The first thing I do every morning after sitting down at my desk is turn on the computer and read my emails. From time to time, my eye drifts to the folder I’ve named “Mishka.” I should have deleted that long ago, but I can’t. My hand won’t move… The folder contains Mishka’s emails. Lots of emails…
I was taking care of a chore just before New Year’s — cleaning out the cesspool in my backyard — when my wife appeared in the doorway and shouted:
“Seryoga! You’re wanted on the phone. Hurry!”
“Who’s that?”
“I don’t know. It’s an international call.”
I wondered who could be calling me from another country and put the dipper down. “Maybe Jim in Texas decided to wish me a Merry Christmas.”
I recognized the voice on the phone immediately, even though I hadn’t heard it for a year — and hadn’t seen the guy for more than thirty. It was my buddy, now living in Lithuania.
“Hi, Seryoga!”
“Mishka, is that you?”
“Of course, it’s me! How’re things going, mate?”
“Couldn’t be better. You old sunuvabitch, what have you been up to? Do you remember that promise you made me last year?”
“I promised to be good. That I’d be honorable and noble in love and friendship and write you regularly.”
“Right! So what happened, you sunuvabitch? It’s been an entire year.”
“I’m sorry, man. It won’t happen again — I promise.”
“It better not! Don’t make me come after you over there in Zasarai.”
“Zarasai,” he corrected me.
“Yeah, I’ll come and kick your ass in Zarasai.”
“I’m crying already.” (I can hear him laughing.)
“Not allowed. We’ll tie one on, then the next morning I’ll have the hair of the dog and not give you any.”
“You’re a sadist, Comrade Sergeant,” Mishka laughed.
“Go ahead and laugh, but I’ve been hoping to hear from you all this time.”
“Sorry, Sergei,” Mishka said, speaking now in a serious tone. “My bad. I’ve been working. But tell me what you’ve been up to. I want details, and I’m paying for the call.”
“Same old, same old, Mikhail. Nothing’s changed, thank God. My grandson’s growing up, and I’ve retired. Wrote my memoirs — the book was published in America.”
“Why not in Russia?”
“Only joke books get published in Russia.”
“Yeah, no man is a prophet in his own country. So, how can I buy your book?”
“I’ll send you the electronic version for nothing.”
“Excellent. I’ll be sure to read it. You may not believe it, Sergei, but I thought about you all the year — and even before that.”
“I believe you Misha. I believe you.”
“Sergei, let me give you my new email address. Write, call — I’ll always be glad to hear from you.”
” Any chance we can get together?”
“I don’t see why not. We can do what we want. Let’s meet next summer. We only have one border to cross.”
“I’m afraid I won’t know you. It’s been over thirty years, after all. Have you put on weight?”
“Not a gram, Sergei. I still weigh under a hundred kilos. I’ve developed a bald spot, though.”
“Is your wife still giving you a hard time?”
“Of course! She’s still trying to tell me how to live my life.”
“Mine’s still giving me a hard time, too. Women! To hell with them!”
“You can’t live with ‘em and you can’t live without ‘em,” Mishka acknowledged. “So we make the best of a bad choice. But that’s okay, buddy! Stay healthy. I’ll be seeing you.” He hung up the phone. I sighed and went back to cleaning out the cesspool.
That very evening, I sent him an email with my book attached, and I found a pleasant surprise the next morning. Mishka had written back.
January 1
Hi Seryoga!!!
Happy new year to you and your family. Yesterday, I lay on the sofa with my laptop on my belly (it’s not as big as you think). I opened up your book and started reading — and I couldn’t tear myself away. It’s been a long time, Sergei, and a lot has happened! The country we served and you wrote about is gone. I know your characters are literary constructs, but I can’t help seeing you and me both in them. It’s like it all happened yesterday… I’m not ashamed to admit that you made me cry, Seryoga. I’m no longer just your friend; I’m a fan.
With a handshake in thought,
Mishka
* * *
Mishka, Mishka… I try to keep on writing, but I don’t know what to say or how to do it. I put it aside for a week or a month at a time and then go back to it. I know I HAVE to write about those days. I’ve got to. But it’s not happening. I think it’s because I want it too much, because the events, the thoughts, the memories, and the feelings are all tangled up and I don’t know where and how to begin unraveling them.
Mishka and I have known each other for a long time, and not only has our youth fled, but the most active part of our lives is behind us. My career has come to an end, and he’ll be retiring soon, too. When we first met, we were new college grads who had been drafted and sent to the same school for non-commissioned officers.
He had been working as a trucking supervisor in Donetsk. I joined up as a volunteer, even though as a rural teacher I could have avoided the draft.
I remember my army going away party very well, with inebriated people saying their drunken goodbyes. I drank nothing myself. I took a bottle of vodka from the table and stood it on a windowsill, telling my father: “Save it for my return.”
My family walked with me along a muddy street under a sullen sky that cold November morning as I went to the assembly point. I shouted at the top of my lungs: “Here’s hoping you don’t have to go, Vanyok!”
I recall how we lolled about all day on plank beds at the assembly point while waiting for the train that would take us away. I remember the train ride. Despite the strict prohibition against glass containers with any liquid and sharp or edged objects, some of the conscripts pulled out bottles from somewhere and poured vodka into glasses that appeared mysteriously.
I remember the first time I walked into the barracks. I was struck immediately by the floors that had been polished until they shone (later, I would have to polish them myself) and the military overcoats that were hanging just so in cabinets along the wall, with their shoulder tabs lined up perfectly.
