THE MAGIC NEW YEAR ORNAMENTS.
Irena Nemchonok
YOU NEVER KNOW
BOOK 10
Tampa , Florida, USA
2010
All Rights Reserved
Content
You never know………………………………….
Grandmother’s clever tales for smart children………………
Healing Fairytales (in English) …………………………………
Healing Fairytales (in Russian) ………………………………….
Юбилейные...................................................................................
Report (2005)…………………………………………………….
Автор о себе.................................................................................
You Just Never Know
Yes, you just never know! It seems to you that you have experienced everything in your life and then suddenly…
It happened so that she lived with her grown up daughter and her family. She lived by what interested them and she lived for them. She was bringing up her only grandson. That was a very specific kind of life…
But once there was a quite different life: immersion in her favorite work, close friends, a loving husband, suitors… Yes, there was all of that. And all that was over.
But you just never know…
She was hurrying to mail some letters and it was not far to go. But it was getting dark and it was better to hurry. They lived in a very quiet neighborhood, but it seemed to her that there was somebody following her with great determination. Involuntary she started walking faster…
When a stranger greeted her in English, she answered in French that she did not understand him and continued walking even faster. When he began to speak in French and she answered in Spanish that again she did not understand him, they both laughed. What was completely unexpected that he would continue talking in Spanish. She knew Spanish better than all other foreign languages, and therefore
she understood immediately that it was not his native language. They were still laughing, when unexpectedly the beginning of a saying from her youth came into her mind: “Laughter is the best beginning for friendship…”
The stranger kept following her and when, as though joking, he began speaking German, she understood that that was his native language and gave him one of those “feminine looks out of the corner of her eye”: she was stuck by his extraordinary resemblance to… Hemingway. He was even more surprised, when she kept up the conversation in German herself.
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Why was she talking to him at all? To speak with a strange? Just on the street?
How many times had her mother taught her not to get to know people on the street.
She forbade her daughter to do it too and beg her to beware of casual acquaintances. But he did not look like a casual acquaintance. He looked like Hemingway…
Just like her, he knew several foreign languages… And the most important, something emanated from him, that was long forgotten by her but surprisingly pleasant and desirable. It was so hard to resist… But nevertheless she found the strength to say good-bye politely, maintaining that she was really in a hurry.
“I just wanted to offer you a ride, my car is around the corner”
“Never take a ride from a strange”, her mother always said to her and she always said the same to her daughter.
“This is stupid,” she thought, “I am not getting in anybody’s car,” but mechanically she followed after him and tolled him her address. It was right nearby, but they had the feeling that they had a lot to say to each other. They were in a hurry, interrupting each other, jumping from one subject to another, from one language to another
“What is your native language I wonder?” he asked her.
“Russian…”
“Amazing! Reading Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Turgenev, Chekhov, I always was dreaming about meeting a Russian woman. And here, in Israel, having come for a couple of days on business from Germany… Unbelievable… I have to see you again. I’ll call you tomorrow… We’ll…”
“Never give your phone number to a stranger!”- her mother told her so many times, and she herself was never tired to tell the same to her own daughter either…
And here he was already writing down her phone number and her name on a piece of paper.
“And here’s my phone number and my name…” he wrote it on the same piece of paper and while he was dividing the paper in two parts, she said good-bye and hurriedly get out of the car. He handed her a half of the little scrap of paper, which she grasp tightly with her hand.
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There was only one thought on her mind: he’ll call tomorrow! He will call her tomorrow… She had already forgotten that her heart could skip so sweetly from joy, anticipation and expectation. How happy she was to meet up with a feeling that had seemingly been forgotten forever.
“Now, I’ll take a look and see what his name is. He’ll call me tomorrow and I’ll call him by his name… He will call me every day. And I’ll call him any time
I feel like that. I want to hear his voice so much. I want to repeat and repeat his name. Yes, his name is…”
She unfolded the little peace of paper, which had so cozy fit in her palm…
She could not believe her eyes: on the little scrap of paper was written… her own phone number and her own name…
You just never know!
She imagined his face, when he opened his part of the paper with his own phone number and his own name and began to laugh. Now she remembered the end of the saying of her youth: “Laughter is the best beginning for friendship, and, perhaps, the best ending for it too.”
THE MAGIC NEW YEAR ORNAMENTS.
For a little girl the life was becoming more and more interesting and clear. She got to know new words and the more she knew the better she understood the life around. Soon it seemed to her that she knew and understood everything.
Suddenly a new beautiful word appeared: vacation. Mother and farther, began to put the things in the suitcases. All the family went to dacha (summer house). They made plans to walk in a real wood, to bathe in a real sea. But she could hardly sleep one night in a new place when they woke her up very early in the morning and hurriedly put some clothes on.
An overloaded train brought them back home in the city. Here and there she heard a new word: war. The word sounded unfriendly for her ear and even scarily.
Everything that happened later she could not understand at all. There was nobody to answer her questions: everybody was busy. Her father kissed her goodbye, went to his work and never came back, though he was supposed to be on his vacation. Her mother was crying when she thought that the girl did not see her. And from all sides one could hear that bad word: war, war, war…
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One evening the girl was sitting at the table by herself, drinking some hot milk from the saucer. She tried to blow out the foam from the milk. She hated foams. Nobody said anything, even when that disgusting foam fell down on the tablecloth. Neither her mother, nor the girl’s grandmother, who for the first time visited them without a present – nobody made a remark.
It was difficult even to believe that she got out of the table without permission and hid a piece of chocolate under the sofa. The chocolate was an every night necessary addition to the hot milk. Neither mother nor her grandmother paid any attention to the little girl. With the sticky fingers the girl put back on the chair the books, which had fallen from it, when she hurried to get rid of the chocolate. The brown spots were seen on the upholstery of the chair, that unique chair, which was as they said a very old and special one, from a palace.
