Sow the Reasonable, the Good, the Eternal

                     

Snow-covered fields flash past the commuter train window, occasionally replaced by the bare trees of shelterbelts. I’m heading to Moscow. I need to visit a prestigious ministry, where I’ll try to chart the course of my career and, you might say, even the flow of my life.

I’m finishing university. It’s time to move forward – step onto the professional path, find a job, earn a living, and live.

My institute is pedagogical. But I never wanted to be a teacher. I never liked school, not since childhood. For me, it was an institution of violence, robbing me of freedom and forcing me to do things I didn’t like or want. Every day, for long hours, I had to sit still, be quiet, and draw sticks in the lower grades, sketch coffins of organic compounds in middle school, and plot tangents against cotangents in the upper grades. Ugh, how boring and detached from life!

School held little interest for me. Only subjects like history, geometry, human anatomy and physiology, and a foreign language sparked any interest. I was lucky to get English, spoken by half the world. I was always fascinated by how people produced incomprehensible sounds yet understood each other perfectly. I wanted to understand them too. English grammar seemed simple, even primitive. (Only decades later, after mastering English, did I realize my childish misconception. Simple grammars don't exist). English came so easily to me (even joyfully) that my teacher paraded me around senior classes, showcasing me like a prodigy to the hulking older boys.

After finishing school, the question of where to study next was a no-brainer. Foreign languages, naturally. Though the institute’s pedagogical focus was a bit off-putting. But I decided that the main thing was to master the language, become a top-notch specialist, and with high qualifications, I’d find worthy employment. Definitely not in a school, of course.

At the institute, I studied feverishly, so zealously that sometimes my nose bled. What they taught me wasn’t enough, and I obsessively studied the language using my own methods. After my second year, few instructors could offer me much in terms of practical language skills. Some regarded me with jealousy and wariness. Others with clear respect. Like, he's a fanatic, what can you do? Let’s not get in his way…

In my penultimate year, I was selected to work as an interpreter abroad. It was Africa, but still, it was overseas – an immense honor and trust placed in me for those times. A year later, I returned home fluent in English and with broken Arabic, which I’d taught myself for daily needs.

And now, my final year at the institute is ending. Where to go next? School? God forbid!
That’s why I’m heading to the capital to determine my fate.

I’d been to the ministry on Bolshaya Gruzinskaya Street several times before my assignment, so I found it quickly. I walked in unimpeded. Yes, those were times when security guards didn’t lurk at the entrances, even of prestigious institutions.
I headed to the personnel department.

The head of personnel, a balding middle-aged man, greeted me warmly, listened attentively, and immediately understood the purpose of my visit.

·         "So, you want to go abroad again?"

·         "Exactly."

·         "Good. We have vacancies in Ethiopia and Nigeria. For a year or longer. Would that suit you?"

·         "Yes. I don’t care where."

·         "Excellent. But here’s a nuance. You seem to be a student?"

·         "Yes, a student. Finishing the institute."

·         "And after graduation, you must receive a job assignment from them. Go somewhere according to distribution. Isn’t that right?"

·         "Yes, that’s right."

·         "That means you are at the disposal of the Ministry of Education. Legally speaking, you’re their personnel reserve, not ours."

·         "But I don’t want to work in a school. I’d rather go to Burundi as an interpreter than be a teacher in some Russian backwater like Shitsville."

·         "Alas, not all our wishes can be fulfilled. Get released from your distribution assignment and come back to us. We need qualified specialists, especially ones already proven in the field. However, we neither want nor can break the law."

·         "Maybe you could put in a good word for me? As an exception. Give them a call or write a letter."

·         "Calling, of course, is possible, but I think our chances are practically nil."

That was the conversation. Quite discouraging. But I was young and determined. Without wasting time, I went straight to the Ministry of Education. Today, you can’t cross a school threshold guarded by someone in uniform with special gear. But back then, I walked freely into the personnel department of the capital’s ministry.

Here I was met by the head of the department, an elderly, portly man.
After introducing myself, I began explaining what brought me to his office.
Suddenly, the phone rang. The boss picked up, listened, and nodded in my direction.

·         "That’s someone calling about your soul."
I couldn’t hear the caller, of course, but by what and how the education personnel officer responded, I understood it was about me and could imagine their dialogue.

·         "Yes, yes. That comrade is actually right here with me now."

·         "Could you possibly release this comrade to us?"

·         "How? On what grounds?"

·         "He’s already worked for us. Proved himself well. We have work for him."

·         "We have work for him too."

·         "What will you offer him? Teaching in a village school? He’ll stagnate or drink himself to death there. We’ll make a top-class specialist out of him."

·         "We need such people ourselves. Young, knowledgeable. The Soviet school needs worthy personnel."

