understand our position. There aren’t many war veterans left. And this year’s a big anniversary. Just imagine if our governor decides he wants to congratulate your father personally and shows up at his place. What do you think will happen?"
"It’d be the same thing that happened with you guys. He doesn’t care who it is—it could even be the president himself. He’d face down a tank for his principles."
"Exactly. And what are we supposed to do? If we mess this up, our heads will roll. And we have families, kids, mortgages... How are we supposed to live?"
"We’ve all got problems," I said.
"Sure, but why live with problems if you can avoid them?"
"How do you mean?"
"Well, we had another guy like him once. Very belligerent. We put him in a hospital room for a few days, gave him a couple of shots, and suddenly he was as calm as a lamb. Walked around smiling all the time. He became happy and stopped making trouble for us. It was like magic."
"No, no, that won’t work for us."
“What are you going to do then?"
"I honestly have no idea."
***
When the appointed day arrived, my sister and I went to see the Big Boss. We waited for about an hour and a half, but he never showed up. He probably had bigger fish to fry.
Not long after, my sister got an official notification from the police accusing us of robbing a veteran of World War II. So now we’re going to be investigated. What our punishment will be, I have no idea. But as they say, if they want to find something to charge you with, they always can.

Translated by James McVay

There’s Life in the Old Dog Yet

 

I'm hustling along. Gotta check on Mom. She's been going downhill lately. She can barely get out of bed. And Dad’s right there with her, picking fights as usual. It gets so bad the neighbors bang on the pipes and yell at them to cut out their nonsense.

I'm passing by the oil depot. Gotta keep your wits about you here – there's a whole pack of stray dogs hanging around. If they come at you, you're toast. So, I give them a wide berth, sticking to the far side of the road.

The depot's driveway isn't just paved with asphalt, it's got concrete in spots. But somehow, there's still places where the mud is ankle-deep. Where the hell does it come from?

After the depot, I walk past the fire department's training ground. Dad used to bring the whole family here when we were kids. He'd show off how his tough-as-nails buddies would put out fires in the practice area and then scale a sheer wooden wall. We'd sit on these open bleachers, getting absolutely roasted by the sun. When we got home, Mom would slather her reddened shoulders with petroleum jelly.

Across from the training ground is the hospital. I remember coming here with Mom to visit her dad, my grandpa. He had cancer and was living out his last days. Mom would bring him these gorgeous red apples (she never bought me ones like that) and peaches (which I rarely got to eat).

Up on the hill right in front of me is the factory where Mom used to work as a press operator. Grandpa put in his time there too, back in the day. He was a top-notch specialist, well respected. In our communal apartment, we had this engraved samovar sitting on top of the cabinet– a certificate of appreciation by the factory bigwigs to Grandpa. The factory kept thousands employed. We never knew exactly what they made there. We just knew it was always buzzing, especially when things got tense internationally or a conflict flared up on a far-off continent. They also turned out a few civilian goods like fire extinguishers, primus stoves, camping gear, and a few hardware items.

A railway spur ran up to one side of the factory. Railcars loaded with finished products used to roll out of the wide gates. On the other side, a huge concrete pipe stuck out from under the stone fence. It spewed out a turbulent stream of murky liquid. The stuff was a brownish-rusty color, flecked with spots of fuel oil and clots of different kinds of chemicals. That sludge painted the sides of the ditch it ran through in all the colors of the rainbow as it streamed toward our local river...

I'm walking along the factory's stone wall. It's all crooked now, with massive chunks missing here and there. I peer at the workshops on the other side of the wall. Windows are smashed out. There’s total devastation and silence, like a graveyard. It’s obvious that nobody's worked here in ages. There’s not a soul at the factory gates. And there’s no one in the guardhouses where armed security guards used to stand. That's it. The factory's done for. It’s sad to say, but after the collapse of the USSR and the "liberalization" of the economy, this has been the fate of many of the enterprises in our big industrial city.