We somehow got ourselves undressed and flopped down on our cots…
… Morning came and we turned out for formation — if that’s what you can call a huddle of several dozen boys, dressed every which way, who had been jerked awake and now were gazing about in fright. Sergeant Borzenkov was preening in front of us. No, he was strutting. We called him Borzoi. His jacket with its black, gold-embossed shoulder boards hugged his beefy torso. The star on his belt buckle gleamed like a golden Hero of the Soviet Union medal. He reminded me of a well-groomed stallion from an exhibition of national economic achievements.
“Citizens!” he declaims. “You have been given a high honor — the opportunity to serve the Motherland. Here, we will turn you into true defenders of your country — NCOs of the Soviet Army.”
He walks along in front of the uneven formation, surveying us with a judgmental eye and clicking his heels against the pavement. The shine on his boots would put a bridegroom to shame. Everything about him reminds me of a horse on parade…
Borzoi stops in front of me and stares at me through my eyeglasses. There’s something about me he doesn’t like. Maybe it’s my glasses.
“What did you do in civilian life?” he asks.
I was a teacher.”
“So. You were a teacher in Civvy Street, but here you are shit. Do you understand?” I keep silent.
“Never mind, you’ll learn soon enough.”
Sergeant Borzenkov stops in front of the formation, pulls out the unit roster sheet and begins reading.
“Abramov!”
“Yo.”
“That’s what a dog says when it shits,” Borzoi says. “According to regulation you will answer with one word: here.”
“Borisov.”
“Yo, here.”
“Prick in your ear,” comes the sergeant’s rhyming response. “I told you to answer with one word.”
“Vaganov.”
“Here!” A shouted response.
Borzoi nods, satisfied.
“Vartanin!”
Silence.
“Vartanin,” Borzenkov repeats irritably.
“Could it be ‘Vartanian’?” is the uncertain reply.
“Fuck if I know. Maybe it is Vartanian.”
“If it’s Vartanian, then it’s me. I’m an Armenian.”
“Why the fuck should I care if you’re an Armenian? This is the Soviet Army, not the Republic of Armenia. Screw you and your mother too!”
“Please don’t talk like that about my mother, Comrade Sergeant.”
Borzoi’s face turns beet red.
“What?! Screw your mother and your grandma and grandpa, too. They’re all sorry you were ever born. Oreshkin!”
“Here!”
The sergeant squints to read the next name.
“Goch.”
Silence.
“Goch! What, are you deaf?” The sergeant says, a threatening tone in his voice.
“That should be Koch,” says a voice from the formation.
“Okay, Koch,” Borzoi agrees. “Are you a Jew?”
“No.”
“German?”
“No.”
“What are you then?”
“Austrian.”
“Same shit.”
“Same shit, different brand,” says a voice belonging to a brawny redheaded guy behind me.
“Don’t be smart,” Borzoi says. “Things don’t go well for smart guys. I see we have some smart asses among us. Teachers, mama’s boys and other good-for-nothings. Making NCOs out of people like you is like making bullets out of shit. But we’ll give it a shot. Just don’t fuck around with me. Rumyantsev!”
“Here!”
When he finishes the roll call, Borzoi inflates his broad chest and shouts, “Fall out!” and we plod off to our bunks.
* * *
January 2
Hi Seryoga,
I spent all yesterday evening reading your book again, and it brought back more memories. The helicopter airfield, snow up to our balls, our officers on skis and us in boots. Gas masks on our snouts. I remember us running across the field out of breath, our chests bursting, but we couldn’t take off those damn gas masks. That’s how they made us tough… Soaking wet and half alive, we dragged ourselves to the on-post club where they showed us a film about the damned Nazis torturing General Karbyshev by dousing him with cold water and leaving him outside to freeze. That’s how they taught us to hate the enemy.
I apologize for cutting this short. My son just arrived from France to spend a few days with me. More later.
* * *
I’m blocked again. I don’t know what to write… I can’t write. Too many memories. Where should I start?
We’re on the drill ground.
Borzoi gives a command: “And hut!”
At this command, we had to stand on our left foot while raising our right leg as high as possible with the toe extended, our right fist against our left shoulder and our left hand in a fist extended as far to the rear as we could. Our chin was supposed to be up, our expression cheerful and confident (eyes showing total devotion to our leader).
Borzoi strolls past, frowning. “Get that leg higher! Let’s look happy!”
He stops in front of me.
“You don’t look happy to me,” he says.
“I’m not at a wedding,” I reply.
“Meathead! Serving the Motherland is the height of happiness,” he says. “And two…!”
At this command, we have to do the same thing, but with the other foot and arm.
“Now, forward… harch!”
We step out.
“Hut, two! Hut, three!”
The cadet in front of me is out of step, and I keep kicking his foot.
“You’re on the wrong foot, bowlegs,” I hiss.
He looks back at me. It’s Cadet Mikhail Koch.
“You’ll pay for that bowlegs remark,” he says.
Koch comes up to me during the next break.
“What’s the matter? You don’t like my legs?
I look him over. He’s built like a walking stump on short legs. He looks like he had been chopped out with an ax. He has a large straight nose and tiny eyes under bushy eyebrows. He makes me think of Gogol’s Sobakevich from Dead Souls — no makeup needed. Even with a haircut that makes him look almost bald, he’s obviously a fiery redhead.
“I don’t like any part of you,” I tell him.
“What do you say we have a mutual love fest in the smoking room before lights out? You and me, man to man?” I know what he’s suggesting.
“Let’s do it the next time we go to the gym,” I say.
When our day came around, our platoon was marched to the gym, an unheated metal hangar with a rounded roof. We went there for PT. Nothing special. Running around and waving our arms like in a high school gym class. When we got a break, I winked at Koch and nodded towards the weightlifting platform.
There was a barbell on the platform with one weight disc on each end. Fifty kilograms. I was a trained weightlifter. This was a warm-up weight for me.
I walk up, grab the barbell and, with a clank of the iron pancakes, have it up in a second.