I listened and understood the education personnel officer wouldn’t give me up. Finishing the call, he turned to me.

·         "You want to work abroad?"

·         "Yes. I do."

·         "Good. We can send you from our ministry to Cuba. Will you go?"

·         "No. They speak Spanish there. I don’t know it."

·         "In that case, we cannot help you further. Alas, and goodbye..."

... Crash. I head home. Bare trees flash past the window again. Shivering from the cold in the drafty carriage, I try and fail to picture myself as a teacher...

---

The final, so-called "state" exams, are over. All top grades. I get a diploma with distiction. And a job assignment to a village school.

On the appointed day, I arrive for reconnaissance at the District Department of Public Education (DDPE). An urban village of Nikolskoye with a population just over two thousand, at the very edge of our vast region. On the central square near the two-story local administration building stands a silvered Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, his right hand extended towards a glass-fronted beer hall, densely packed with bustling men despite it being working hours during harvest season.

The DDPE head isn’t alone in her office. A pre-retirement age man with an unhealthy, sallow complexion sits by the wall, wearing a suit and a tie despite the hot late-summer day outside.

·         "Reinforcements have arrived!" – the woman greets me.

·         "Welcome to the teaching profession," – adds the man.

The head explains I’ll be working in the neighboring village of Petrovka, about fifteen kilometers away. The school is new, just built last year (it used to be crammed into some barracks). By chance, the school director, Redkin Vasily Ivanovich, was in her office.

·         "What will my workload be?" – I ask the director.

·         "Not much English. Just fifth grade. More German, grades six through eight. Since that doesn’t make a full standard load, we’ll add Russian language and literature for you."

·         "I’m not a Russian specialist. And German is my second language. I don’t know it like English."

·         "That’s not a problem," – says the director. – "We all know Russian. We’re Russian people. And future tractor drivers don’t need much German."

·         "Where will I live?"

·         "In a furnished apartment in the new building. Gas heating, stove, running water. I’m heading to Petrovka now. Can I give you a lift?"

·         "Yes, please."

We drive in Vasily Ivanovich's Zaporozhets to my workplace.

·         "Maybe I should increase your load?" – asks the director, turning the steering wheel. – "I could add geography and physical education."

·         "No, thank you. I’ll have enough."

·         "I’ll give you the English teaching manual. It costs 17 kopecks. Just give me the money back later."

·         "Of course I will. Thanks."

The "furnished apartment" in Petrovka made a depressing impression. An empty room with peeling walls on the first floor of a two-story, eight-apartment building. Bare windows without curtains, through which I could see some shed in the distance, and through which anyone could see me anywhere in the room.

Furniture: two metal-framed cots, a table, and a chair. In the kitchen: a workbench pushed against the wall, destined to serve as a kitchen table. There was nothing else in the apartment, except for a two-burner gas stove. A tap stuck out of the kitchen wall. I turned the handle. No water came out.

·         "Water supply is intermittent," Vasily Ivanovich explained. - "You’ll need to fetch it from the pump."

There was no sink under the tap. No toilet. Nor was there the luxury of a shower or bath. Presumably, the intended resident was meant to be an incorporeal angel.

I silently surveyed the wretched dwelling, slung my bag over my shoulder, and headed for the highway, hoping I wouldn’t be staying long in these apartments.

---

Late August. I leave the bus station of my hometown on the only daily bus to begin my teaching career… About twenty kilometers before Nikolskoye, I need to get off the highway and walk about seven kilometers along a dirt road to Petrovka.

I have a heavy suitcase stuffed with dictionaries and textbooks (I don’t plan to waste time idly in the village). At the stop, waiting for the bus to depart, stands a girl, or rather a young woman of solid, sturdy build.

·         "Going to Nikolskoye?" – I ask.

·         "To Petrovka," – she replies.

·         "Really? Imagine, me too! What brings you to this godforsaken corner?"

·         "A teacher’s professional duty. And you?"

·         "Following the Motherland’s orders."

We introduced ourselves and started talking. Her name was Ekaterina. She would be teaching Russian language and literature at the same Petrovka school. So, a future colleague.

On the bus, we sat together. The journey was long, almost three hours, during which we talked nonstop. She turned out to be very talkative and open.

---

September 1st. My first German lesson in eighth grade.

·         "Also, liebe Freunde, beginnen wir mit unserer ersten Lektion. Ich bin euer neuer Deutschlehrer." (So, dear friends, let's begin our first lesson. I am your new German teacher.)

·         "What was that you said?" – asks a dark-haired boy with fuzz on his upper lip sitting at the first desk.

·         "That I’m your new teacher, and we’re starting our first lesson."

·         "Aaaaah…," – the boy drawls. – "Now I get it. Irina Petrovna, the teacher before you, only spoke Russian with us."