There was a time, though, when life was buzzing around the factory, not to mention inside it. You'd really see that after the workers were paid on the 5th and 20th of each month. That’s when they’d be scurrying around like ants on an anthill. More than a few would duck into the liquor section of the nearest shop. The impatient ones would knock their vodka back right there in the store while perched on the windowsill, maybe chasing it with a candy, sometimes not even bothering with that. A bunch of guys who'd drunk more than they could handle would be sprawled on the hillside where the factory sat, looking to the world like "The Storming of Sapun Mountain." Once, one of them propped himself up on an elbow and waved a hand clutching a piece of cake at me.

"Hey, kid! Come ‘ere. I got a treat for you."

I wanted that cake something fierce, but Mom grabbed hold of my elbow and said: "Don't you dare!" To the guy, she said sweetly, "Thanks! You enjoy it yourself."

Ah, those were the days…

I'm walking along the fence and see some guy coming my way.

"Hey, buddy!" I call out. "What's the deal with the factory? Is it still running?"

The guy glances around, eyeing me suspiciously.

"What's it to you?"

"Just curious, that's all."

“Why didn’t you leave and go somewhere else?"

“Like where?"

“To hell!" the guy snaps. "There’s all kinds snooping around here. You an American spy?"

"Nah, I'm Japanese."

"Well, get lost then! There’s too many curious types around here."

I keep walking. What a vigilant comrade I've run into...

Well, I'll be damned. Look who that is. Tanka! I recognize her right off, though I couldn't tell you exactly how many years it's been since I last saw her. She clocked me right away, too. Tanka Chizhova used to live above us in our old two-story building. She was the girl next door, a year younger than me. Back then, in our preschool days, that was a big gap. To be honest, she was my first love. We were sweet on each other, thick as thieves. We swore eternal love to each other out behind the sheds and showed each other how boys differ from girls. At home, I drew her portrait with colored pencils. Tanka loved it, especially the red coat I put her in. Standing under my window, she'd yell, "Seyozh! (Neither of us could pronounce our 'R’s', but I also couldn't say 'Sh' and stuttered to boot.) Come out and play! Let's be fwiends!" We were great friends, and it broke my heart to leave Tanka when we got our own Khrushchyovka apartment and moved out of the communal flat. After that, I only bumped into Tanka by chance, and rarely at that.

For a while, she worked as a salesgirl in a haberdashery, and I'd drop by sometimes. We'd stand around and shoot the breeze about life and nothing in particular.

“Long time no see," she says breezily, as though we'd run into each other just yesterday.

"Oh, ages," I agree. "You haven't changed a bit, I see."

"Quit your lying, Seryozhka! But never mind that, tell me how your kids are doing. Have they made you a grandpa yet?"

"They have. My grandson’s about to start school. How are things at home?"

I know things aren't great on that front with her. Her first husband, the father of her son, got hit by a car. She told me she’d kicked the second one out and said: "What do I need that drunk bully for?"

And she's had trouble with her son too. He did time in prison.

"How's your boy?" I ask.

"The idiot's back inside," she replies.

"What for this time?"

"Drugs. He doesn't use himself, but he’s been dealing. He needs money, but he doesn't want to work."

"How does he get by?"

"Off his girls. He's good looking. Women throw themselves at him. He’s a real gigolo. And he’s a smooth talker—you could listen to him for hours. Let his cellmates enjoy his fairy tales now. But how's your son doing?"

“He’s got a job and he’s plugging away, trying to save up for a car."

"Good for him. That's worth doing."

I say goodbye to Tanka. I'm walking along the fence around the defunct factory. Hurrying along. And suddenly, there it is: that same concrete pipe. It’s still roaring out a stream of rusty, murky liquid, poisoning everything in its path. That toxic stream is still gushing, gurgling, and raging along. Could there be life in the old dog yet?