“Your turn, good sir.”
Koch walks over and bends down. He grabs the center of the bar and straightens up, jerking it onto one shoulder. He bends his short, thick legs and thrusts the weight up with one arm!
I add a disk to each end of the barbell. Now it weighs one hundred kilograms. This is a serious weight. But I’m ready. I jerk the barbell to my chest and, holding my breath as my coach had taught me, I press the weight up above my head.
“The floor is yours, dear Sir!”
Koch takes hold of the bar with two hands. He grunts and brings the bar up to throat level. He sways under the huge weight, his face turning purple. He tries to press the weight up but fails to use the proper technique. It falls with a crash.
He couldn’t lift it, but he came close. What a strong bear!
“I’m not trained like you,” was his excuse. “But I could whip you barehanded.”
****
January 4
Hi Seryoga!
I lay down and read some of your stories again after work. I see that your life has taken a lot of twists and turns and that it hasn’t been strewn with rose petals. Maybe that was all to the good, because what would you write about if everything had been handed to you on a silver platter? Life has given you material for your writing. You don’t need to make anything up. You’re an iconoclast, and I admire you for it. You always try to do the right thing. You can’t go against your principles, but that comes at a cost. Surely you can see that a lot of people care only about themselves: their own pleasure and well-being come first. Some even go to church and light candles but don’t follow the commandments, forgetting that their time on earth is limited. They think only of their body and forget about their soul.
* * *
“Assume the front leaning rest position!”
We get down on the dusty floor of a corridor in the academic building, supported by our hands and toes.
“Give me twenty!” Borzoi commands.
Puffing and straining, we see the sergeant’s polished boots in front of our noses.
“You have weak minds and weak muscles,” he says. “I’ll have you doing push-ups until you have the guard regulations memorized. If you can’t use your heads, you’ll have to use your arms. But I’ll make sure you can use both. Now, back to the classroom!”
Each cadet has a small, thick, gray copy of the guard duty manual lying open on the desk in front of him. Some people find it hard to memorize. And although I’m used to learning things by heart, this manual doesn’t lend itself to memorization. Take this line for example: “The sentry must vigilantly and steadfastly safeguard and defend his post, remain alert and attentive to his duty, remain in possession of his weapon and surrender it to no one, not even his superior officers…” How boring! And how is Vartanian ever going to learn it when he barely speaks Russian?
“Vartanian!” Borzoi screams.
“Here!” The cadet replies from the last row.
“What must a sentry do when he hears a guard dog barking?”
Vartanian scratches his head and says, “Get ready to fire?”
“You’re an idiot, Vartanian. Platoon, on your feet! Out in the hall.”
We rush out.
“Down and give me twenty! You will know the manual like the Lord’s Prayer!” Borzoi barks as he walks in front of the puffing cadets.
* * *
January 6
Hi Seryoga,
Today, I read something you wrote about military service. It’s true: only a civilian thinks if someone is wearing a military uniform that means he’s a soldier and has been trained to fight. But take us for example. We were trained NCOs, but all we knew was goose-stepping and regulations. We weren’t even taught how to shoot. If we’d ever gone into combat, we would’ve been cannon fodder. There probably are real units where guys learn how to fight, but that wasn’t us. So why did they draft and maintain a mob like us? Well, it makes a lot of sense to have a large army for free slave labor (remember digging that trench at the general’s dacha?). It’s cheap and handy.
* * *
“Comrade cadets! You’re a bunch of slobs, and I’m not going to put up with it… Et cetera, et cetera…”
We’re in the barracks. Captain Dubok is walking back and forth in front of us. “Dumbass” would have been a better name for him. He was of medium height and built like a barrel, his Sam Browne belt was tightened almost to the breaking point around his torso and barely restrained his boiling energy and remarkable strength. Oddly enough, sometimes this husky guy sported a shiner under one eye. They say his wife smacked him around.
“I walked into the Lenin Room yesterday and almost passed out…Et cetera, et cetera.” It’s hard to imagine Dubok passing out — whether standing up or lying down. “I found a cigarette butt in the pot with the ficus plant… Et cetera, et cetera… That’s as bad as your girlfriend having teeth in an intimate spot.” Dubok adjusts his Sam Browne belt. “If this keeps up, pretty soon I’ll be finding used condoms under Lenin’s bust, et cetera, et cetera… Fair warning: the Lenin Room is a holy place, and even if there are naked women running around the barracks, it should be perfectly clean and tidy. Also, I inspected your rifles and was horrified. Before you know it, they’re going to have crabs. I’ll check them again tomorrow, and if they aren’t as shiny as a cat’s ass, I’ll turn the company out tomorrow night for a forced march. I’ll be in the lead, and anyone who can’t keep up will be in for it…Et cetera, et cetera…”
Despite his threats, he was a pretty good commander. Unlike the NCOs, he didn’t find fault with a collar that was sewn unevenly on one side or if the stripe on your blanket wasn’t lined up perfectly with the one on your neighbor’s blanket. He wasn’t a bad sort. Sometimes, his wife would visit with his two little sons. She was a thin, fragile woman, but she sure made our captain look good.
January 8
Hi Seryoga!
Yes, of course I remember the captain. He was okay, but he loved his vodka. His wife probably drove him to drink. I remember the captain and lieutenant were three sheets to the wind the day we took our oaths. Some of the parents had taken them out drinking. I wasn’t in good shape, myself. Not from drinking, of course — it was something I ate. I got hold of some goodies that gave me the runs… That was the first time I had ever had real gingerbread from Tula. It was shaped like a guy with a hammer in his hand, and it looked delicious. First, I bit off the guy’s hammer. Then his arm. Then his head… I really overdid it… But I still remember how good it tasted…
* * *
… I remember that day too, Mishka. Dubok had told the NCOs to take it easy on us. Swearing-in day was special. We were taking the oath of loyalty to our country. I got really depressed that evening after our parents left. I sat on my cot in the barracks feeling really lonely. I felt like crying… Then you came up to me and said: “Don’t be sad, Seryoga. Nobody at all came to see me. Donetsk is too far away for anyone to make the trip.” You clapped me on the shoulder and added: “Everything’s going to be fine.”
