Secondhand Time: The Last of the Soviets (62 page)

Papa…What was Papa? He read the paper and smoked. He was a political commander
^*2
in an air regiment. We moved from one military town to the next, always living in dormitories. Long brick barracks, exactly the same wherever we went. Even the way they smelled was identical: like shoe polish and Chypre, the cheap cologne. That’s how my father always smelled, too. A typical scene: I’m eight, my brother is nine, and my father comes home from his shift. His belt squeaking, his calf boots creaking. In that moment, all my brother and I want is to become invisible, to fall off the face of the Earth! Papa takes
Story of a Real Man
by Boris Polevoy down from the shelf—in our house, it was like the Bible. “And what happened next?” He starts in on my brother. “The plane crashed. And Alexey Maresyev crawled away from it…Wounded. He ate a hedgehog…and fell into a ditch…” “What ditch?” “It was the crater from a five-ton bomb,” I try to help him. “What? That was yesterday.” We simultaneously shudder at the sound of my father’s commander tone. “So you didn’t read it today?” The next scene: We’re running around the table like three clowns, one big one and two little ones; us with our pants down and Papa clutching a belt. [
A pause.
] We all grew up on movies, huh? The world in pictures…It wasn’t books that raised us, it was movies. And music…The books my father brought home still give me a rash. My temperature rises whenever I see
Story of a Real Man
or
The Young Guard
on anyone’s bookshelf. Oh! How Papa dreamed of throwing us under a tank…He wanted us to hurry up and grow up so we could volunteer to fight in a war. He was incapable of imagining a world without war. He needed us to be heroes! And you can only become a hero at war. If one of us had lost our legs like that Alexey Maresyev of his, he would have only been happy. It would have meant that his life had not been in vain…Success! Everything had fallen into place! And he…I think he would have carried out the verdict with his own bare hands if I had broken my oath, if I had dared to waver in battle. A regular Taras Bulba! “I begat you, and I shall be the one to kill you!” Papa belonged to the Idea, he wasn’t really a human. You must love the Motherland with your entire being. Unconditionally! That was all I ever heard, my entire childhood. The only reason we were alive was so that we could defend the Motherland…But despite all this, I simply could not be programmed for war, instilled with a puppy-like readiness to stick myself in a hole or a dike or throw myself on a landmine. I just never liked death…I’d crush ladybugs—on Sakhalin, in the summer, there are more ladybugs than sand—and I’d crush them like everyone else did. Then, one day, I had this terrifying realization: Why have I made all these little red corpses? Another time, Muska had had kittens, but they were premature…I brought them water, tended to them. My mother saw what I was up to and asked: “Are they dead?” And after she said that, they died. But no tears allowed! “Men don’t cry.” Papa gave us army caps as presents. On weekends, he would put on his records with army songs, and my brother and I were forced to sit there and listen as a “modest manly tear” made its way down our father’s cheek. Whenever he got drunk, he’d tell us the same story: The enemy had surrounded “the hero,” he valiantly defended himself, shooting at them until he was down to his last bullet, which he’d saved for shooting himself in the heart…At that point in the story, my father would fall over cinematically, catching the leg of the stool with his foot, which made it topple down with him. That was always really funny. Then my father would suddenly sober up and turn stern: “There’s nothing funny about a hero dying.”

I had no interest in dying…When you’re little, thinking about death is very frightening…“A man must always be prepared,” “the holy duty to the Motherland”…“What? You don’t want to learn how to take a Kalashnikov apart and put it back together?” There was no way to say no to my father. The humiliation! Oh! How I longed to sink my baby teeth straight into his calf boots and not let go, thrashing around, biting him. Why was he beating my bare ass in front of the neighbor boy Vitka?! While also calling me a girl…Like I said, I wasn’t born to dance with death. I have high arches…I wanted to dance in the ballet…While Papa served the great Idea. It was as though everyone had been lobotomized, they were all terribly proud of living without any pants on, but clutching a rifle…[
A pause.
] We grew up…we all grew up a long time ago…Poor Papa! Life, in the meantime, changed genres…What used to be an optimistic tragedy is now a comedy and action flick. What crawls on its belly and gnaws on pinecones? Guess! Good old Alexey Maresyev. Papa’s beloved hero…“In the basement, the boys were playing Gestapo, / Tortured the hell out the plumber, Potapov…” That’s all that’s left of Papa’s Idea…As for Papa himself? He’s an old man now, but old age has taken him unawares. He should be savoring every moment, gazing up at the sky, admiring the trees. Playing chess or collecting stamps…matchboxes…Instead, he’s glued to the television: parliamentary sessions, leftists, rightists, rallies, demonstrations with little red flags. That’s where you’ll find my father! He staunchly supports the Communists. We’ll get together for dinner…He’ll throw the first punch, awaiting my response: “We lived through a great epoch!” Papa needs a battle; without one, life has no meaning. The only place for him is on the barricades, banner in hand! One day we were watching TV, a Japanese robot was extracting rusted landmines out of the sand…one and then another…A triumph of science and technology! Of human reason! But Papa’s just sad for the fallen fortress—he’s disappointed that it’s not our technology. And then…In an unexpected turn of events, toward the end of the segment, the robot makes a wrong move and gets blown up. As the saying goes, if you see a sapper running, follow him. Robots aren’t programmed to do that. Papa can’t believe his eyes: “Destroying imported technology? What, do we not have enough men?” He has his own relationship with death. Papa’s life’s purpose was to complete any mission assigned to him by the government and the Party. His life was worth less than a hunk of metal.