In some time they again began gathering the things and put them in a case, but those were only the girl’s things.
New words were heard everywhere. They sounded even worse than “war”. She could hardly pronounce one of them: evacuation. And another one, which was shorter, but sounded so dangerous: blockade.
There were many people at the railway station, especially children. Mothers and grandmothers were kissing and hugging them. Then some strangers put the children in the cars. When it was the girl’s turn to enter the train, her mother pressed her to the bosom, took the case and ran back home together with her daughter.
Every day the life became more and more unusual. The girl had a new unpleasant and unfamiliar feeling. People called that feeling starvation, but the girl did not want to learn a new word – she just wanted to eat. She was simply hungry all the time. In the evening she was dreaming about a cup of milk even with thefoam. She tried and tried to find a piece of chocolate, that one, she had hidden under the sofa…
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It was very cold. After the grandfather’s books and the precious chair from the palace, it was the sofa’s turn to be burned in a “burzhuika” (stove). There was no chocolate under the sofa…
At the beginning the girl thought about some milk and chocolate before she went to bed, and as soon as she woke up, feeling that awful hunger. Later, she became so weak that she could not walk and spent all the time in her bed and could think about nothing, but milk and chocolate and then just about a tiny piece of bread…
It was so boring to be in the bed all the time even without her beloved cat, who had disappeared long time ago.
It was so strange to see her mother taking the wallpaper from the walls and scrubbing the backside of it with a knife. Later she gave to the girl some warm turbid water. It was not tasty, but at least for some time the girl did not suffer so severely from the hunger.
Once the girl noticed how her mother was painting with her trembling hands a New Year Tree on the wall. She hammed a few nails in the wall. Then she opened a box with the ornaments and began to hang them on the wall as if on the branches of the tree, saying in a soft voice: “Look at that beautiful bright ball. It is shining just like the sun. Here is a Bunny as white as snow. Look at these New Year Tree’s ornament candies.
Suddenly her voice disappeared. With trembling hands she began to unwrap one of the ornaments. She found inside an old candy, so old that it turned crumbs in her hand. She came up to the girl and put some sweet pieces into her mouth. The little girl slowly tried it with her lips and suddenly her eyes widely opened. Her both hands tried to rich out the magic ornament. The mother gave her one more little piece and the girl fell asleep with a happy smile on her face.
The mother was cautiously unwrapping all the candies ornaments, deeply breathing in their forgotten smell and licking her sweet fingers.
She gathered all the crumbs and carefully put them in a jar…
The grandmother finished her story. Her granddaughter was looking with a great interest and fascination at the beautiful many-colored candy ornaments hanging on her big New Year Tree.
She was absolutely sure they were Magic. Only thanks to them many years ago her grandmother could survive that awful blockade during the war.
The girl will remember this amazing story for the rest of her life and for sure will tell it to all her future children and grandchildren.
ANYTHING BUT WAR
Sixty Years Later (Tampa, USA, 2001)
“Anything but war” – it seems of such relevance in view of the current situation. For my son and even more for my grandchildren the World War II is just history. It sounds extremely important today in the new millennium for the young people. Only through their History class they could have the idea of that terrible historic event.
My heart is bleeding, when I think of the fate of our children and the children all over the world should there be a WWIII. We have to do everything not to let it happen...
Anything but war!
In the Bathroom (Leningrad, USSR, 1941)
It is so scary to be at home alone. It seems as if it was only yesterday when my nanny told me fairy tales and every day walked me to the park. My grandmother always tried to put something tasty into my mouth. My parents used to call many times a day just to say hi, and how they love me. Now all I hear is “tick-tack, tick-tack” coming from the radio. Though it makes me very nervous, but I whish that “tick-tack” never stops, because if it does, it means that next I’ll hear: “ATTENTION, ATTENTION! There is an air- raid, go to the bomb shelter immediately”.
To me it sounded like “Go to the bathroom!” because only in our bathroom I felt safe. Our bathroom was very small and so was I,, and as I hoped no bomb could hit both of us there.
Not long ago, the first bomb hit the Finland Gulf in the suburbs of Leningrad. It was the night of June 22nd. I remember that night very well. It was so loud that we jumped up from our beds and ran out of the house. We were running in panic along the street and above us the plane was flying so low that we could see the enemy swastikas on the wings. And it was firing and firing… It all seemed like a nightmare and I hoped in vain to wake up…
The day before everything was so good. It was just the beginning of my parents’ vocation and we all went to a camp in Razliv not too far from Leningrad. Right next to our camp there was a gulf and a forest. The weather was beautiful and it was supposed to be like that all summer long. However, it was all over that same day, when we heard on the radio about the beginning of the war.
Early in the morning we hurried to the train station. All the trains were stuffed with people. They were hanging on the steps and some were even sitting on the top of the cars. When finally we got to the city everything was different there. Soldiers were marching in the streets singing: “If the war comes tomorrow, then today we are ready to win”. Why tomorrow, if it had already begun yesterday? Everything was so unusual. Everything had change in one day. Different colored blankets were hanging over all the windows so no light lit up the streets. Many windows had white crosses of paper glued on the glass, so during bombing the glass would not break.