·         "In Russian? During a German lesson? Original! We will speak German. Wir werden Deutsch sprechen."

I ask several students, one after another, to read short passages from the textbook and see that they don’t even know all the letters. And this after three years of studying the language! What understanding of the text could there be? Yeah… there’s work to be done here.

English is taught for the first time in this school. The starting class is fifth grade. Where to begin? I remember how I was taught. We started with letters and reading rules (extremely complex in English). Words were gradually introduced, building simple sentences. We moved from simple to more complex.

But now there’s a completely different method. Some academician figured that since a child learns to speak first, and then read and write, schoolchildren should be taught speaking first, then reading and writing. So the manual instructs me to teach the children English poems and songs. Sure, English children got the basics of grammar while suckling at their mother’s breast, listening to her lullabies and learning short rhymes. But our children are Russian. They already speak their native language and have a Russian mindset. English is foreign to them. Relying on Russian is unavoidable. Even if they learn an English song, they’ll sing it like parrots, without understanding the meaning or feeling the grammar. And I’m no wet nurse; I can’t offer a breast or a lullaby. Besides poems, the manual prescribes memorizing basic structures like "Is this a book or a pencil?" But what normal child would confuse them and ask such a stupid question?

Strangely, the German methodology suggests a completely different approach. Grammatical rules are explained. Then exercises are done to memorize the rule until it's automatic. New words are introduced and sentences are built with them, helping students memorize the words. If they show interest and aren’t lazy, both the rule and the words stick. The trouble is, few children find it interesting, and many suffer from natural mental laziness.

I prepare for lessons meticulously. I write a plan for each lesson (for German, the "Teacher's Book" with detailed methodology descriptions helps a lot). English is trickier. The students find the program utterly uninteresting. And they don’t want to learn the song "May There Always Be Sunshine." Neither do I. But what to do?

I bring slides to school that I took during my work in Africa. I show the students the Red Sea, exotic palm trees, camel caravans. I tell them if they master English, they can travel the world, communicate with other people, learn many interesting things.

They look at the color pictures indifferently, as if I were showing them black-and-white photos of the Moon's surface.

To spark their curiosity somehow, I brought a record player to class. I played a Louis Armstrong record. The hoarse bass of the famous Negro singer made the class wary.

·         "See, kids," – I said. – "You don’t understand anything? If you learn English, you’ll understand everything! And you’ll sing like him. And read English books."

The effect, however, was short-lived. The kids don’t want to learn words, build sentences. It’s boring! Especially after three or four hours of previous lessons. Concentrating and studying purposefully isn’t for young children. Who wants to strain their brain for hours? By a universal law of psychology, children seek release from tension and psychological comfort wherever and whenever possible. In Deputy Principal Senka’s lessons, the children sit quietly. They’re afraid of him. Senka looks at you like he’s aiming a rifle. Scary. And in front of Director Vasily Ivanovich, the kids tremble. He could play Koshchei the Deathless without makeup. Incidentally, that’s what they nicknamed him. With a voice like a rusty gate hinge, the history teacher "drills the kids on dates," interrogating them about when Charles I was beheaded and when the French stormed the Bastille. For wrong answers, he threatens severe punishment, calling parents, and other unpleasantness.

In the school pedagogical chain, I’m the weak link. I’m an outsider, come from the regional center to teach nonsense like the gerund and pluperfect.

The not-very-strict discipline in my lessons soon turns practically into chaos. I explain the rules in the most accessible way, but no one seems to be listening. Ostrikov constructs a paper airplane and sends it to Vostrikov across the room.

Guskov chews paper, makes a sticky wad, sticks it to the end of a metal ruler, bends it, and suddenly releases it, firing the chewed paper at the blackboard.
Seleznev in the left row sits like an idol with an absent gaze, not uttering a sound, even when I ask him to read a couple of sentences.

Yulia Teryokhina, a little plump girl at the second desk in the left row, shouts: "Who stole my pencil case? I’ll kill whoever took it!"

But Alexander Kuleshov, a red-haired kid at the third desk in the center, causes the most trouble. He constantly fidgets and twists around as if he had buckwheat in his pants. What is it? Hyperactivity? He can’t sit still. What concentration can there be? Sometimes he starts humming a popular song.

·         "Letters, letters, I carry them myself to the post office...”

·         "Kuleshov, stop. This isn’t singing class."

·         "But I want to sing. My soul demands it…"

·         "Leave the class and sing as much as you want."

Kuleshov happily leaves the class.

I quiz Sapronov. Absolute zero.

·         "Sapronov, stay after class. I’ll explain everything to you."

·         "No time to stay. Things waiting at home."

·         "What things?"

·         "Garden, livestock. Need to manage. Don’t need your English."