I haven’t forgotten that. Thank you, Mishka…
* * *
January 10
Hi Seryoga,
I’m having some problems at work here, and I’m getting depressed. It won’t last, of course. It’s just that I haven’t seen the sun for a long time, and it’s got me down. The weather’s been really gloomy. I tried drinking and it helped at first, but then it made things worse. But never mind! Like Solomon said: “And this too shall pass…”
I’ve been reading your stories, and I have to tell you as a friend that you worry too much. I don’t know how they come to you, but they’re an easy read and they make me think. People will be reading you someday, Seryoga. Your stories tell the truth about what we went through…
* * *
“Sentries stand to! Attack on post three!”
Our four-man shift jumps off the cots where we were napping before going to our post. Grabbing our rifles, Sgt. Borzenkov, Mishka and I rush to post three: an auto parts warehouse.
Capt. Dubok is waiting at the entrance to the warehouse with a stopwatch in his hand and a dissatisfied frown on his face.
“You pussies are nine seconds late.” He turns to Borzoi and says irritably: “You’ve done a piss-poor job of training them, Comrade Sergeant!”
“We’ll do better, Comrade Captain!” Borzoi assures him.
We go back to the guard shack.
“Now you scum are going to dance for me,” Borzoi says.
* * *
January 12
Hi Seryoga,
I read a little more in your book. You can’t fool me, buddy. You make out like you’re writing about other people, but I see you in the stories. And me too, although you and I are very different people. But are we really all that different? Doesn’t everybody want the same thing — a good life, health and security for ourselves and those close to us, material well-being, and a comfortable life for our bodies and minds? Although we don’t admit it even to ourselves, aren’t we all at the mercy of our instincts?
* * *
“Troops! (when Borzoi addresses us like that, it means something bad is coming) I’m tired of getting reamed out because of you,” the sergeant announces as he paced in front of us. “You march like penguins — and you pea-brained morons move about as fast as penguins waddle, too. You still haven’t learned the manual. You’re a bunch of screw-offs.” He walks up to Koch. “Why is that button undone?”
The second button from the top on Mishka’s jacket is open. That’s the one we forget most often after unbuttoning it to reach into our breast pocket. Having a button undone is a serious offense for a cadet, exceeded only by a loose hook on his jacket collar. When that happens, the sergeant might fasten it himself — and then rip it off along with some fabric.
“No excuse, Comrade Sergeant,” Koch replies. “I forgot.”
“Never mind, I’ll help you remember,” Borzoi says.
He gives the button a sudden jab. I know what that feels like. I’ve been on the receiving end of pokes from Borzoi that drove the shank of a metal button into my sternum. We instantly see Mishka’s hand shoot out and strike Borzoi on the chest in exactly the same spot. Sergeant Borzoi isn’t a little kid, but he flies back and lands awkwardly on his tailbone. He gets slowly to his feet, brushes off the seat of his pants and, gazing at the sky, says: “Cadet Koch, you are going to rue the day you were born. You just made the top of my shit list, and all the shit I hand you will be by regulation.”
Mishka was on Barzoi’s backlist from that day on. That meant he was put on every detail, from KP to construction. KP was especially hard, because he not only had to wash every pot and scrub the huge mess hall, he also had to peel bucket after bucket of potatoes. And he couldn’t sleep until he was done. Going without sleep is a terrible ordeal.
The burly Mishka began wasting away before our eyes. But everything that happened to him was done according to regulation. Then during a roll call one morning, Mishka croaked “Here” when his name was called and collapsed. Borzoi walked up to where he lay, grunted with satisfaction and barked: “Take him to the infirmary!”
* * *
January 15
Hi Seryoga!
It snowed overnight. A lot. I spent the entire morning shoveling, and now I’m soaked through. My wife sent me out to the dacha for some apples, potatoes and pickles. The road had thawed by the time I started back this afternoon, and my Mercedes got stuck in it up to the floorboards. There was nobody to help. It took me a long time to dig out. I cut some branches out in the forest, got some dirt from under the snow and threw it all under the wheels. I barely made it out. I was dead tired. When I got back into town, I stopped at a store and bought some vodka and some good eats. Ah, if only you knew what great fatback the Lithuanians make! It’s almost as good as our Ukrainian fatback. I also got some mackerels, smelt and pelmeni (I make it with black pepper according to my own recipe). At home, I cooked everything up proper and treated myself to the vodka (my wife joined me for a little dose) and chowed down. Now, I feel great. I’m remembering our time in the army and wishing we could get together. Hopefully, we’ll make it this coming summer. Right now, I’m going to bed. Tomorrow is a work day.
* * *
I didn’t want it to happen, but fate decreed otherwise. We half-baked sergeants of the Soviet Army bid each other farewell and head out to our assigned units. Mishka has orders sending him to the Carpathian Mountains in Western Ukraine, and I’m going to Belarus. When we say our goodbyes, we hug and promise to write. The other cadets do much the same (but, alas, few of them would ever follow through).
January 19
Hi Seryoga!