By nighttime, it was clear that my dad was leaving for war as he was a military doctor. My mother, who was a doctor too, began to work at the military hospital in the city. Even my old grandfather was helping the wounded soldiers. My beloved nanny also left for the war. Why do they need my nanny at the war? This question and many others filled my head but everybody was busy and my questions were left unanswered. Everyone was too concerned with the war and how to win it. And I … I ran to the bathroom every time I heard an air-raid siren. And they were more and more frequent…
In the Basement (Arhangelskoe near Moscow, 1941)
It is hard to believe that above us there is a beautiful mansion with big windows, exquisite furniture, grand facade with numerous flowerbeds in front. We were beneath that mansion, in the basement. It was very dark there and there was a big water heater which made us very hot. My mom was trying to move me as far away from the heater as possible. Everyone was saying that we might not get hit by the bomb itself but the heater could explode and the water would boil us alive. I started to imagine us boiling alive and again I wished I were in my hiding place: in our small bathroom. But it was at home in Leningrad and we were in Arhangelskoe. My father decided it would be better for us not to go very far from Leningrad and to wait out the war in health resort near Moscow. The sanatorium was very beautiful, but very soon the war got there too. The Germans started to bomb Moscow…
We had to move east into the country. We went to Saratov, where we had some relatives.
At the Hospital (Saratov on Volga, 1942)
In Saratov it was already cold and I was happy my mother prepared ahead of time by packing my jacket and boots because they came in handy.
My mother frequently worked nights at hospital. I always loved it when she worked the night shift because I could sleep in her office on a little couch. The room reminded me of our bathroom in Leningrad. It was small and dark, containing only an x-ray machine, a desk and a little couch. I would stay there those nights that she tended to patients. We had no apartment in Saratov.
I entered the school and it wasn’t often my mother would sit with me at the table and helped me with my studies. I would go with her to the hospital for her appointments. Usually, I would sit by her as she took x-rays and soon I learned to tell the difference between a heart and a stomach, I could see the fluctuations of a heartbeat, while the stomach would be completely still.
At the hospital, there were plenty of wounded. The beds were even in the hallways. I started to help the wounded by either giving them water or fixing their pillows. They also liked it when I read poems or sang for them. I was very nervous when I was performing, which made me feel like a real actress. Even though I didn’t sometimes understand the words, I still repeated them because the soldiers liked it: “Germany, we are sewing the thread for your shroud, and we’ll weave our curse in it”. Everyone who was able to clap, started to applaud. When I was singing: The dark night separates us, my darling,- I could see tears in the eyes.
Soon another misfortune came: air strikes began in Saratov and we had to move again. This time to Ural…
On the Pechka (Keshtim in Ural 1942-1943)
I feel just as safe on a pechka as I felt in our bathroom in Leningrad. Too bad I am not the only one on the pechka, but together with the owner’s children of the little house, which we rented, and my cousin. We all lived in one izba (little house in a village) together with our parents except my beloved father who was at the front. There was one common room and two small ones, where our owners and my aunt and her husband slept. Every night my mom would unfold a bed in the common room, where she slept. That made me feel more safe, because I could see her and hear her every breath. We, the children, slept on the pechka and every night I read for them or told stories. They all were even younger then I was. They listened to my stories about my past life in Leningrad with great interest, but they did not believe that I was describing the true life. They called my stories fairytales. They often laughed because they could not imagine some things, for example, that there could be a toilet inside the house and not out of the house. And they also could not believe that the trolley did not run on a railway and that women wear underwear under their skirts or dresses. Boys at school frequently tried to lift up my cousin’s or my dress to laugh with everyone about our ‘strange’ clothing. I did not get mad at them. Let them laugh a little! They were so thin and pale and almost all of them were without fathers or older brothers, as they all had gone for the frontline.
Sometimes, I felt really bad for my mom, when my uncle returning from work would kiss my aunt. I used to pull up a chair next to my mother, climb on it and kiss her pretending I was my daddy. With tears in her eyes, my mom tried to explain to me the fact, that my uncle did not go to war, because he had an exemption. He was a head engineer and he was in charge of building tanks for the battle. But on and on, I thought it was not fair, or may be I was just missing my daddy a lot, as I loved him so much. I often told about him to my friends on the pechka.
Once again, as soon as I was done with one of my stories, we all snuggled up next to each other and fell asleep. All of a sudden, we were awakened by a loud nock at the door. An old, very skinny and tired man stumbled inside the door. It was my grandpa. It so happened that my father was in charge of evacuating from Leningrad, which was in blockade, the Military Medical Academy with all the students and professors. The train passed through Keshtim. Daddy sent us a telegram to get on the train with him, but the telegram came too late, only after the grandpa’s arrival. The train headed to Asia, to the city of Samarkand in Uzbekistan. My father left the grandpa in Keshtim so that he could help us to get to Samarkand.
In Chaihana (Samarkand, USSR 1943-1944)
According to my grandpa, Asia was a wonderful place. That is why we were ready to move there right away. We had to rush, if we were to see my dear daddy, before he had to go back to the front lines. The grandpa said that it was very warm in Samarkand while it was freezing cold in Kishtim. I did not remember the journey from the Urals to Asia very clearly, but there were a lot of people in the railway stations, and we had to change crowded trains constantly. We spent more time sitting on the suitcases waiting on the platform for a train than actually traveling by train. To get a seat for us in a train, the grandpa would push his way through the crowd to be one of the first in the train, to open a window to have my mother pass him our luggage through the window. After that we had to squeeze ourselves through the passage way that was crammed with people and their luggage.
At last when we reached Samarkand I could not believe my eyes: the sun was shining, the sky was pure blue and all the trees and grass were absolutely green. With my face turned towards the sun it seemed that I would never get warm.
As I looked around everything seemed so different to me. The faces of women were covered with thick black veils. They called them parandzha. The men were wearing colorful quilted robes. They had skullcaps on their heads. They called them tubiteika. To my surprise it appeared that my grandfather spoke Uzbek and many other local languages as he was born in Central Asia. That explained why he could find quickly a very good job. He helped us a lot.