On Sakhalin, we lived across from a cemetery. Almost every day, I’d hear funeral marches: A yellow coffin meant someone from the village had died; if it was draped in red calico, it was a pilot. More often, it’d be a red one. After every red coffin, Papa would bring home a cassette. Other pilots came over…On the table, chewed
papirosa
butts smoldered in the ashtray, glasses of vodka glistened with condensation. The tape rolled: “I’m craft number so and so…engine stalling…” “Switch to the second one.” “That one is out, too.” “Try starting the left engine.” “It won’t start…” “The right…” “The right won’t start, either…” “Eject!” “The cockpit canopy is malfunctioning…Fuck!!! Ahhhh…Ughhh…” For a long time, I imagined death meant falling from an unfathomable height, ahhhh…ughhh…One of the younger pilots once asked me, “What do you know about death, kid?” I was surprised. I thought that I’d always known about it. A boy from my class died…He’d started a fire and thrown a bunch of ammunition on it…Ka-boom! And there he was, lying in his coffin like he was just faking. Everyone standing around him, looking at him, but he wasn’t there anymore…I couldn’t look away. It felt like I’d always known about death, like it was something that I was born knowing about. Maybe I’ve died before? Or maybe it’s because when I was still inside of my mother, she’d sit by the window watching the cemetery gates: red coffin, yellow coffin…I was mesmerized by death, I’d think about it dozens of times a day. So often. Death smelled like
papirosa
butts, unfinished cans of sprats, and vodka. Does it have to be a toothless old crone with a braid or can it be a beautiful young woman instead? One day, I’d meet her.

Eighteen years old…I wanted everything: women, wine, travel…mysteries, secrets. I’d imagine all the lives I could lead, fantasize about what they’d be like. And that’s when they get you…Goddamn it! I still want to dissolve into thin air, disappear so that no one will ever find me. Leave no trace. Go off and become a lumberjack or some passportless hobo. I have this recurring nightmare: They’re re-enlisting me into the army, they’ve messed up the documents, and I have to do another term of duty. I scream, trying to fight them off: “I’ve already served, you bastards! Leave me alone!!!” I go berserk! It’s a terrible nightmare…[
A pause.
] I never wanted to be a boy…and I especially never wanted to become a soldier, I have no interest in war. Papa said, “It’s time you finally become a man. Or else the girls will think you’re impotent. The army is the school of life.” You have to go learn how to kill people…For me, as I pictured it, this meant drums beating, columns of marching soldiers, top-of-the-line death machines blazing, the whistle of hot lead, and then…shattered skulls, eyeballs ripped out of their sockets, digits blown off…the wailing and moaning of the wounded…and the battle cries of the victors. The ones who are better at killing…Kill! Kill! Use an arrow, a bullet, a shell, an atom bomb, whatever it takes, just as long as you kill…Kill them all…I didn’t want to. I also realized that in the army, it would be other men making a man out of me. I was either going to get killed or be forced to kill someone. My brother had gone off with a head full of pink cotton candy, this total romantic, and come back a frightened man. Every morning, he’d get a kick in the face because he slept on the bottom bunk and his senior slept on top. A heel in your face every day for a year! Just try and hold on to your old self under those conditions. And what if you were to undress someone, can you imagine how many things you can do to them then? So much…You can make them suck their own dick while everyone laughs at them. And whoever doesn’t laugh is the next one to have a go…How about cleaning the soldiers’ bathroom with nothing but a toothbrush or a razor blade? “Make it shine like a cat’s balls.” Shit! There are two kinds of people: those who are incapable of being just meat and those who can’t be anything else. Human pancakes. I realized that I would need to harness every ounce of passion I could muster just to survive. I signed up for the athletic division, hatha yoga, karate. I learned how to kick people in the face, between their legs. How to break spines…I’d light a match, place it in the palm of my hand, and wait for it to finish burning. Of course, I couldn’t take it…I’d cry. I remember…I remember…[
He pauses.
] A dragon is walking through the woods. He comes across a bear. “Hey bear,” says the dragon. “I eat dinner at eight. Come over and I’ll eat you.” And he keeps going. A fox runs by. “Hey fox,” the dragon says. “I eat breakfast at seven in the morning. Come over and I’ll eat you.” Goes a little farther. A rabbit hops by. “Hold it right there, rabbit,” says the dragon. “I eat lunch at two. Come over and I’ll eat you.” “Can I ask you a question?” the rabbit raised his paw. “All right.” “Can I not come?” “Sure, I’ll take you off the list.” But few people are capable of asking a question like that…Shiiiiiiiiit!