I read your childhood recollections today. Damn, but it all sounds so familiar! The fights, first love, the first time we earned money… For me, it was working at a vineyard outside Mariupol (my hometown) with my grandma and grandpa. Like everybody, we had some wooden barrels of wine in a basement there. I wasn’t interested in drinking myself. But although everybody liked their wine, there weren’t any alcoholics. Then one day I made a trip home from Lithuania. I walked past those vineyards, and it was like a wasteland. The vines I had planted had all been ripped up and thrown into a ravine to rot. I asked a passerby why the vineyards were gone. He told me the district committee had had them cut down. The Party had ordered a campaign against drunkenness and alcoholism. It pained me and made me bitter… They had gone too far again. People need to be able to drink good wine and vodka produced by a state-run monopoly. The proceeds should go to the treasury, not line the pockets of profiteers. But most importantly, people should be able to work and earn as much as they want to and can. Our Communist Party mandated so many stupid things — absurd things sometimes — but they we had to do them…
* * *
A wall of green has been passing by the train window the entire day. Now and again, marshland peeks through the trees. It feels as though the train is on an endless track carrying the small group of NCOs I was with to a railroad station somewhere deep in the forests of Belarus. We arrive at our unit in the afternoon. We drop our duffel bags in front of the barracks steps where some soldiers are sitting: our future comrades in arms. Sergeant Borzenkov would have ripped into them after one glance. Their jackets are unbuttoned, their belt buckles sag below their navels, their boots look like harmonicas. These are the old guys — the “grandpas.” One of them, a bruiser who looks like he’s from the Caucasus, gets to his feet and walks up to Sergeant Oreshkin.
“ Hey, that’s a nice-looking cap.” He grabs it off the sergeant’s head and tries it on.
“Tolyan! How do I look?” He asks one of the soldiers sitting on the steps.
“You look gorgeous, Saeed,” Tolyan says.
“Okay, I’ll keep it,” Sayed says happily. He goes back and sits down with the cap on his head.
“Hey, fellow! That’s mine. Give it back!” Oreshkin says, following the Caucasian guy with his hand outstretched.
“What’s that?” Sayed says, staring at him. “You want this?” He spins Oreshkin around and kicks him in the ass. He sprawls on the grass.
The soldiers sitting on the steps laughed loudly and approvingly. We’re no longer in a training unit; this is the real army…
* * *
January 20
Hi Seryoga!
I moved to Lithuania after I got out of the Army. I had fun for a couple of years, but then I decided that I needed to drop anchor and settle down. I got married. My wife is Russian, from the local group of Old Believers. We had kids, of course. The oldest is my son Andrei. He doesn’t look like me at all. He’s tall, thin and definitely not a redhead. He has different interests, too. I’m a techie; I like mechanical things. He’s into the humanities. Speaks six languages (he’s like you in that respect). We speak Russian at home, but he talks with his buddies in Lithuanian. And he learned English in school. Because he wanted to, not because he had to. He said he wanted to study languages in Russia. I got the money together and sent him to Moscow Humanitarian University, where he studied French. He’s a conscientious kid. Came home all pale from studying too much. Returned to Lithuania when he graduated, even though his superiors wanted him to stay on in Moscow. He got a job at the central library in Vilnius. Some French people who occasionally gave presentations there took notice of him and offered him a job at the French Embassy. He took it, and then, while at the embassy, he was invited to work at an international court in Strasbourg. That’s where he is now, but he’s planning to move to Paris.
My daughter has always liked to sew since she was a little girl (she made all of her dolls’ dresses).She studied to be a fashion designer at the Moscow State University of Design and Technology (costing another bundle). She’s in London now, working with Stella McCartney (the Beatle’s daughter). My wife and I want to visit them, but we can’t seem to find the time. I’m sending you their pictures.
(I look at a photo. It shows a girl with white red hair and blue eyes, her arm around the shoulders of a tall, curly haired young man. He has a fashionable earring in his ear. Brother and sister.)
My mama’s still alive, Sergei, but she’s eighty. She’s still living in our old house in the Greek village near Mariupol. Her health is still good (knock wood!) and she doesn’t even need glasses. She loves to read. I think I need to print out your stories and send them to her.
* * *
I am a squad leader with fifteen men under me — everyone a screw-off. They can’t even wrap their footcloths properly. They have to be taught the basics of military life. At night, I go to bed after they do. Mornings, I get up before them, walk into their quarters and yell: “Squad, rise and shine!!!”
Then we go for a run. We run from the barracks to the fence separating our garrison from the forest that surrounded it.
I know my subordinates hate me. They hate the military in general. And they want just one thing — for it to be over and done with as soon as possible.
Some of them have left wives and children behind. In the army, we call guys like that “ganders” and look down on them. You can make babies, but you can’t run? You’ve got balls, but you still aren’t a man…
January 21
Hi Seryoga!
In Lithuania, I started my own company. We sold and repaired agricultural equipment and employed a little over twenty people. Things were going well. I bought a condo, a house in the suburbs and some other stuff. In addition to some trucks and trailers, I bought two Mercedes, one for just driving around and another for special occasions. I learned how to speak Lithuanian, but I almost lost my native Ukrainian. The Lithuanians are just like everybody else. Treat them right and with respect and everything will be fine. I had no nationality-related problems with them. I travel back to Ukraine every year to see my mother. Once, some of my old college buddies got together in a restaurant. They were successful people: executives and even some CEOs. The food and drink were fabulous. I drank my share, and pretty soon I felt an urgent need to go to the bathroom. Sure enough, I wasn’t the only one who had overdone it — there was a line. I went outside, found a secluded spot in the bushes and relieved myself with a big sigh. Before I had a chance to zip up, two cops appeared in front of me.
“Hey, punk, what are you doing!? Come on, we’re taking you in.”