What a delight it was to see a tall man riding a donkey towards our house. A donkey was the only possible mode of transportation. I knew that we would be treated to a wonderful meal when the grandfather visited us. Our food was scarce and the grandpa’s cooking was a great treat for us. My favorite dish was a real Uzbek pilaf made on mangal (an open fire stove made of a bucket with bricks inside). My mother would bake bread and for dessert we had green tea with raisins. We could have such a feast only when my grandfather brought rice and flour and raisin…
Leningrad was under siege and people had literally nothing to eat. They cooked leather belts and old shoes to make broth. They would strip wallpaper of the walls, scrape off the glue and make a kind of porridge out of it. The daily ration of bread could fit in the palm of a child’s hand. Knowing that made me cry…
As much as we were anxiously waiting for letters from my father, I was afraid every time the mailman came to our door. We all feared he could bring a letter of so called pohoronka, which meant that a person had been killed.
Sometimes my grandfather would bring me along to a chaihana. Everybody there respected him very much as he was an educated man and helped people with their business.
All the men usually sat in a circle on the floor with their feet crossed, drinking their tea. My grandpa listened to them attentively and patiently answered all their questions. And I was looking around. Everything was so interesting: the beautiful rugs on the walls and on the floor and the dishes of bright colors full of fruits. They would treat me with fruit and sweets. Chaihana was a wonderful place.
My favorite day was Sunday because it was a market day. The market was a magic place.
Merchants and buyers were bargaining and haggling in different languages. People in colorful outfits were buying all kinds of goods. I was especially attracted to a sweets stand, where a man was beating up eggs and sugar in a big bowl, which seemed to stay always full as if by magic.
To me it was just like a circus trick. Before the war my father often took me to the circus. It was so long ago…
Every day I went to school which was pretty far from our house. The rode was dusty and it was very hot. There was a special bus, but only for the children from an orphanage. Some of the children received letters from their parents and some did not even know whether their parents were alive. Those were the children from different dangerous plaices of the country.
There was one boy, who would come to school in the bus. He did not want to speak to anybody. First, I thought that he was ashamed of being lame. I knew that he did not receive any letters. He was very thin and pale. I often shared my lunch with him. Once we heard on the radio that the Soviet Army was, at last, advancing. Everybody was so happy. Only my friend began to cry. That was when he told me that his whole family and his all neighbors had been buried alive in the woods by Fascists. He had been the only one to manage to dig his way out of the dead bodies. He had lost one shoe and froze his foot. That why he was lame. That was the most horrible story I had ever heard. When I told my mother about the boy she began to invite him over for dinner nearly every day. And it was so nice of my grandfather to take the boy along on our trips to chaihana.
On the Field of Mars (Leningrad 1944-1945)
The chaihana, the sun and the Uzbek people, waiting for letters, the radio news, rice pilaf and raisins – these were only memories now. We received a special permit from my father to return to Leningrad. The blockade had been lifted, but the war was not yet over.
Not everyone could get the permission to come back, as the blockade had been lifted but the war was not yet over…
There were not many people in Leningrad at that time. Some were evacuated at the beginning of the war and some died from starvation during the blockade. On the street, I could see people who were starving and had turned into skeletons. There were no children in the city no cats, no dogs. There were signs on the houses: This side of the street is dangerous during the artillery attacks. There was little food in the stores and you could by the food only with special ration cards due to the shortage of bread and sugar. When it was possible to buy candy with jam filling as a substitute for sugar, it was considered an unbelievable delicacy.
Our apartment was pretty much empty, but at least we had one. Most of the houses were destroyed. People from bombed houses or those who came back from evacuation, occupied any empty space they could find. Our neighbor had saved our apartment during the blockade. She had to burn our furniture as well as my father’s priceless library in the fireplace as a source of heat. Still my mother appreciated her for saving our home for us. My mother pretended that she did not notice our neighbor wearing her dresses coats and jewelry. I also noticed our dishes, lamps, crystal and many other familiar belongings from my childhood at her place. I knew that it was wrong to take our things, bur I was old enough to understand that I was not supposed to talk about it.
A new school year started and it brought a lot of hard time to both the students and the teaches. The children came from different areas of the country. As a result, they all had different requirements and different levels of education and some of them had none at all. How was it possible to group those children with different levels of schooling into classes? It seemed like everybody was a very poor student, including myself. On the other hand, being a teenager, I was starting to do a lot of walking around the city. I saw a lot of places, which suddenly looked familiar. There was a Summer Garden, a park located not far from our house, where my nanny used to take me every day for a walk. The place itself did not suffer very much from the shelling and bombing, though all the numerous beautiful statues disappeared. To my relief, I learned that the statues were ‘buried’ in the ground just like people. What a celebration it was, when the sculptures where being taken from the ground and then out of the boxes. I was in the crowed shedding tears of joy seeing my old friends again. That was a really happy moment.
Little by little, everything around me began to look great. The museums were starting to open up, the evacuated theaters were coming back and some destroyed houses were being restored. In many places the playgrounds for children were being built instead of the bombed out houses…
The unforgettable happiness and joy everybody felt on the 9-th of May 1945. That day we celebrated the Victory Day. Almost all the Leningraders came together on the Field of Mars and on the Neva Embankment. Everyone laughed and cried at the same time from happiness. There were fireworks everywhere. Even through the thundering of fireworks one could hear the cheering and applauds of the crowd.
My father came back from the front injured and was walking with a cane. He became a disabled veteran of the WWII. But at least he was alive.
My nanny also came back. She went with the army all the way to Berlin. She was cooking for the soldiers. She was a military cook and was very proud of it. Both my nanny and my father had many medals. The major medal was for the Victory over Germany. My favorite of my father’s medals was For the Defending of Leningrad…
War is such a horrible thing. The people of the world should not allow wars to happen. Anything but war.
She is my Life
Every evening they were sitting on the sofa close to each other in front of TV.
“It would be interesting to know what he is thinking about” – she asked herself many times.
He thought half dreaming: “If I could have those words to express my endless love for her.