·         "I’ll give you a failing grade for the quarter."

·         "Go ahead."

·         "I don’t want to fail you."

·         "Then don’t."

That was the conversation.

Strangely, teaching literature in the fourth grade went quite well. My institute classes on analytical reading of English literature helped. The methodology is universal. The main thing is to understand the message, the main idea of the work. And Russian fairy tales are transparent and didactic. Take the Frog Princess, for instance. The conclusion suggests itself. Be patient. Don’t judge people by appearance. And fate will reward you. But unexpected questions arise. Zhilikov (a ten-year-old boy) suddenly asks:

·         "If Ivan Tsarevich’s wife was a frog, how did he sleep with her? Please explain."
What kind of sexual preoccupation is this? How to answer such a question? They didn’t teach that at the institute.

Classes end around two o'clock. I gather my things in the staff room.

·         "Come by tonight," – Deputy Principal Senka tosses at me. He’s about five years older than me, an experienced teacher. What quirks of fate brought him, a Siberian, to this backwater in central Russia?

Back in my apartment, I check notebooks. It’s a laborious process full of surprises.
Here’s what the schoolchildren, already teenagers, write in Russian language exercises.
"Радостный медведь щурился на сосне. Чайка летит над морем, она поймала рыбу и села в гнездо. Слева от меня кремль, справа от меня стадо баранов." (The joyful bear squinted in the pine tree. The seagull flies over the sea, it caught a fish and sat in the nest. To my left is the Kremlin, to my right is a flock of sheep.)

And here’s what they write for essays on Turgenev’s story "The Sparrow." “(He (the sparrow) jumped into the dog’s mouth twice. Suddenly his mother fell from the tree. I called off Trezor and got away reverently.)”

How to correct and edit this?
I write lesson plans for tomorrow’s English and German classes. Done. Now I can go to Senka’s.

Senka lives in a neighboring identical two-story building, in a two-room apartment with his wife and two young sons.

I put "Starorusskaya" vodka (4 rubles 12 kopecks) on the kitchen table. Snacks are Senka’s responsibility. Senka’s wife, Anka, comes into the kitchen.

·         "Men! Have you completely lost your minds? Drinking every day!"

·         "Now, now, Annushka," – Senka placates her. – "Don’t be angry, darling. We’ll have a cultured supper, talk, socialize."

Senka quickly fries potatoes in lard (I’ve rarely tasted potatoes like Senka made, even in foreign restaurants), dumps coarsely chopped sauerkraut into a large plate, seasons it with onion and sunflower oil.

Food is served. After the second shot, Senka confesses.

·         "I love vodka. I drink – and I become human. Life starts playing in different colors. And I get philosophical. So, for example, where did you come from, ending up here?"

·         "Sent here by assignment. You could say forcibly. I don’t like it here."

·         "Why? Dirty and no toilet?"

·         "I have no purpose here. I’m like a microscope in a grain elevator in this village."

·         "And what would you like?"

·         "I’d like to be left alone and go to Nigeria."

·         "Ah... Wanted warm countries? Who’s going to serve the Motherland?"

·         "I’d pay my dues in full in Africa. In this village, I’m just ruining myself with drink. Along with you..."

Finishing the "Starorusskaya," we go to the room to play cards. The stake: flicks with the cards on the nose or ears, winner's choice. Once, losing, I got a good series of flicks on the nose from Senka. Mindful of my debt to the Motherland, he hit wholeheartedly, so much that at one point blood started dripping from my nose. But I got satisfaction when I won the next pot. I whipped Senka across the ears with gusto, almost dislocating my shoulder joint. Anka came in – nearly fainted.

·         "Oh, don’t do that! He already froze his ears off in Siberia..."

We play with Senka for a long time. From time to time, the body demands natural relief. Senka has no toilet. For physiological needs, a bucket with a lid in the closet is used. How the inhabitants of these "furnished" two-story buildings solved this absolutely vital question remained a Sphinx’s riddle to me. I also couldn’t understand why no path was laid from the houses to the school. In autumn and spring, pupils and teachers, covering the hundred or so meters to school, waded through ankle-deep mud.

Returning late to my den, I blew my bloody nose into a newspaper, stuck it to the window as a makeshift curtain...

The only object of warmth in my dwelling is a small faded rug pinned to the wall by the cot. On it, six kittens peek over a fence. They’d watched me since early childhood. I decided to bring them to my den. Let familiar creatures keep me company in this strange place.

---

Sometimes in the evening, I drop in to visit Ekaterina. She lives in a neighboring identical building, on the second floor. Her little room is clean, cozy, a woman’s touch evident. In the corner, a cheap stereo and a stack of records on the table. She’s always welcoming, and you can feel she’s glad I came.