Translated by J. McVay

A Real Mouse

                                                                    A Real Mouse

Deep philosophy in the shallows of everyday life

I've written about a mouse before, but that was a computer mouse, a small oval-shaped device in a plastic shell. Here, I’m talking about an actual live mouse, an animal of the order Rodentia, a small, grayish creature with a long tail. Everybody knows what a mouse looks like.

I went to the kitchen early to prepare for my morning stretches and walk. I've stopped jogging. It's hard, and sometimes my heart gives me trouble.

I had just put on my training pants when I heard a snap. Clearly, it was the mousetrap. Nothing else in the kitchen could have made that sound. I quickly peered behind the refrigerator where I had placed the trap. It had been triggered, and a stunned mouse lay convulsing next to it.

The little beast was still alive! I had to deal with it. But how? A dust scoop was hanging on the wall next to the fridge. I grabbed it, intending to finish off the mouse and convey it to the trash bin. No such luck! The mouse had wedged itself under the refrigerator, with only the tip of its tail sticking out. I tried to catch the tail with the dust scoop and drag the animal out. It didn’t work. The mouse was wriggling, desperately fighting for its dear life. Then it disappeared into the barely centimeter-wide gap under the refrigerator. It was gone... The mouse wasn’t stupid. It wanted to live.

What a predicament! I didn’t need unwelcome roommates in my house. I didn't invite them! One evening, as I was settling into bed with my collection of Agatha Christie stories, I was horrified to see... a mouse on my pillow. My first thought was, have I gone mad? Or did I overindulge in that rowanberry brandy earlier? I put a mousetrap under the bed just in case the mouse was real. The next morning, it presented me with my uninvited guest. I wondered whether it was male or a female. But who can tell the sex of a mouse?

Joking aside, a mouse isn't a car or a computer. You can't make one with your hands. It's one of God's creatures, a mammal, just like a tiger, an elephant, or even a whale. A mouse has a heart, lungs, kidneys, and reproductive organs. A male mouse (a buck?) mates with a female mouse, just as a man does with a woman. Pregnancy follows, then birth. Everything’s the same as it is with people. Mice even have a courtship period during which males produce sounds that are inaudible to the human ear but act like love poems and attract females. A mouse's brain—which is about half the size of a pea, is functionally identical to a human's. Like a human, a mouse wants to live in comfort and safety, reproduce, and enjoy life.

What if it dies under the fridge? Would it stink? I needed to move the fridge and check underneath. The refrigerator was huge and loaded with food. Everything needed to be taken out of it. There went my morning exercise... Together, my wife and I pushed the refrigerator away from the wall. Dust covered its back. I saw tubes sticking out of the compressor that had been cut and sealed off, their ends covered with a suspicious green coating. It had seemed to me over the past year that our refrigerator's working cycle was too long; it rarely stopped running. I had called a repairman. A thick-lipped redheaded guy showed up. He looked like a blockhead and, as it turned out, he really was one. He cut out part of the refrigerant line, sealed the ends (which became corroded), charged us a hefty sum, and left. After that "repair," the fridge started cutting off even less frequently. It now runs almost constantly. What did you do, you red-haired bastard? You bungler! You’re a son of a bitch and an utter sleazebag! You ruined our refrigerator! I'm a pensioner. I can't afford to buy a new fridge. Our pensions are barely enough to keep us from starving. We're poor Russians. Still, I try to eat well, and, apparently, I manage to do so. For breakfast, I eat two walnuts, half a banana, and a bowl of buckwheat with milk or oatmeal. Sometimes I’ll have an egg. I take a pill for hypertension and drink coffee. After the food they served me in the Soviet Army—practically pig swill—I'm not picky about food at all.

I left for my walk much later than usual that morning. As I walked to the sports ground, I wondered where I’d find the money for a new refrigerator when this one finally stops working? I exercised and puffed without much enthusiasm, out of a sense of duty.