Not only do I love her. I worship her. I adore her….
The worst moments in my life I have… when she doesn’t come home on time.
I don’t know what to do. I listen attentively to every sound of passing by cars and try to recognize the familiar footsteps.
The happiest moments are when she comes and we eat together or go for a walk.
And the nights! Oh, those nights! To be beside her! To feel her warmth! To smell her body sent!
It is a delight!!!
But in this life you have to pay for everything. In the morning, when we have to part my life becomes dark and useless. She is so gentle with me before leaving… And I am so anxious to see her again…”
That what he was thinking about with his head on her lap paying no attention to the TV program. Those were the thoughts of her old little silver poodle.
Fresh Breeze
Tall, slender, just above the forehead, wavy hair, small, neat mustache, suit - all this set him apart from the crowd of tourists in the small resort city. They were vacationing there, while he worked and lived. The attention of a young lady at first simply flattered his typical, manly ego but soon he became genuinely interested as well: never before had he met such a woman.
Sea Breeze, southern sun, the smell of tropical plants - completely intoxicated her, and the “tall and slender” became a welcomed and pleasant addiction. Vacation turned out surprisingly wonderful and leaving became somewhat unpleasant. He on the other hand deeply worried about the approaching parting and hoped time quickly passed ‘till they met again in the capital. And the meeting did take place, however, not as quickly as he had hoped. Mundane rhythm of life in the big city, work, house chores - everything hinted that summer passions and romances should take a secondary position. HE wrote long letters daily and finally made it to the capital. She met him at the airport. The plane was full of dark people with tan faces.
It was although she felt the southern sun, the sea breeze, the smell of tropical plants, and here he was tall and slender, however, for some reason he no longer seemed so tall or so slender. Dark, wavy hair covering his forehead – looked like vulgar beings, neat small mustache reminded her of the salesperson from the corner shop, and the old fashioned suit made him even more provincial and unattractive.
She set him into a taxi, named a hotel to the driver and promised to call, knowing that she won’t…
The Anthem of Love
A long call. Nobody answers. No one’s home… Well good! Big deal, fiftieth anniversary of marriage with the man she divorced thirty years ago. Although, this was the first man and there was love. Real love… Love? What is that? Feelings? Toward whom? Toward what?
We love life, children, parents, we love animals, flowers, music, if we are lucky - we love our job. Some of us love to eat, others love to dance…yes, we love all kinds of things: to read, to drink, to play cards, etc…
But what is love with a capital letter? The one inspired by dreams, the one glorified in poetry?!! Not just attraction experienced by teenagers, youngsters, and sometimes not so young people. It is rather an uncontrollable desire to see the particular “object” of love, to hear his voice, to touch with your hand, shoulder, cheek, your whole body and to freeze from the slightest touch and to thirst of everlasting contact, while which fires like pain and gathers somewhere inside as though a ball, causing both suffering and burning happiness.
A ball with which one does not want to part and which explodes into such satisfaction (fulfillment) and ability, that you begin to dream of a new touch of hand, shoulder, cheek, whole body…and so, many times, many years…if you are able.
Ok, what happiness brings success, triumph of the “object of love”. How nice it is to introduce the “object of love” to friends and acquaintances, to feel pride for well spoken words, for clever remarks. Even a compliment directed not at you but rather the “object”, becomes perceived with thankfulness and so on, so many years, all life…if one is able. Well, for them it did not work. Better yet, that feeling is her, the one with a capital letter – worked. Thirty years ago they split, at least twenty years till then, she could see him, hear, touch…is this not luck? And a desire to call and hear his voice, despite not being able to see or touch, after fifty hears – isn’t it proof that it existed? That she was able? How can one find it? How can one save it? Answers to these questions provide only writers and poets, friends and old ladies.
It seems that it can be found only within yourself and preserved forever on by personal desire. Is it that easy? Not everyone can become a painter, a singer, or a musician. To draw a little, sing, play a musical instrument can be learned, but to love? Can anyone love? No. To love - - is a talent and a talent to love is given to only a rare few, the result is so much “unrequited love”. To love is a talent, which needs to be cared for, like any other.
Love needs to be loved. It can’t just end and disappear. Real love remains with ou forever, for the rest of your life, even if it doesn’t work out…So what if thirty years have passed since the spilt?! Is it possible to forget the voice, the touch and the dream of it always being like that? Throughout life…if one is able…well it didn’t work out. Long rings. No one answers. No one’s home…well good! Big deal… All of a sudden the phone rings: “Maybe I caught you at a bad time… maybe the timing is off, but fifty years ago I…”
How Odd…
How odd, that she is always with me. Yet, she does everything not the way I want her to. Entirely everything: I want to sleep, but she won’t sleep; I wan to do everything fast and precise, but she is slower, and sometimes completely forgets what needs to be done; I put everything away, but she is always looking for something, belts in bags, drawers - clothes as though to hide from her; I want to buy something bright, extravagant, but she always picks classy and dull. But most importantly, it’s odd that she is always with me. Because of her my life becomes a dull, mundane existence. Men never look at her, but I am so used to it and enjoying it so much. She inspires condescending respect, and I can not stand that…
The most revolting is seeing her in the mirror; It only takes me to look and there she is looking straight at me with her dull, glossy eyes. I can’t stand seeing her sagging cheeks, unending wrinkles even on those waning cheeks. Yuck! She is simply repulsive! To somewhat overshadow the horror – she begins to smile at me. The eyes squint, the lips stretch, and appear a straight row of beautiful obviously fake teeth and, with a great effort and imagination, it becomes even possible to view the wrinkles as dimples of the cheeks. She even begins to look slightly like me, yet still – I am not her. How odd and repugnant that she is always with me. There is no escape. To the very end… How odd…
Who am I?