At school, we hardly see each other, only fleetingly in the staff room. We’re from the same city (if such a word exists in Russian, like "односельчане" but for a city). Turns out, we both live in Zarechye and have many local acquaintances in common. Strange that we never met in the city or at the institute, yet fate brought us together here, on the very edge of our native region.

She loves Kuprin and Bunin, authors somehow neither studied nor even mentioned in Soviet schools, though the latter was a Nobel laureate. I love these writers too, masters at analyzing human souls. And I also love English-language authors, having read many in the original. She has only a vague idea of some. Sitting on her neatly made cot, I retell her a story by O. Henry.

I feel light and free with her. I stand on my hands against the wall, do about ten push-ups, and return to my spot, breathless.

·         "Well, aren’t you something!" – she laughs. – "You should add physical education to your load."

·         "Thanks, no need. I’ve got enough with languages the kids don’t want to learn."

·         "I have problems too," – she sighs. – "I try my hardest, cramming knowledge into them, but it’s like water off a duck’s back. The children are completely restless."

·         "That’s the right word! Restless. Especially Kuleshov. Seems like he’s got buckwheat in his pants."

·         "And Sapronov has a burr. I’m worn out with them," – she paused, thoughtful. – "But still, there are pleasant moments. I gave such a good lesson on Nekrasov yesterday. The children listened so attentively."
She recites:

Well, go then, for Goodness sake!

Sky, spruce, forest, and hard road.

Sit by me, my dear friend,

I will myself to you unfold.

 

She sits down next to me.

·         "Do you like Nekrasov?" – she asks.

·         "Yes. He’s my favorite poet, though I don’t like poetry much. And his 'Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia?' is an encyclopedia of Russian life. He wrote those lines long ago, but they’re still relevant."

Quite clever Russian peasants are,
One thing is very bad,
They drink themselves insensible,

Fall into ditches wretchedly.

·         "True," – Ekaterina agrees. – "The classic is right. And his call is correct. 'Sow the reasonable, the good, the eternal!'"

·         "And that’s what we’re sowing? Here, in Petrovka?"

·         "That’s what we’re sowing!"

She got up from the cot, clicked the switch, turning off the room light. Returned to her spot.

·         "Listen, this is Nekrasov too:

I love in real earnest,

Will you destroy me by unlove?
Love me! — if you do,
I will live for you alone!

... We lie down. I see her eyes in the dark.

·         "Come on, darling," – she whispers into the night. – "Don’t be afraid. It’s okay for me today."

Eh, buddy, it seems you (and her) have gone a bit too far. Jokes aside, but such games, as is known, result in children. Do you need that? And does Ekaterina need those problems?

With an immense effort, I pull away from her.

·         "Sorry, I can’t," – I mumble in complete confusion. Mutter something else and fidgetily gather myself to head back to my apartment...

I stopped visiting Ekaterina. I noticed how reproachfully she started looking at me. Our relationship became strictly professional, confined to the school walls. Why tempt fate?

---

At some point, a math teacher named Anatoly started sharing my dwelling. A guy my age, an undergrad expelled from the Polytechnic Institute for skipping classes and causing a drunken ruckus in the dorm. As for pedagogical education, he either finished or was finishing the local pedagogical institute. At any rate, I never saw him leave for any exam sessions. He was local, from Nikolskoye, but since commuting daily was inconvenient, he became my sporadic roommate and drinking partner. He respected vodka (and any alcohol), and we drank plenty of it together. Starka, Zubrovka, Zveroboy… Plenty to remember. He drank a lot but didn’t get drunk, only turned red in the face, squinted one eye, and began expounding on the incompatibility of Euclidean geometry with Lobachevsky’s stereometric conception.
In the morning, sitting on the cot and anxiously contemplating his rising phallus, he talked to it:

·         "Well, what is it, dear one? Missed having work? Wanted some Katyushka? Be patient, my dear. Your time will come. But now, it’s time to get ready for school."

---

Sometimes, during major sporting events like the World Hockey Championship, the three of us (me, Anatoly, and Senka) would go to the school in the evening to watch TV in the staff room. Having polished off a half-liter for morale, we cheered passionately for our Soviet athletes, shouting joyfully when they scored and groaning indignantly when they let a goal in. Our emotions were sincere. Remembering it now, it seems there’s no more useless waste of time than watching ten bruisers on skates chase a little rubber puck…

---

One day near the house, I ran into Kuleshov.

·         "Hello, Sergei Alekseevich."

·         "Hi, Sasha."

·         "Heading home?"

·         "Home. Where else?"

·         "Can I come with you?"

A strange request. But I didn’t refuse.

·         "Come in if you want. But I don’t have anything interesting."

He came in, looked around my dwelling.