When I got back home, I baited the mousetrap with a piece of cheese and set it in a new spot, behind the cupboard. The next morning, the mousetrap's metal bar was pressing firmly down on a mouse’s crushed head.

So, I ended the life of one of God's creatures. I didn't create it, but I killed it. Did I do the right thing? Did I have the right to? Who can say?

Translated by J. McVay

Koshchei

  

We nicknamed him Koshchei. Why? Because he actually looked like Koschei, the fairytale hero and character from Pushkin's Ruslan and Lyudmila who "pined away over his gold." He was skinny, with no meat on his bones. He had a long nose and unkempt hair. He looked like the picture of Koshchei in a book I used to have that showed him hunched over an open chest, guarding a magical egg. 

Koshchei somehow came to be a manager in a cinema called the Zarya (Dawn). He might even have been its director. The Zarya was surrounded by five-story apartment buildings that had been constructed during Khrushchev's time. They were like beehives crammed full of Soviet families: that's where we grew up…

The Zarya was a place where magic happened. They showed movies there. It would be packed with hundreds of people gazing breathlessly at the screen. Things happened on the screen unlike anything we ever saw or could even imagine. Women with bedroom eyes and manly men flashed before our eyes. The things we felt! The passions we experienced! Sometimes, they even kissed. And then we boys whooped and hollered. We roared with the film broke, especially when it happened in the most interesting places. We whistled and shouted at the projectionists: "You bunglers!!!

 

And the cars they drove! Luxurious, with lots of shiny chrome! How snazzy America seemed! And the only cars running on our streets were Moskviches and Pobedas and, sometimes, a captured German Opel Kapitän.

Every foreign movie was an event for us, especially if it was an American film. We thought it an unforgivable sin to miss one.

Movies about cowboys were the best. We didn't even have the words to describe them. The men in them were free, strong and noble... They lacked all tolerance for evil and injustice. They wouldn't let themselves be humiliated. If somebody in a bar threw beer in a cowboy's face, he always had his Colt revolver on his belt.

 

We watched "The Magnificent Seven" over and over again. We couldn't get enough of it. How could 10-kopeck movies they showed at the children's matinee come close to a movie like that? Ilya Muromets was a dashing fellow, but he stood no chance against Lemonade Joe. However, the cheapest ticket for an adult showing was 25 kopecks. Where could boys like us, eight or nine year olds, get that amount of money? But the dark interior of the Zarya was an irresistible temptation...

That's when we did what we called "Penetrating Enemy Lines." That meant getting into the theater anyway you could, no matter what it took.

We had several ways of doing it. The safest (and doomed to failure) involved waiting at the exits. It occasionally happened that somebody in the audience didn't like the movie or desperately needed a smoke and would leave through one of the exits. Then we would dash into the theater. But people rarely left. So we would try to open an exit door ourselves. To do that we had to find a wire that was stiff enough to stick between the doors and lift the latch. That worked sometimes. But the employees eventually noticed that the gap between the doors was getting scratched up and nailed on thick iron plates.

We had another method we called "The Cossack Scout." But it only worked when a lot of people went to see a movie. A bunch of guys would gather at the entrance to the lobby and crowd against the people going in (ignoring cries of "Stop pushing?").They would cause a ruckus and start arguments, and the ticket taker would attempt to calm things down. In the commotion, one of the nimbler boys (Igor Yurchenko was one) would slip into the lobby behind the entering patrons. It would be the sacred duty of the "Cossack" to get into the theater and open the door for his friends who were waiting out on the street. The boy who could do that was well respected. However, on the steps leading into the lobby or further on, at the entrance to the theater itself, there frequently stood ... Koshchei. He would hover there, gray-haired, frowning and terrible, like a bird of prey on the lookout for a mouse. No one could ever slip past Koshchei when he was on duty. His very visage struck terror into our hearts.

Sometimes he would descend the stairs and say something to the ticket taker — probably telling her to be more vigilant.