Where am I? Where am I? And I even got here myself…Simply did not know, where I should be…Where to go? And I lost Awful!!! How awful. Well, this is the Vatican…I’ll always remember. Well, will they find me?!
“Your name Ma’am”, politely asked a policeman. God, I almost said Ruzhenka. No one called me Ruzhenka since childhood. So scared that I retreated to childhood. Oh yea, ‘till I was five, I was called Ruzhenka. Back when we lived in…Where did we live? In Poland.
“Your name, ma’am”, repeated the policeman. Rosie? No, I am not Rosie. That was what my grandmother used to call me, when we ran from the Nazis to Belgium…
“Your name, ma’am” – the policeman persistently continued asking. Of course it’s Fransyaz – that is how I introduce myself upon meeting. Even through this home I gave myself when living in France…
“Madam, we need to know your name, or your tour guide will never come back for you. We must announce your name over the radio (intercom), ma’am. Your name, please…”
Of course I am Fransyaz, that is what everyone calls me…Documents. Passport! I need to show them my passport. Why didn’t I think of that in the beginning…What is it with me?
“Ma’am, are you ok?”, worried the policeman.“Don’t worry. Everything will be ok…”
You know…there is something wrong with my head. If you won’t object, I will explain everything from the start, if you don’t object listen to me. I’m begging you, please. I was born in Poland. That was a long time ago. My parents gave me the name Ruzhena and called me Ruzhenka. I was five years old, when the fascists murdered my parents and my grandmother called me Rosie. Later we lived in France and I chose to be called Fransyaz. That is what everyone called me. While still young, I married an American and he took me to the United States. My documents changed and I became…Oh yea, Freny, Freny Wilson. Actually, here is my passport. Look…
The elderly woman opened her purse, took out her passport and handed it to the policeman. He began to fill out a form as she retreated into her thoughts. It seems time to stop her travels around the world. Before she never got lost, but now…And where? In the Vatican…And no one is coming to get her? Well, good. She will write and demand compensation for…for what? Oh yea, for moral suffering…lost! They didn’t find me! Didn’t come! Great! She got up with determination and demanded that somebody call a cab. Settling herself in to be comfortable and with assurance, asked to be driven to the leather goods store, then fabrics and finally, was on her way to the store of Venetian glass. She wanted to have all that Italy is known for. She was counting on a great compensation. She was going to be rich. What is just around the corner? In August. August. Who am I? Well of course I’m a “Lion”.
A Telephone Call
I really loved my job. I enjoyed writing scenarios and then preparing the show according to those scenarios. Filming of those shows was a great inspiration, but at the same time a heavy load on my soul. Good show - a deep satisfaction. Also meeting with the kids that participated on the show gave me great satisfaction. They surrounded me from all sides, but saw only the puppet that was on my arm and only talked to the doll. During one of these meetings I was surprised by the smallest boy in the group who asked me, “Could you tell me, is she real?” I did not know what to tell the child. If I said ‘yes’, that would be lying to the boy, if I said ‘no’ it would probably disappoint him. To my luck he immediately asked the next question, “May I kiss her?” A photographer got to the scene just in time to take a picture, which under the title “Yura’s first kiss” was placed in the newspaper and of course in my album
Thirty years have passed. My destiny has landed me on the other half of the world. At one time, the telephone rang and a man’s voice asked for me.
“Is it really you? I found your phone number in the phone book entirely by accident. I am sure that you do not remember me. I was once your TV-student and kissed your doll.”
“Is this Yura? Of course I remember. I have your photograph in my album.”
“Really? I also have a picture of you with the doll.”
“Yura, how have you been?”
“I am here on vacation.”
“Tell me about yourself.”
“Well, I am a mathematician. A doctor of mathematical sciences. Married. I have a
little daughter. And do you know what her name is?
“I think it is the name of my puppet? That one that you kissed? Is it right?
“No, I gave her your name…”
A Strange Lady
He was very much in love with this young woman. Particularly until that unfortunate moment when he asked her for a drink of water, but she had told a housemaid: “Bring him a glass of water”. He didn’t like that at all. She was beautiful, serious, and even smart, but spoiled, the only child of her parents. He didn’t have a father and a mother was far away. He was long used to taking care of himself and suddenly he wanted to take care of her. But she didn’t need that at all…
Many years have passed since then. He traveled often and accomplished numerous things. It was only by chance that he ended up in the city where he spent his youth, and he wanted to see her. She gladly accepted an invitation to meet. Where? In the hotel, where he was staying.
She casually and cheerfully walked in, and started to look around, making joked about his respectability, his balding head, and unfortunately his stomach.
It was easy for her because she was never in love with him. Just came to visit an old friend. He felt great with her. She had not changed at all. She attentively listened to his stories about work, and was very sad to hear about his regretful marriage. He was so sincere that it even surprised him. But he was so comfortable with her. Suddenly the phone rang: “It’s already 11:45, but you have a stranger, a woman in your suite. If she does not leave before 12:00 I will come with the police. He thought that he would die from embarrassment, but she humorously reminded him about white nights. They went out for a long time into the white night city. He was looking at the strange woman, and he never wanted this night to end.
Point of View
“Have you already seen your husband?’ – My old friend met me with this question. He had never liked my ex-husband, and by his tone of voice I knew that I would hear nothing good.
I have returned to my hometown after a long break, and all the meetings and talks left a big impression on me, and gave me an endless supply of food for thought.
“What did my husband do?” I asked seriously.