·         "You live poorly, Sergei Alekseevich."

·         "I live normally. I have everything I need."

·         "Have you seen Negroes, Sergei Alekseevich?"

·         "Of course, I have. I worked with them."

·         "What are they like? Probably kind and strong."

·         "Ordinary people. Just black. And they live in heat year-round."

·         "You’re a smart man, Sergei Alekseevich."

·         "Why do you think that, Sasha?"

·         "You finished institute. Read lots of books."

·         "Well, you read too. Who’s stopping you?"

·         "It’s boring. You know what? I won’t mess around in your lessons anymore."

·         "Yes, please, don’t. Behave properly."

·         "I’ll behave well," – promised Kuleshov.

The next day in English class, Kuleshov started singing.

“Here someone's coming down the hill,
Probably my sweetheart's on his way...”

·         "Leave the class, Kuleshov."

Kuleshov calmly leaves.

After a while, I see him outside the classroom window. Pressing his face and all four limbs against the glass, he sings:

“Why have you come to our kolkhoz,
Why have you disturbed my peace!”

---

The quarter ended. I’m assigning the students their quarterly grades.
Director Vasily Ivanovich calls me to his office.

·         "Why are you giving students low grades?" – he asks.

·         "I’m giving them what they deserve. I even bumped some up."

·         "You’re giving low grades to yourself, not the students."

·         "I teach normally. I prepare for lessons. It’s not my fault they don’t study."

·         "Did you do extra work with them?"

·         "Offered repeatedly. No one stays after class. They rush home, to manage the household."

·         "In short, I forbid you to give lower grades."

·         "Fine. I’ll give them high grades."

·         "Do whatever you want, but no low ones. Our school has a good reputation in the district, not for the first year. We don’t need our reputation suffering because of you."

---

I’m in bad standing with Director Vasily Ivanovich. To him, I’m not a teacher, but, as he says, a "lesson-giver." In his mouth, it’s the strongest professional insult. I’m supposed to not just give lessons, but also conduct extracurricular activities. Meaning I have to come up with things for the kids and occupy them. What to come up with? A quiz? A concert? A competition? I haven’t the faintest idea about that side of pedagogy. And I’m utterly uninterested. But if I must, I must. What if I find a poem about professions and they dress up in appropriate costumes and perform it on stage?

I propose this idea to the fourth-graders. Tell them how interesting it will be.

·         "What do you want to be, Zhilikov? A sailor, pilot, carpenter? Choose. We’ll rehearse."

·         "Don’t need your rehearsals. If you need it, you rehearse. I’m going home."

---

·         "What work do you do with parents?" – Vasily Ivanovich inquires.

·         "What kind is needed?" – I reply.

·         "Pedagogical work. Visit the families. See how and what your students live like. Be a teacher, not a lesson-giver."

I go to the Vorobyov household.
Behind a leaning fence stands a house of middling dilapidation under a slate roof. The front door was opened by a disheveled middle-aged man with a sleepy, puffy face.

·         "Do the Vorobyovs live here?" – I ask.

·         "Here. What do you want?"

·         "I’m a teacher from the school. I teach your Viktor."

·         "Ah… Come in…"

The man leads me into the house. Under a not very high ceiling is a not very spacious room, not very tidy, not very dirty. At least not compared to my floor neighbor Zinka’s apartment, where I once borrowed an iron. When plugged in, cockroaches rushed out (first time in my life I saw those insects; I even brought some back to my city apartment, where my mother fought them long and successfully).

·         "Call me Arkady," – said the man, extending a rough palm and immediately signaling we’d be on familiar terms. My appearance probably didn’t inspire much respect. I didn’t stand on ceremony either.

·         "Who are you to Vitya?" – I ask.

·         "Elder brother. His father’s gone. Why? Any problems?"

·         "Problems, well, no. I came to see how my student lives. Professional duty, so to speak."

·         "Right. Only, are we going to talk dry?"
Arkady opened a cupboard, put a bottle on the table.

·         "Top-quality moonshine. Made it for myself. For a guest, no problem."

Lard, potatoes, cabbage, eggs, and bread appear on the table.
We drink and snack. He does most of the talking, enlightening me on local life.

·         "You’ve got nothing to do here. You’ll drink yourself to ruination with us. We’ve been drinking here for generations. Probably vodka drips instead of sperm from the men. The kids turn out a bit touched, even if they look normal. You’re not needed here. Even the locals don’t want to live here. The younger ones run away. If possible – to Moscow. Probably a third of our village is in Moscow. The Ostrikovs and Vostrikovs. No one to work. They send students and intellectuals to help in spring and fall, but what kind of workers are they? What about Vitya? Misbehaves at school? Give him a good smack. And if he complains to me – I’ll add some more. You said you did sports once? Lifted weights? Here, try this two-pood weight."
He hauled a black kettlebell from under the cot.