I didn’t want to get arrested. They grabbed me, one on each side, and tried to drag me out to the street, where their squad car was located. That got them nowhere (you know how hard it can be to move me when I don’t want to be moved). But I suddenly felt something hard hit me in my left kidney. My legs buckled from the pain. Then three cops dragged me, shoved me into their vehicle and drove me to the station. Thank God, a reasonable lieutenant colonel was there and intervened. He asked them didn’t they have anything better to do than catch people pissing, and he let me go back to the restaurant. So it all ended well, but I had an ache in my left side afterwards…
* * *
We’re in the guardhouse. The off-duty shift has brought chow from the kitchen: soup, porridge and some kind of meat. Eating and sleeping are conscripts’ favorite pastimes. We call the food here “rations,” and it’s noticeably better in Belarus than the swill they fed us at the NCO academy outside Moscow. You couldn’t stomach that stuff even if you were starving.
The grandpas would go first and help themselves to generous portions. They would pick out a generous quantity of the leaner chunks of meat. For breakfast, every soldier was supposed to get about twenty grams of butter. However, one of the junior soldiers would be given the job of “butter cutter.” It was his responsibility to “correctly” divide up the butter among those eating. A grandpa would be served first — a slice about half the size of his hand. The most recent conscripts would receive a pat of butter just a little larger than a fingernail. Were the officers in the know? They had to have been aware of the practice.
I never took any butter. I must exactly what I was allotted by the Ministry of Defense — twenty grams — or I’ll none at all. But that attitude earned me nobody’s sympathy. The newbies looked at me disapprovingly – we grovel, why you don’t? The old guys frowned on me — I was defying the established order.
One of the newbies was supposed to climb up on a nightstand at lights out and shout: “Grandpas! Another day is over.” To which the grandpas would respond with a mild obscenity: “Ah, screw it.” He would then give the number of days until their stint was over (he was supposed to know exactly how many days a grandpa had left until he got out). I’ve never been in prison, but I suspect the same sort of thing goes on there.
Junior Sergeant Kotov puts his hand in the sugar bowl and takes out a handful of cubes (the number issued was calculated so that each person got two sugar cubes). The bowl passes down the table until it reaches private Dzhumabaev, a young soldier from Kyrgyzstan. He looks wistfully at the sugar dust in the bottom of the bowl. It would never cross his mind to ask where his sugar was.
“Hey, Kot,” I say, “aren’t you afraid of getting sugar diabetes?”
“Why do you ask?” Kotov says.
“You took too much sugar.”
“What do you care? Mind your own business!”
“It IS my business!” I can’t stand it and slam my fist down on the table so hard that soup splashes out of bowls.
“Here, you bastard,” Kotov screams, throwing sugar cubes at me.
A few seconds later, we’re facing off in the middle of the guard shack. I take a blow to the eyes before I can assume a fighting stance. Pieces of glass hit my eyes and instantly blind me. I instinctively raise my hands to my face. Then a boot to the groin doubles me over. Blow after blow rain down…
No one intervenes. They just watch… The newbies are afraid to get involved, and the grandpas approve the beating of somebody who raises his hand against what is sacred.
But what a sleazeball I lost to! Me, a trained athlete. If I had only been able to get my hands on him, I could have ripped his head off. But I was hunkered down, gasping for air…
* * *
January 22
Hi Seryoga,
Unlike you, I didn’t get to travel outside the country after getting out of the army. But I knocked about the Soviet Union quite a lot, from Kaliningrad to Kamchatka, and I worked in Armenia for some time after the earthquake in Spitak. There, I came to love Armenian cognacs and cornel oghee (an absolutely magical drink that is very time-consuming and expensive to make). I plan on making up for my lack of foreign travel this summer with a trip to visit my son and daughter in Europe. Then, of course, I’ll go see you (or you can come see me). We do have to get together. I always take the same route when I travel to Ukraine, through Poltava. I invariably visit the small church where my beloved Gogol, a Russian-Ukrainian genius, worshiped. I love his “Dead Souls,” and “Taras Bulba” is my favorite book. But I can’t agree with what Gogol had to say about the Dnieper: “Rare is the bird that flies to the middle of the Dnieper.” I think not each aircraft will make it to the middle of the river. The hairs on my arms stand up when I get close to Dikanka— my family will confirm it. I read in one of your stories that you shot a sparrow. Why did you do that? Shame on you, man…
* * *
“Per Order No. 177 of the Red Banner Belarusian Military District, dated June 20, 1970, Sergeant Yeliseyev is hereby demoted to the rank of private.”
It feels like everything is happening in a dream. The entire battalion is formed up on the parade ground. The officers stand in a separate group. I’m in front of the formation. The battalion commander reads the order that came down from district headquarters. Rumors have been flying that I might be demoted, but I didn’t think it would happen. It’s a very harsh punishment. The only thing harsher would be a court-martial. What for? They found a reason.
A high commission headed up by a colonel came down from the capital. They interviewed the junior soldiers, asking them things like how they were being treated. They complained about me, saying I was harsh and cruel. Of course I was harsh.
Nobody had deprived anyone of a sugar cube, and nobody laid a finger on anybody. They got me on something else — violation of guard orders (my dustup with Kotov in the guard shack). A fight between armed soldiers was considered a Serious Incident.
… After the order is read, I pull my bayonet out of its sheath, insert the blade under the badges of rank on my shoulder boards and slice off the golden stripes. I feel disgraced. I want to sink into the earth. But I extend my toe and click my heels like Sergeant Borzenkov taught us and march smartly back into formation. I’m not going to let anyone see how much it hurts. I refuse to show what’s going on inside me…
* * *
February 1
Hi Seryoga,
What a wonderful day today is! The sun is raging hot, and my soul is singing. I saw a woodpecker while I was shoveling snow near my garage. A handsome bird. Majestic spruce trees grow right next to the garage. It’s a landscape worthy of Shishkin’s brush. I stood there, leaning on my shovel, admiring the view, and I couldn’t get enough of it. You asked me if I remember sergeant Borzenkov. Who could forget that guy? But I don’t hold a grudge against him. God will be his judge (and ours too).