“He never really stood out intellectually, but I thought of him as an honest and well-mannered man, at least because you preferred him to me. It turned out that he has neither pride, nor self-respect. He goes to some cafeteria where they serve free meals. Is he some sort of beggar? He has no shame and no conscience…”
It is well known that before making a decision one should hear both sides of a story. When you see and old friend that you have not seen in a very long time, after the first moment of the disappointing confusion follows the recognition of a familiar smile, look and voice. He was once a handsome man. Languid look. Enticing smile. The smile ended up becoming toothless. It cost too much to install false teeth, and to get it done free as a pensioner (senior citizen) would mean a long wait in line. A familiar voice told me about the difficulties of life: the rise of prices, the unstable atmosphere of the political climate. Then he livened up a little: “There are some interesting changes as well. For example, they have opened a free cafeteria for the senior citizens in need. The food is decent and it helps to survive, but what is important is the association with the kind, educated people. At the table we conduct never-ending conversations about life, art, and history.
Everyone has extensive experience - they all have something to share, and when departing we eagerly await the next morning. I was listening and thinking how great it was that the time has come when it is possible to have diverse outlooks, and one could express them without any worries.
Elderly
They did not only come to cafeteria to eat but to converse with people of their age and similar interests. Even though a free dinner was a nice addition to a miserly pension, it was also very tempting to share the ideas about the past and the present with the neighbors at the table. They tried not to talk much about the future: they weren’t young any longer and the country itself was not in a stable situation.
These two stood out with what was left of their looks and manly hood. Sometimes their eyes would get full of fire of the past. This occurred in those particular moments when they would talk about relationships of youth, especially about that particular one. It happened to one of them when he was too young and was not ready to take the next, responsible step – to get married. She married another man and even though after many years have passed, they ran into each other again and decided to get married, their marriage did not last long. The other one got married too early, because he did not want to let go of “the one” who loved him, but he could not deal with his desires and affairs, so she left him. They both regretted what was lost. Maybe this was what had really united them.
These old men used to come to eat dinner at the same time, and sat next to each other. They were polite to each other even though they did not look like friends. One was soft and kind, the other fiery and sometimes extremely talkative. Everyone was used to seeing them together. That is why everybody had noticed when one of the old men skipped dinner, but showed us the next day when the other man did not attend. Something didn’t allow the neighbors to be at the same to ask questions, and so they never found out that the old men met with the lady, the one who came to visit the city just for a few days, but in the distant past was their wife.
The Moustache
“Look, Granny! What a funny guy – an open mouth, turned up head and part of his moustache is sticking up.” The elderly woman was startled: “The moustache is sticking up!
Oh, that moustache!” The moustache – that’s what she called him…long ago, the first time she saw him was at the recruiter’s office. He, much like her, was forbidden from going to the front. He was nervously playing with the immaturely grown left side of his moustache and cracking voice whined, “who cares that I am only 16 years old. That’s not too young, is it?? She was also disappointed. She had taken nursing classes and had graduated. Age doesn’t matter all that much. The young man was right – 16 is not too young. She got what she wanted shortly afterwards. Time went by and she bumped into this young man with the crooked moustache. She recognized him by his moustache. From that moment the difficult life of war began. After each battle, they rushed to check to see if the other was alive. She was everybody’s favorite and to their surprise she seemed invincible to the bubbles and shells. “She is so petite that she can dodge the bullets,” the soldiers would joke affectionately. The always tried to protect her. Then they made it to the Reichstag. The war seemed to be coming to an end when a bullet struck the young man and he was mortally wounded. He was sent to the hospital immediately. She barely had time to say goodbye and she could hardly understand his muttering. “I love you. We will meet at the Reichstag. : He tried to play with his moustache, but his hand fell weakly on the stretcher.
“Oh that moustache!” recalled the elderly lady. Moustache, that’s the name she remembered him for the rest of her life. After the war ended, she got stationed at an officers’ unit. She never thought she would marry a German and stay in Berlin, but that’s what happened. She lived with her husband and her children were already grown. Her eldest granddaughter was visiting for the holidays. She decided to show her granddaughter the Reichstag on a day that had come to be very dear to her: Victory Day. This placed was very special to her, because it was where “Moustache” was wounded and where he first opened up his heart to her before they parted ways.
Even though the promise to meet at the Reichstag seemed naïve, she still never missed going there on Victory Day. And “Moustache” was never there. Maybe he forgot. God grant that he is still alive. She didn’t know how many times he had tried to make it to Berlin, but the military wouldn’t let him go. He had to wait for a while. He had also married during this time, but the thought of going to Berlin never left him.
The guy “with the open mouth and the crooked moustache” was still standing at the Reichstag. The young girl wanted to approach him, but as it turned out, he didn’t speak German. He was shocked when he heard her speak to him in Russian.
“What are you doing here all by yourself without knowing any German?” she asked. I’m here with my Grandfather,” he answered, “He’s over there on the bench. He is deeply moved. All his life he has been dreaming about coming to Berlin to see the Reichstag. I am just trying to understand why. Maybe it’s because he was wounded here on the last day of the war.”
The Millionaire
She has already understood that decent and indecent are relative terms. Nevertheless, she could not make up her mind if her decision to accept the Millionaire’s invitation to spend an evening, the night and following day with him was decent or not. She asked for advice and was told that it was ok because he was married, had children and was a serious man.
Now she was eager to spend time with the Millionaire. He lived on a farm, but before taking her to his home, he took her first to ball which was dedicated to choosing the Queen of the Farmer’s. His school for farmers (built and funded by the Millionaire) was producing specialists of the agricultural business. The school was only for young adults. Any young lady could be the queen through intense judging or a recommendation by one of the students, and a rigorous series of questions. In other words, it was a competition with the following prize.
The Millionaire was introducing her to everyone, and in addition to his personal introduction, her presence was announced on the radio. They did not know what to expect for the end of the Ball, but they were not concerned because they were waited upon throughout the night, since the restaurant located on the farm served them dinner.