 

Then there was another method. But it only worked in summer and early fall when second-storey windows on the side of the building were opened. They did that on a hot and stuffy day so that the audience wouldn't sweat up in the lobby too much.

Those open windows drew us like a magnet. But how could we reach them? There was only one way — up the drain pipe. You had to be careful and climb it like a cat. The pipe was old and rusty. If it didn't hold up, you would end up hugging the tarmac. The windows were on the second floor of the theater, or about the same height as the third floor of an apartment building. You would have to squeeze up against the window and do something heart stopping — ease several meters along a galvanized windowsill with nothing to hold onto. Thank God the windows were kept shut in rainy weather so we didn't have to walk on slippery wet metal. It was scary, of course. But hadn't Sheriff Johnson walked along a tight rope and then shot the leader of a band of robbers? He was our role model.

 

One day I saw an open window. Unable to resist the temptation, I scrambled up the drain pipe... I made my way safely along the windowsill. I jumped down into the lobby, took a few steps and ... there was Koshchei right in front of me... 

 

"Soooo...," Koshchei hissed ominously. "We got in, eh?"

"Yes," I mumbled, at a loss for what to do. Should I dart through the lobby and dash into the toilet? But surely he would find me there! Could I jump back onto the windowsill? It was too high... I was frozen with fear.

 

"Come with me! Koshchei ordered and, turning his back, strode off across the lobby. I followed meekly behind. On the other side of the lobby he turned into a narrow corridor that ended in a door covered with black oilcloth. He opened the door and motioned me inside.

I entered. It was apparently his office. On the walls were portraits of Soviet movie stars. Up against the wall there was a filing cabinet stuffed with papers. In front of the cabinet sat a large desk covered with green cloth. In the corner hung a large red banner with gold embroidered letters — "Winner of Socialist Competition."

Koshchei sat down behind the desk. I stood opposite him.

"What's your name," he asked, his eyes boring me from under the lowered eyebrows.

"Sergei," I squeaked in a trembling voice.

"And what have you snuck into, Sergei?"

The cinema. I wanted to see a movie."

“What movie?

"I dunno. Whatever's on."

"Tell me, do you go to the children's matinees?"

"Un-huh. But they aren't very interesting."

"And what do you find interesting?"

"The Magnificent Seven."

"Sooo..." Koschei drawled. You like cowboys?"

"Un-huh, I do."

"Did you think about that drainpipe before climbing it? What if it broke? You would have fallen to your death. Or you would have been crippled for life."

"I wouldn’t fall. I'm a good climber."

"Sure you are," Koshchei grumbled. I've seen what happens to clever boys like you. What am I to do with you?"

"I dunno..."

He scratched his head and looked at me in silence for a while. Then he came out from behind the desk and said, "Come with me."

He walked out of his office, and I followed him. Where was he taking me? To the police, probably. After all, I had broken the law! I'd done something I wasn't supposed to. What would happen to me now?

Koshchei led me up to the door leading into the theater, which was closed off by a heavy velvet curtain. He pulled back the curtain and cracked open the door.

"Go on," he said.

"Where?"

“Inside. From now on, if you want to watch a movie ask the ticket taker to call Vasily Ivanovich. We'll think of something. But don't climb through any more windows. Agreed?”

"Agreed," I replied and went into the dark theater…

 

I never did ask the ticket taker to call Vasily Ivanovich. But in the years that followed I never climbed through any more windows, and I never forgot the lesson I learned from that sad, scary-looking man.

Translated by J. McVay

My Cousin Kolya

 

(A family tale)

I remember the first time I saw him. He was lying stark naked on a blanket behind a curtain. He had a big round head and was kicking his crooked little legs. A miniature pee-pee was sticking up over his belly. He was mewling like a kitten.

"This is your cousin Kolenka," my dad told me. "Katya's son." (Aunt Katya was my dad's younger sister.)