My send-off…Two days of frying, boiling, steaming, stuffing, and baking in preparation. They bought two cases of vodka. All of my relatives came. “Don’t embarrass us, sonny!” my father raised the first glass. And so it began…The same old shit: “Undergo harsh trials”…“Endure with honor”…“Prove your courage”…In the morning, next to the conscription office, there was an accordion, singing, and vodka being passed around in little plastic cups. Except I don’t drink…“You sick or something?” Before taking us down to the station, they inspected our personal belongings. They made us take everything out of our bags and confiscated all the knives and forks and food. At home, they’d given me a little bit of money…We’d stuffed the bills deep into my socks and underwear. Shit! The future defenders of the Motherland…Finally, they put us on the buses. The girls waved, the mothers wept. Here we go! A bus full of men. I can’t remember a single one of their faces. They gave everyone buzz cuts and dressed us all up in rags. We looked like prisoners. Voices: “Forty tablets constitute a suicide attempt…Unfit for service. If you want to be smart, play dumb…” “Beat me up! Hit me! So what, I’m shit, I don’t care. At least at home I fuck girls while you go off to play war.” “Yep, boys, we’ve traded our sneakers for calf boots, and now we’ll go and defend the Motherland.” “People with dough don’t sign up for the army.” We rode like that for three days. The whole way there, everyone drank. Except I don’t drink…“You poor bastard! What are you gonna do in the army?” We had to sleep in our clothes. At night, everyone took off their shoes…Fuck! The stench! A hundred guys with their boots off…Some people hadn’t changed their socks in two or three days…It made you want to shoot or hang yourself. The officers escorted us to the bathroom three times a day. If you need to go more, tough luck. The bathroom’s off-limits. Who knows what could happen in there…We’d just left home…One guy still managed to kill himself in the night…Fuck!

People can be programmed…Some of them want to be. One-two! One-two! In step!!! In the army, they make you walk and run a whole lot. You have to run far and fast, and if you can’t run, then crawl! What do you get when you strand hundreds of young men in the same place? Beasts! A pack of young wolves! Prison and the army are governed by the same law: total chaos. Rule number one: Never help the weak. The weak must be beaten! So the weak are weeded out right off the bat…Rule number two: no friends, every man for himself. At night, some people oink, others quack, some cry for mommy, others fart, but the same rule applies to everyone: “Bend over or bend others over.” It’s as simple as one, two, three. What good were all those books I’d read? I’d believed Chekhov…He’s the one who said that you have to squeeze the slave out of yourself drop by drop, that everything about a man ought to be wonderful: his sweet little soul, his cute little clothes, his charming notions. But in lots of cases, it’s just the opposite! The complete opposite! Some people want to be slaves, they like it. It’s personhood that they want to squeeze out of themselves, drop by drop. On your first day, the sergeant explains that you’re all swine, nothing but beasts of burden. He commanded us to “Lie down!” Then “Get up!” Everyone did what he ordered except for one person. “Lie down! Get up!” The guy just kept lying there. The sergeant turned yellow, then violet: “What’s wrong with you?” “Vanity of vanities…” “What the hell?” “The Lord taught us: Do not kill, do not even grow angry…” The sergeant took him down to the squadron commander, and the squadron commander took him to the KGB officer. They opened a case against him: It turned out that he was a Baptist. How had he ended up in the army?! They cordoned him off from everyone else and then took him away somewhere. An insanely dangerous element! Imagine: He didn’t want to play war…