I’m having problems with my car. The gearbox on my Mercedes has started knocking. Time to replace it. Or better yet, buy a new car. But money’s short right now. I have to pay my employees before I can think about paying myself. People from our small town are beating a path to Europe. They go for construction jobs, medical establishments, this and that…
You think I’ve gone bourgeois? You haven’t seen real bourgeois. I’ve been in business for twenty years now, and I’m not doing too badly. But I recently had occasion to visit a government official in his home. Next to him, I’m trailer park trash. He’s got a two-story banya. I won’t say a word about his home (it’s a palace). And he’s just a humble civil servant on a fixed salary. The guy knows how to live.
* * *
“Comrade soldiers!” The battalion commander is addressing us on the parade ground. “There has been a serious incident. A soldier in a neighboring garrison shot a sentry and went AWOL.” They’d obviously pushed him too far. “He’s being sought, and we need to join the search. I need two volunteers to go with senior lieutenant Pushkaryov to arrest him. He’s armed. I warn you that this is going to be dangerous, so I’m asking for volunteers.”
I don’t know what makes me do it. I step out of the formation and say: “I’ll go.” Another guy follows me: PFC Kuzin. He’s from Lipetsk. He was a farmer in civilian life. He’s a wimp, but he volunteered.
When we arrive at the railroad station, the lieutenant goes to the operator on duty and tells him that the train isn’t to leave the station until we’ve checked all the cars.
We go from car to car. Pushkaryov is in the lead. The farmer and I follow. Our Kalashnikovs are on safety, but they have loaded magazines in them. As we go, I think, what if one of the passengers stands up and points a gun at me? The guy has already killed several people. He could kill more. What should I do? Shoot? But I could miss. I could hit innocent people. But what if I don’t shoot? Then he would kill me! I think about my mother… Mama, Mama… You cried when you saw me off… Oh, I don’t like it when you cry.
The lieutenant is up ahead, his pistol holster unbuttoned and his hand on it. He doesn’t want to die, either.
February 2
Hi Seryoga,
You really surprised me with your opinions about Ukraine. I suspect they were shaped first by the Soviet propaganda and then by present-day Russian propaganda. Please allow me as a Ukrainian to clear things up for you. Almost every news report about Ukraine is negative. They never show how people actually live, especially in Western Ukraine. I go there and talk with old classmates and friends, and I don’t see anything bad. I like how people live in Western Ukraine. Russians say things about it that make your hair stand on end. Historically, Ukraine came from two placentas. Russians see only one. They say that “they” — that is, “we” — broke away. Russians know very little about the second placenta. This part of Ukraine belongs with Austria-Hungary, Poland, and the Czech Republic. My Austrian ancestors came from there. People traditionally knew three or four languages and were skilled craftsmen and smart entrepreneurs. Art and culture were highly encouraged. A great deal of attention was paid to educating young people, especially the musically talented. When I was a child, my grandfather often told me about the way things used to be. But Eastern Ukraine is just ugly. And that mixture of Russian and Ukrainian called Surzhyk hurts my ears. The region’s culture came from convicts. Criminals from all over the Soviet Union were sent to work in the Donbass mines after getting out of prison. Incidentally, my grandparents were sent there when they were released from the prison camps in Siberia where they were sent after the de-kulakization. They weren’t allowed to return home. Their neighbors were former criminals and political dissidents. As Marx put it, that is our subjective perception of objective reality. But we have to get along with our neighbors. People need to be tolerant and respectful of each other and not hold grudges.
* * *
When I was in the army, we used to say two things were inevitable: getting out and the collapse of capitalism. My day to get out finally arrived. Along with my discharge papers, I got an order from district headquarters restoring my rank. After reviewing my time in service, headquarters determined that they had goofed and decided to give me back my sergeant’s stripes. I sewed them back on my black shoulder boards and told myself that I was lucky to have served most of my time as a private who was responsible only for himself and had no responsibility at all for the “other guy.”
* * *
February 23
The telephone rang and I picked up.
“Hi, Seryoga!”
“Hi, Mikhail!”
“Seryoga, I wanted to call and wish you the best on Defender of the Fatherland Day.”
“Thanks, Misha. The same to you.”
“Here’s wishing you happiness, love and so forth and so on… I’ve got some bad news.”
“Let’s have it.”
“I have cancer, Seryoga.”
“That’s crazy talk. Have you been celebrating too much?”
“Yeah, I’m drunk, but I’m perfectly aware of what I’m saying.”
“Are you serious?”
“I couldn’t be more so.”
“What the hell, Misha? How did it happen?”
“I started noticing that I was getting tired sooner. But I figured I was just getting old… Needed to rest more. Then one day I went to take a leak, and my urine was blood red. I rushed to the hospital. They did some tests and discovered a tumor on my left kidney. I went in for surgery, and they got it all out. I had the presidential suite. They treated me like royalty.
“Then what?”
“Then I had chemo. Bought some overpriced drugs.”
“Listen, Mishka! Cancer isn’t a death sentence. People recover. Look at Solzhenitsyn. And Kerensky lived for ninety years with just one kidney.”
“I know that, Seryoga. I’ve studied the issue thoroughly. I will fight. I’m going to the cancer center in Vilnius in two days for a CAT scan.”
“Hang in there, Mishka. I love you, guy!”
“Thanks, Seryoga! I’m not giving up. I’m going to fight it.” He rang off.
* * *
No words can describe how I felt when I heard that. It felt like I had been stabbed in the heart. Several friends had told me they had cancer. They were all dead.