That's my earliest memory of Nikolai. We grew up in parallel worlds, mostly meeting only on holidays. Our families lived far apart in different parts of the big city. Before a holiday, my dad would arrange a visit with Aunt Katya. They worked at the same factory in adjoining departments, so setting a time and place to meet wasn't a big deal, even back then when hardly anyone had a phone at home.

Aunt Katya and Uncle Grisha lived in a private home in Zarechye. To enter, you had to climb up onto a high porch and go into a dimly lit vestibule. From there, you'd walk through a small kitchen to a room that served as entrance hall, living room, and bedroom all in one. Their house was tiny. The adults would sit around a table in the middle of the room. They'd drink vodka, eat snacks, and talk about things Kolya and I couldn't understand. Sometimes they'd sing. My dad was always the loudest. The veins in his neck would bulge, and I'd worry they might burst and he'd die.

"Nye pey!" I'd say to try and stop him singing. My knowledge of Russian was still pretty limited, so I didn't know I should have said, "Nye poy!" Dad would get what I meant and tease me: "But I've already had a drink!"

There was no running water or sewage in the house. So, I was shocked when I once saw Kolya squatting with his bare butt over a piece of paper in the kitchen. It seemed gross to me. If I'd tried something like that in our kitchen, I'd have been in big trouble. It wasn't right! I went and tattled to Aunt Katya. What a little snitch I was! But she just told me not to worry about it, and said if I needed to go too, she'd find me a potty.

Kolya and I played in the corner. He had cool toys: a toy train set with tiny cars, and a tabletop — well, more like floor-top — football game. It was a metal football pitch with miniature football players. We made them kick a ball by working springs attached underneath.

Kolya also had a bunch of toy guns. I liked one so much that I wanted to keep it... so I did. When my parents saw the gun at home, they really laid into me. They made me feel ashamed of myself and taught me a lesson about not taking other people's stuff no matter how much I might like it. That stuck with me.

His parents would pay us a return visit on the next holiday: maybe May Day or Revolution Day on November 7th, the biggest state holiday back then. Some of the guests who came would try to kiss me, which I hated. I'd wipe my face after each kiss. This embarrassed the kisser but for some reason delighted the other guests.

"Please take a seat," my mom would say, pointing to the delicious-smelling plates on the table. "Where would you like to sit, Kolya?" she'd ask.

"Close to the sausage," he'd reply, to roars of laughter from the adults.

The guests would stay for ages, not just an hour or two. Mom would turn on the Minsk-55 radio gramophone (a huge box in the corner of the room), put on some records, and the dancing would start. Uncle Grisha, Kolya's dad, would dance with my mom. There wasn't much space in the room, but they would twirl around gracefully without bumping into any furniture. Out of breath, Uncle Grisha would then head to the balcony for a smoke. He smoked a lot. It seemed like he lit up after every shot of vodka. He loved his vodka too. And not just on holidays, either. I don't think I ever saw Uncle Grisha (who was my godfather, by the way) completely sober or without a cigarette between his yellow teeth. Once, he left a pack of cigarettes on our windowsill, and I snagged a couple. I tried smoking behind a fence outside. Ended up coughing and spitting for ages. Nasty stuff. Didn't like it one bit.

Kolya and I would play while the adults were eating and drinking. We often butted a blown-up balloon around like it was a football. The grown-ups would sometimes ask us to stand side by side to compare our heights. I was a bit taller at first, then he caught up and just kept growing and growing... I couldn't keep up. But I decided not to fall behind in other ways. I bought some dumbbells and started pumping iron. Now, whenever we met, I'd proudly show off my biceps to Kolya.

"Wow," Kolya would marvel. "I'm gonna get some of those too." And sure enough, dumbbells and a kettlebell appeared at his place, and Kolya himself bulked up and got more solid.

There was a stack of books in one of his desk drawers.