I hoisted the weight onto my shoulder, pressed it a couple of times.

·         "Not bad," – Arkady noted. – "Especially considering you’re tipsy. Take it. I haven’t messed with this stuff myself for a long time. Don’t take more than half a liter to the chest anymore."

As I left, he thrust a hefty chunk of lard at me.

·         "Here, from my own boar. Slaughtered and salted it myself. Eat it. When it’s gone, come again. If I have more, I’ll treat you again."

With lard under my coat and the kettlebell slung over my shoulder, I head home. Near my apartment, a goose confronts me. Stretching its neck and hissing menacingly, it attacks.

·         "Ah, you wretch! Get lost!!"

I kicked it with my foot and went to my den…

Lay awake for a long time, staring at the spinning ceiling. Drunk again. What’s good about that? Nothing. Need to quit.

---

In the morning, someone knocked on the door. Strange. Who needs me at such an odd hour? Went to open it.

Ivan, the driver from the next house, stood outside. In his hand, he held a dead goose by its outstretched neck.

·         "Your handiwork?"
I hesitated, not knowing what to say.

·         "The guys saw you whack the goose," – Ivan says. - "A goose like that costs a tenner in the fall. You owe me, teacher. Remember that!"

Tucking the goose under his arm, driver Ivan turned and left.

Well, I’m in trouble… What to do? I went back to my den, took my wallet from my jacket, pulled out a ten-ruble note, and went to Ivan to pay for the poultry.

---

Sunday evening. Anatoly just arrived from home. Unzipping his bag, he took out some groceries, a dark green bottle.

·         "Come on, Seryoga, let’s have some 'Zveroboychik'."

·         "Thanks, don’t want any."

·         "What’s wrong with you? Sick?"

·         "Just don’t want any."

·         "Quit or something? I see you got a kettlebell too. Gonna train?"

·         "Yep. Gonna."

·         "Decided to be a good boy?"

·         "Something like that."

·         "Well, look. It’s your business. But I, sinner that I am, will pour myself a few shots."

---

At school, Vasily Ivanovich addresses me:

·         "Why is Kuleshov wandering the corridor?"

·         "He’s singing out there."

·         "He should be learning in class, not singing in the corridor."

·         "Kuleshov can’t sit still. Doesn’t let me teach normally."

·         "You simply don’t know how to maintain discipline. I stood outside your door once. Noise, uproar in the class. Awful."

·         "Is that my fault?"

·         "Whose else?"

·         "I don’t know. I prepare conscientiously for lessons."

·         "Oh, sure. With your conscientiousness, the pupils still can’t read English."

·         "English spelling is extremely complex. Not all adult Englishmen master it completely."

·         "Don’t tell me fairy tales. And what extracurricular work have you done? None? Yet you went home during the school holidays."

·         "I wanted to catch my breath and wash."

·         "School is a production facility with strict discipline, which you conspicuously lack. I’m giving you a formal reprimand."

---

Two winter days off at home with my parents ended. Time to return to Petrovka. At the bus station, unpleasant news awaited me. Tickets for the only bus were sold out. And I have lessons tomorrow. Not first thing, but still, tomorrow. I absolutely must leave. What to do? Get on the bus as if I have a ticket. Squeeze in somewhere, get there somehow.

But the driver, before departure, walks through the bus, spots me, the stowaway.

·         "Vacate the vehicle," – he demands sternly.
Cowering like a hare before a wolf, I mumble in embarrassment.

·         "Don’t throw me out. I really need to go. I’ll pay you."
But the driver is implacable.

·         "The bus is overloaded. Vacate the vehicle."

I get off the bus. I know that after leaving the station, the driver will pick up "unofficial" passengers along the road, pocketing the fare. But he doesn’t want to take me from the station.
I buy a ticket at the counter for a passing bus. I’ll get off at the village of Kresty, at the fork leading to Nikolskoye, and there, God willing, I’ll hitch a ride.

At my request, the driver stopped the bus in Kresty. The door opened, and I stepped out into the darkness. An icy, howling wind took my breath away. I stood for five minutes waiting for cars. Not a single one passed…. And if one did, would the driver pick me up? Petrovka was about ten kilometers away. I couldn’t walk there in a blizzard; I’d freeze to death. What to do? Ask for shelter in Kresty?

Sinking into the snow, I trudge towards the nearest light.
I knock on the shutters.

·         "Who’s there?" – comes from inside.

·         "Almost a neighbor. Please let me stay the night. I missed my bus."

·         "No room here. Go away!"

I leave. The frost intensifies. I’m freezing. It can’t be that no one will let me in. After all, we’re Russian people, kind-hearted…

I knock on the next door. Hear a boy’s voice.