I couldn’t help it; I broke down and cried. I went to the fridge and poured myself a glass of vodka. Drank it, but it didn’t help. I felt worse. Tears poured from my eyes.
… Mishka, Mishka… What can I do? How can I help you?
The next day I went… to church. No, I’m not a believer. I don’t go to church (well, maybe sometimes on a whim or out of idle curiosity). I don’t observe the fasts and I don’t know any prayers. I was baptized, but I don’t believe in God. Or do I only think I don’t believe?
The church was almost empty — just one babushka.
“Babul, could you please tell me where I could pray for a friend? He’s really sick, and he needs a miracle.”
“You should pray to Saint Nicholas, Performer of Miracles. His icon is over there.”
I stand in front of the icon. The saint’s stern face is looking at me. I don’t know what to say and I don’t know how to pray. I whisper my appeal under my breath:
“Lord, forgive me for everything. You know all and see all. You know what an unworthy sinner I am. But I come to you because there’s no one else I can go to. And if everything is in your hands, then please make it so Mishka can live. He’s still young. He’s a good man. Honest. I beg you, Lord…”
I mumble a few more things…
February 27
Hi Seryoga,
I’m back from Vilnius. It’s bad. There are new sites in my abdomen. They found diseased cells from my kidney in the lymph nodes in my neck, and they’ve gone into my brain. The cancer is in its final stage. I won’t be writing you anymore. I’ve deleted our emails. Don’t worry about anything. Be happy.
Yours,
Mishka
* * *
Don’t worry. That’s easy to say. I live, I work, I wander the streets, and I can’t get Mishka out of my head. I remember how I twisted my ankle once during an exercise. Mishka carried me on his back the several kilometers to camp, his feet sinking in the snow with every step. When a Caucasian soldier in another platoon flew off the handle at me, Mishka whispered: “Stick to your guns, I’ve got your back. And if he gets some of his fellow Dzhigits to back him up, I’ve got some guys here from Donbass we can count on. We can’t let these colored kids get the best of us.” You could count on Mishka.
I dial Mishka’s phone number. What I hear when he comes on the line shocks me to my core. It’s not his voice. It’s a wheezing old man speaking.
“Hey… Seryoga… Yeah, yeah… It’s me. How am I doing? Oh, so-so…,” he said in a cracked whisper. It frightens me, and I hang up the phone.
* * *
Not long after that, I’m lying in a hospital bed myself (I pulled a groin muscle while training). I’m recovering from anesthesia and can barely move when suddenly my cell phone rings. I pick it up and hear Mishka’s cheerful voice.
“Seryoga! You idiot! Who rips a gut lifting weights at our age? Hurry up and get better and get back to work. I’m in the hospital, but I’ll be home soon.”
I was home soon, too. I got another email from Mishka.
March 7
Hi Seryoga,
I’m out of the hospital. I’ve been in a state of shock, but I’m gradually coming out of it. I’m on the mend. Apparently, I’ve had excellent doctors. Then too, I’m fighting like a tiger, and I have an appetite like one, too. That’s a good sign also. I’m working like always, but get tired quickly. I’ve been reading your stories about the dogs. I have to say, people can learn a thing or two from dogs.
Spring this year is wonderful. The sky is blue and there’s not a cloud to be seen. Everything is like Levitan’s painting “March” (I love that artist). Summer is right around the corner. Hopefully, we can finally get together this summer (hurray!).
* * *
Thank you, Lord! Thank you with all my soul. Does this mean my prayers have been answered?
* * *
June 10
Hi Seryoga,
My son called yesterday. He’s working for a construction company in Paris now. He likes the job a lot, and he’s very happy with the pay. They like him, too, and they’re suggesting that he become a French citizen. He wants me to come visit him. I need to go see what it’s like in Europe anyway. Then I’ll go see you in your boondocks. I’m looking forward to that. Take care of yourself.
* * *
Hi Mishka,
Why have you gone quiet? You didn’t answer my last two emails. I’m making some big changes here. I’m running water and a sewer line to our little house. It’s an unanticipated boon of civilization, but it’s costing an arm and a leg. However, a large part of it is coming out of a small inheritance from my mother-in-law, who passed away last year. Also, I was able to add my slim savings to it. But as luck would have it, it rained cats and dogs and turned my yard to mud, and the tractor got hopelessly stuck. We’ll pull it out tomorrow… Drop me a line; don’t put it off.
August 13
Dear Sergei,
I am Olga, Mikhail’s wife. He passed away last week. We had hopes until the very end that he would recover, but fate decreed otherwise. Mikhail wanted me to convey his deep regret that you and he were unable to come together and see each other…
………………………………..
I stare at the screen. What am I feeling? I feel nothing. I feel no pain. I’ve moved beyond that. I knew it was coming, so I was ready for it. I turn off my computer and go outside. How can it be that after knowing each other for no more than half a year and treasuring our friendship in our hearts for thirty subsequent years, we renewed it only to lose it forever after just a few months? Is that right? Is that fair? He was younger, stronger, more intelligent, and more successful than I. He had everything. His children had studied and made homes for themselves in Europe. The only thing he lacked was grandchildren. But they would have come in time. We shall all die, of course. It’s inevitable. But we don’t know when it will happen. And that’s the way it should be. Mishka knew. What is it like to live knowing your end is near at hand? And what a shame it was that he died so early, when there was still so much in life he hadn’t done!
And how frustrating it must be to go so early, having done so little in life.
Oh, Mishka. As a sign of my last gratitude I have written those fragmentary and incoherent recollections. That’s all I could do for you. That’s all. In my notes I have used your mails to me. I hope you wouldn’t mind. Farewell, Mikhail. I shall live and remember you.
Author's Note: I am very grateful to James McVay who has translated this story, making it glitter where I as an author could only achieve a dim glimmer.
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