The Pond

 It was early December. We had just finished dinner. My wife took the trash out to our garbage bin, which is located in the backyard some distance from the house.

She came back a little while later, set the trash can under the sink, and said, “Someone’s swimming in the pond. Can you imagine? In this cold? And there’s some woman sitting in the bushes, laughing her head off. What do you think’s going on?”

“Some drunk homeless guys decided to take a refreshing dip,” I guessed. “Normal people don’t go for a swim in weather like this, especially at this time of year.”

Here, I should tell you a few things about the pond. It’s located around fifty meters from our house, right behind our garden. The shore is lined with private gardens and vegetable plots. It’s a super convenient source of water for irrigation. The pond itself is pretty big — forty meters wide and over a hundred meters long, with a depth of five meters at its deepest point (I measured it with a plumb line one winter); so it compares favorably to small seas like the Azov or the Aral.

The pond doesn’t have a name. It’s just the pond. Once upon a time, it was crystal clear — so clear you could see the bottom from the shore and watch little fish swimming around. Its banks were picture-perfect, with “willows green, their branches leaning over water’s glassy sheen,” like in the song. In the summer, kids would swim there; in the winter, they’d skate on it. It was a little slice of paradise {I am delighted!}.

But then people came. After all, it’s a nice spot. Tall apartment buildings were built and people moved in. After that, the pond turned into a floating dump of cans, bottles, broken shoes, and even dead cats and dogs. Someone’s beloved Tuzik died? No problem — just grab him by the tail and toss him into the pond.

Duckweed took it over, and it turned green and became a stinky little swamp. I tried to clean it up, but it’s an impossible task for one person, especially when garbage keeps getting dumped into it. People have turned our pond — once a gift from heaven —into an obscenity.

We had some kefir, watched a little TV, and went to bed.

The next morning, my wife heard the news and told me about it. Divers had been in the pond overnight, searching for two boys.

Here’s what happened: four seventh-graders were walking along the shore, and suddenly they got the idea to walk on the fresh ice. They wanted to stomp a hole in the ice and watch water spurt up. Fun, right? Three of them went out onto the ice, but one stayed on the shore.

 “I’m scared,” he said.

The other three laughed at him for being a coward and went out onto the ice. They made it all the way to the center of the pond, and then . . . the ice cracked. It started breaking apart under their feet. It was only the beginning of December, after all, and Russian winters aren’t what they used to be. No wonder meteorologists keep going on about global warming.

The boys were instantly plunged into the freezing water and began thrashing around, yelling for help. The kid who stayed on the shore started calling for help too, but of course, there was no one nearby. He took off his jacket and pants, tied a sleeve and leg together, and crawled out on all fours toward the hole in the ice. He tossed the makeshift rope to his friends. One of them took hold of the jacket’s sleeve, pulled himself to where the ice was stronger, and was able to climb out. The other two tried to follow. One of them grabbed the edge of the ice and tried to pull himself out, but he lost strength. The dark, smelly water closed over the heads of the two boys . . .

I went down to the pond the next morning and saw the hole in the ice at its center. From it, a ragged path that had not yet frozen over stretched to the opposite shore. That’s how the third boy had crawled out the day before. He was in the hospital now, and the bodies of the other two boys were already home.

Two men in plain clothes and a police officer stood by the shore. One of them was filming the scene with a video camera.

I went back to the house. So, the “drunken bums” my wife had mentioned weren’t vagrants — they were divers. And the sounds from the bushes weren’t laughter, but the screams of a distraught mother.

The boys were buried the next day. I went to pay my respects. They had been classmates, neighbors living in the same apartment building, on the same floor.

A massive crowd had gathered outside the building’s entrance— schoolmates, families, neighbors. Flowers were everywhere. I’ve never liked cut flowers.