·         "Who’s there?"

·         "An accidental traveler, missed my bus. Please let me stay the night."

·         "Wait."

Probably the boy went inside to ask permission to let me in.

About a minute later, the door opened, and I entered the entryway. The smell of livestock hit my nose. Apparently, the animal pen was attached right next to the entryway.

·         "Come into the house," – said a boy of about fourteen.

I followed him. He led me into a room that probably served as the main room. A table covered with a cloth stood against a wall. The opposite part of the room was separated by a curtain, behind which, I sensed, someone was.

A middle-aged woman entered the room, likely the boy’s mother.

I explained the situation. Said I was from the city but working at the local school. Teaching foreign languages and literature. Found myself accidentally in this emergency situation.

The woman nodded understandingly.

·         "Would you like a bite to eat? Or some tea?" – she asked.

·         "Thanks for the offer. But I won’t say no to tea."

·         "Mom, tea for me too," – I hear a young woman’s voice from behind the curtain.

The boy brings three cups of hot tea from the kitchen. Puts two on the table, takes the third behind the curtain. Strange guttural sounds come from there.

Suddenly the curtain is pulled back, and a young woman looks at me. Dark long hair, expressive eyes on a beautiful face. Her face suddenly contorts in a grimace, the curtain closes.

The woman catches my puzzled look.

·         "That’s my daughter Tatyana," – she says.

·         "Why doesn’t she come out to us?" – I ask.

·         "She can’t. She’s ill."

·         "What’s wrong with her?"

The woman was silent for a moment, perhaps considering her answer. Finally, she broke the silence with a sigh.

·         "She’s disabled. Second year now. Loss of coordination. Ataxia, scientifically."

·         "Sorry I asked."

·         "It’s fine, we’re used to it. Her husband gave her that. As a parting gift. We took her to Leningrad to a professor, even tried hypnosis. Nothing helps."

·         "Mom, don’t talk about that," – the girl’s voice comes from behind the curtain.

·         "Shouldn’t have gotten mixed up with that scoundrel," – says the woman.

·         "Where is he now?" – I ask.

·         "In prison. But does that make it easier for us? Oh, Tanya, Tanya," – the woman laments, as if her daughter had put a plate in the wrong place.
She gets up from the table and leaves.

I sit pondering. Suddenly the curtain parts, and seated on the cot before me is the young woman. Again I note her dark eyes in a pale face, disheveled hair.

·         "You teach literature, I think?" – she asks.

·         "A bit."

·         "Do you like poetry?"

·         "You could say no."

·         "But I love it."

She pauses, as if retrieving something from memory, and recites in a soft, quiet voice.

I’m stupid, and you are smart,
Alive, while I am turned to stone.
O, cry of the women of all times:
"My darling, have I really wronged you?!")

Her hand suddenly flew up to adjust a curl, froze mid-way, a nervous tic ran across her face, and she fell back against the pillows…

Her mother entered the room. She pulled the curtain shut behind her daughter and, turning to me, asked:

·         "I made you a bed on the couch in the kitchen. You don’t mind?"

·         "No, of course not. Thank you."

---

Closer to spring, Vasily Ivanovich informed me he had appealed to the Regional Education Department (RED) to recall me from his school and replace me with another teacher. I was only glad. Maybe I could claw my way out of this web of pedagogical turmoil.

Quitting the Petrovka school in the summer, I appeared at the RED to clarify my further fate. Here I learned I’d been granted a full-time English position in a large settlement school near the regional center. Supposedly, a great spot.

On August 30th, the eve of the school year, I arrived at the settlement’s Department of Public Education. The head of the department, a young woman, informed me that, unfortunately, this good spot was already taken. But she offered me an even better, simply fantastic place. Teaching English at a music school in an urban-type settlement. I feigned disagreement (though inwardly rejoiced at this turn of events).

·         "How? I was assigned to a school," – I pretended to be indignant.

·         "And we’re offering you a college. There are adults there. No discipline problems. And what girls there are! Maybe you’ll find your personal happiness there. And besides, working at a college exempts you from military service."

·         "No, no!" – I continued to disagree.

And so, on September 1st of that year, I took the commuter train in the opposite direction from the school. I rode and told myself joyfully that my foot would never again set inside any school…

The RED began bombarding me with scaring letters. The last one threatened to take me to court for failing to appear according to legal demand.
But I wasn’t afraid. I’d already visited the military commissariat, said I was a free man and wanted to serve in the army. Waiting for my draft notice, I packed a German textbook and dictionary into my duffel bag. Our troops were stationed in East Germany. God willing, I’d serve the Motherland there as an interpreter.
Naïve youth… Sweet dreams…

Now it all feels like it happened to someone else.