"Take whatever you want," Kolya would tell me. I'd grab and read "Indian Fairy Tales," which had amazing illustrations, a historical novel by Tsarevich called "For the Fatherland" (it was a serious book, but an easy read), or an old, tattered book by Zagoskin, "Yuri Miloslavsky, or the Russians in 1612."

"Think you can handle that one?" Kolya would ask. I wouldn’t just read the book; I’d devour it with great pleasure. I loved reading.

When Kolya was older, he got into cycling. He joined a cycling club. Once, he even let me borrow a real racing bike for a while.

 Time flew by. I got into college. Kolya went off to the Army and ended up somewhere far away in Siberia. We didn't see each other for two or three years. Then he suddenly came home on leave. I went over for a visit. The fine gray greatcoat he had hung in the hallway made quite an impression on me.

Kolya greeted me wearing a tracksuit and gave me a strong hug. He was tall and broad shouldered. He radiated strength and confidence.

"Come on in, cuz!"

We sat at the table, had a few drinks, and chatted. Nikolai drank every little, just enough to be sociable. He wasn't into it (unlike his dad, who loved a drink, with or without a reason).

Nikolai had received an offer he couldn't turn down: assignment to the Strategic Rocket Forces. I suppose before making an offer like that, they would put a candidate under a microscope and thoroughly check him out.

"So, what do you do in the Army?" I asked.

"What I'm supposed to," he answered vaguely. "Defend the strategic security of the Motherland."

"Sit in silos? Aim ballistic missiles at Washington?"

"All sorts of things," he didn't want to specify.

"Is it worth it?"

"Yeah. The pay's good. Full benefits. When the time comes, I'll get a nice pension. I won’t have to wait long either."

So that was that. Kolya had his life figured out. He knew what the next few years held for him. And me? How would my life turn out? All I knew was that after college, I’d be sent off to teach in some village in the middle of nowhere. What would happen after that was anyone's guess.

Nikolai returned from Siberia after mustering out. And he didn’t come alone. He had a beautiful wife, Svetlana. Tall, slim, a former flight attendant. A perfect match for Kolya.

However, he had nowhere to live in his hometown, so he moved in with Aunt Katya and Uncle Grisha. They were living with their young daughter in a cramped two-room apartment, and the addition of two more people with a small child didn't make for more comfortable living conditions. Uncle Grisha, with his incessant smoking, foul odor, and chronic drinking, became a thorn in beautiful Svetlana's side. And she didn't get along with Aunt Katya, either. My aunt is an angel incarnate. She always agrees with everyone. She could get along with the devil himself. But things didn't suit Svetlana. She turned out to be a bit of a diva. This wasn't right, that wasn't good enough, especially in the kitchen. Aunt Katya would cry. Clearly, there should only be one bear in a den, and only one woman in a kitchen.

Kolya watched all this for a while and then went back into uniform. He joined the Russian troops heading to the war in Yugoslavia, hoping to earn enough to get his own place. He served in the Balkans. The Russian troops departed with little glory, leaving behind a shattered, dismembered Yugoslavia.

"What was it like there, Nikolai?" I asked him when he returned.

"What do you think? It was war."

"Did you fight? Shoot?"

"Hardly. We were just there for show. The Americans were the ones fighting. They bombed anybody they wanted to."

"And what about you guys?"

"What could we do? Launch a strategic missile and split the planet in half?"

The money he earned was only enough for a small, previously owned apartment. He settled his now grown son and moved back in with his mother, along with his wife and newborn daughter. That didn’t really solve his housing problem. Kolya continued serving in his hometown.

 Aunt Katya fell seriously ill. She didn't suffer long. One day, Kolya called me.

"Come to the funeral. Mom's gone."

I went. She was lying on the floor, not yet in a coffin. She looked neat and clean with her thin, dried-out legs in plain brown stockings. Lung cancer had done its job. What caused this tragedy? She was a sturdy country woman. Could it have been a parting gift from her husband, Uncle Grisha, who was always smoking and had long since passed away himself? There’s no way to know. But we had to do what was needed in such cases and move on with life...