I went up to the ninth floor and stepped into one of the apartments. It was packed with people — relatives, neighbors, mourners. Sobs and laments filled the room. A man in his forties stood next to the coffin, his eyes red and dry, staring blankly. Before him lay his son — a handsome boy with a pale face, a faint shadow of peach fuzz above his upper lip. Two days ago, that boy was supposed to come home from school. In fifteen minutes, he would leave home forever.

Judging by the decor, the family was well-off. A computer sat by the wall with a stack of discs sitting next to it. None of that mattered anymore. I felt a lump rise in my throat. I have a son too. We’re all in God’s hands . . .

In the apartment next door lay his friend, a freckled redhead in a plaid suit.

The coffins were carried outside. Relatives followed close behind. One woman, her eyes swollen from crying — likely one of the mothers — wailed, “This can’t be happening…” Her legs buckled, and she nearly collapsed.

“What were you boys thinking?” muttered an older man in the crowd, mournfully shaking his head.

The procession moved toward two waiting buses. The rear doors opened . . .

I went home, feeling down. Two days ago, this tragedy was unfolding outside my window as I was tapping on my computer. But what could I have done? Run onto the ice and add to the body count?

I know what it’s like to plunge into icy water. I’ve done it before. I took part in Polar Bear Plunges for two years. I even participated in a New Year’s swim at the pond in the city park. To prepare, I trained rigorously from mid-summer, swimming daily in all kinds of weather. My usual training spot was a secluded pond in Platonovsky Forest near where I worked. I swam in the buff — there was never anyone around. But one day, as I climbed out of the ice hole, I found myself face-to-face with two police officers.

“Why are you naked?” one of them demanded sternly.

“There’s no one here, Officer,” I said, covering my private parts with my hand. “No one can see me. And I don’t want to haul wet underwear around in my briefcase.”

“Come with us,” the other one ordered.

I had no intention of going anywhere.

“All right,” I said and made as though to bend down for my clothes. I grabbed my boots and briefcase and bolted, stark naked. The officers gave chase, but they clearly weren’t fit enough to catch me. I ran barefoot, in my birthday suit, until I reached the outskirts of the city. I got dressed in a thicket and hopped onto the nearest trolleybus.

I quit winter swimming after that incident and quickly got out of shape.

Once, my wife accidentally dropped our son’s pants into the pond while she was washing them in the pond and asked me to fish them out.

“Do you think you can manage?” she asked skeptically.

“Of course I can! I’m a Polar Bear!” I declared and headed off to the pond with her.

I started by warming up —swinging my arms about and doing jumping jacks, stretches, and push-ups until I was sweating and ready to face the icy water. Then I stripped down and climbed into the hole in the ice. Sinking up to my chin, I began feeling around on the bottom for the pants. I didn’t last long. Something was happening to me. I scrambled out of the water, and as soon as I reached the shore, my body seized up as if caught in a vice. A wave of unbearable pain shot through me, and I let out a howl. So much for being a Polar Bear.

Try sticking your hand under cold running water for just a minute. Only your hand. Now imagine what those boys endured before they slipped into unconsciousness . . . 

 The New Year snuck in. At last, the weather turned colder. I went down to the pond again and saw someone walking on the ice.

“Hey!” I yelled. “Get off the ice! You’ll fall through!” A teenager, maybe seventeen, approached me.

“What’re you yelling about, dude?” he said, his two drunken eyes fixed on me.

“It’s dangerous out there,” I said. “Two kids drowned here not long ago.”

“Won’t happen to me,” he replied. “Fate’s got something else in store for me. Quit shouting, idiot — you’ll strain your voice.” He belched and staggered off. They say you won’t drown if you’re destined to be hanged.

 . . . Around the New Year’s table, we ate delicious food and drank sweet wine. We toasted and celebrated. But I couldn’t stop thinking about how lucky we were — how precious it is just to have your loved ones alive. What wouldn’t those two families whose windows overlook our pond give to have their sons back? I can’t forget that mother’s cry — “This can’t be happening!”

Thank God we were spared that grief. May He spare you too.

 

Translated by James McVay