A high-level commission from the Ministry of Defense visited Kolya’s unit to inspect the performance, combat readiness, and living conditions of its personnel. That's how an important boss from the capital learned about Kolya's housing problem. How could this be? It was a disgrace! Here was an exemplary soldier with many years of impeccable service and nothing but medals to show for it. Not even a place to live! Urgent action and a report were required.

That's how Kolya got an apartment. A residential complex for high-ranking officers had been built on the outskirts of town, in a wooded area overlooking a large pond or small lake. That's where Kolya, who had served as a simple warrant officer in the Soviet Army, ended up living.

"Come to the housewarming," he invited me. I don't remember why I didn't go but my mother went and told me about it later.

It was a general's apartment with large, bright rooms, a spacious entryway, and built-in closets. It had a long, glassed-in loggia, and a tiled bathroom and powder room with shiny, nickel-plated fixtures.

For my mother, who had spent her whole life first in a communal apartment and then in a shabby Khrushchevka where two people couldn't take their coats off in the corridor at the same time, this wasn't just an apartment - it was a fairy tale. I wish you the best, Nikolai!

After serving all the time he was allowed, Nikolai retired. A pensioner, it was time for him to live and enjoy life.

Once, coming out of the bank in my neighborhood, I saw Kolya standing next to an armored minivan. He was wearing the uniform of an armored car guard and a bulletproof vest, with a pistol in a holster on his belt.

"Hey there!" I greeted him. "Are you back in the service? Can't just sit at home, huh?"

"Why sit around," Nikolai replied. "It's boring. Plus, extra money never hurts. After paying for gas, electricity, and water, and what's left to live on?"

"How's the family?" I asked.

“The kids moved to Moscow. My son found work there, and my daughter married a Moscow guy."

"So, it’s just you and Svetlana now?"

“That’s right. Just the two of us in the apartment."

We chatted about some trivial things then shook goodbye. His hand was big, his handshake firm. He looked like the actor A.D., a hero of Russian action movies, an athlete and ladies' man, who died in a car accident along with his wife and son.

 Busy with our own lives, we only called each other occasionally. One day my sister called and, after talking about life, told me at the end:

"Did you know Nikolai is sick?"

"No, I didn't. What's wrong with him?"

"The same thing Aunt Katya had."

“That can't be!"

"Oh, but it can. Nikolai had surgery last month."

Well, damn... I called Nikolai. His voice was cheerful, but the news was sad.

"Yeah, they cut out half of my lung. I'm going through chemotherapy now. That’ll be followed by radiation. Gotta stop the cancer from spreading."

"How are you feeling?"

“About like you'd expect. I go outside, but I can’t walk far. I get out of breath. And climbing the stairs to the apartment is a struggle."

"Kolya, cancer isn't a death sentence. Solzhenitsyn overcame it. And so have others."

"I know, cuz. I'm not planning on giving up. Come visit. It's been a long time."

"Yes, yes, I'll come," I promised and, among other things, made a mental note to be sure and visit Nikolai. As always, I didn't make it in time.

Misha, the husband of Kolya's younger sister, called. He told me Nikolai was gone.

"What? When's the funeral?"

"It's already happened."

"When?"

"Last week."

Misha explained. They brought Kolya's body back to the apartment from the hospital. His wife didn't tell anyone he’d died, not even Nikolai's own sister. At the funeral, apart from his wife and children, there was no one. None of the relatives even know where he's buried. Why beautiful Svetlana did this, nobody knows.

All I have left of Kolya is a two-pood (about 32 kg) kettlebell. He loaned it to me before he joined the Army ("Keep training, cuz") and then never asked for it back.

It stands in the corner of my room, but I don't touch it. It's heavy, and it keeps getting heavier and heavier as time goes on.

Translated by J. McVay