After the evening came to a close, it was time to go to the guesthouse, and hard as she tried, she could not see the Millionaire’s house because it was too dark. On the way, they stopped off at his son’s house. It was a big house on the lake. Everything was designed considering the tastes of youth. At this time, it was so late that no one was at home and it gave her the chance to admire the endless rooms trying to find clues to help her figure out the characteristics of the inhabitant. What caught her eye the most was the fireplace with the big moose’s head in the center, and a collection of weapons on the sides. Also, at the entrance of the house was a rack with guns. Obviously, when living by yourself in the middle of the wilderness you need to have protection. She was still admiring the gorgeous rooms of the house when the Millionaire went to pick up his youngest son. In a little while a real cowboy appeared in the house. Armed from head to toe, and stealthily drawing his guns, he made an evident display to the guest that he was ready to protect her from everything. The cowboy was nine years old.
Overwhelmed by the lively evening and festive night, she quickly fell asleep. In what seemed to be only a minute, she heard the phone ring. The secretary of the millionaire told her she would be up in ten minutes to take her to the pool for breakfast; that’s where he was. It was only six am. In the morning darkness the house seemed majestic and superficial. It was easy to distinguish the garden behind the house, in the middle of which was an Olympic sized pool and a dining room table set up for four. She thought that she was going to meet the wife on the Millionaire, the black “Guardian Angel.” But she was introduced to her last night, and since he doesn’t spend much time with her, maybe they will meet again at supper. The son was sleeping till noon because it was summer vacation. The Millionaire always invites one of his employees over for breakfast. This time it was a man with a lady about thirty years of age. After breakfast they went to his office. On the way there she inquired to know what time his workers start their day. He replied his employees start an hour later than all others. To her surprise and awed look he explained with a story about how yesterday he got a phone call and had to leave his guest alone for a couple minutes, causing him to lose two million dollars in one of the business transactions. This incident did not in any way reflect on how he acted for the rest of the night. He can allow himself all those things by working almost twenty hours a day.
They looked over all of the workshops, where they sort and package their products. For some reason while he was greeting the workers, he took one of the women by the waist and hugged and kissed her, even though she was neither young, nor attractive. And again, in response to the facial expression we answered, that the woman deserves most of my respect by choosing to work for me, and gets the same kind of money as she would on workman’s comp. “She is asking me to pay her a little more but in that case,” he answered seriously, “I wouldn’t be a Millionaire.”
The Queen
It was the top of the night at the ball. Behind all the innocent smiles, behind all the brightly painted faces was the question of, “Who is going to be the queen?” They should announce it any second now.
No matter at a competition, or in school for doing the best work, her heart would always beat anticipating the announcement of the winner, always wanting to hear her name. But it never happened. She always thought of herself as an ordinary person, nothing too special and she got used to it. Even still, she held her breath, hoping to hear her name, but not this time. The Queen of the ball! It would be interesting to look at her. How would she look like? She was paying attention to her own reflection in the window. Her dress was perfect. She and her mother spent day and night in the library looking at the latest magazines for the most extravagant Hollywood dress ever. It came out magnificently. It sat perfect on her gorgeous figure. It was like the best designer in the world made that dress for her. Her hair was so beautiful, so luscious and full of big, black curls. But, everyone at the ball had light hair, and she envied them since for sure a blonde would be the Queen of the Ball. All those thoughts carried her away. All of a sudden everyone got quiet. The Queen has been picked and now they are going to say her name….
What a familiar name! She must have heard them wrong. But everyone was pushing her to the stage. The crown is placed on her head. She is The Queen! She could not believe it! This is so wonderful, but she did not prepare a speech. “What are your plans for the future?” They asked her. She can’t say that she and her mother have to work at the cleaners. “What is the Queen dreaming about?” What should she say? Should she make something up?!? How would she hide her wish to get married, for her and her mom to be able to live in this country legally…
Consciousness
Nobody would think that they were twins. One was fast, skinny, smart and the other was fat, kind and narrow-minded who got picked on a lot. The smart one never could forgive the chubby one, as he was bathed in love. Skinny would always set up Chubby for the bad things that he did. It almost became a habit: Skinny would misbehave more and more and chubby had to deal with the consequences, whether it be no desert or having to stand in the corner, or not being let to go play outside. But, he wouldn’t mind as he praised his brother. He always looked into his eyes trying to figure out his next want or need. If he got it correct he would clap his hands and jump up and down in the ecstasy of joy. The same way he expressed his feelings when they grew up along with the problems. Skinny would escalate the bad behavior to the bad behavior to the point of it being cruel and very dangerous. Following the eye movement or a hand gesture the big and strong one could take something away from somebody or even beat someone up, always with the spark in his eyes for doing something for his idol.
Short, mean, skinny guy who is mad at everything fell for a pretty girl. She was afraid of him due to his sadistic jokes and double-sided suggestions that she tried to ignore. She was drawn to the sweet giant. She did not expect that he would attack her and throw her down to the ground. One day he himself did not know what to do in this situation, and was looking all confused at his companion. He did not quite know what to do in this situation, and was looking all confused at his companion. He did not quite understand what his orders were, what was it he had to do to her? Beat her up? But she was so weak that she fell down just from his look. She was lying at his feet and looking with her big, open eyes. He had never seen eyes like that before or maybe just never noticed them. They were full of fear. Was she afraid of him? He never meant to hurt her. By the command he placed his hands on her throat. What’s next? Squeeze? He tried and immediately saw her gasping for air. He quickly removed his hands, and was happy that she started to breathe. On her neck he saw a small blue vein and for some reason his lips went towards it, but her eyes full of fear stopped him. Was there something to be done to make her happy? He wanted to see happiness in her eyes. How is he to understand what she wants? Something somewhere changed…what a strange and a good feeling. He was not listening to the commands of his mean brother, and picked the girl up and held her like a baby, cradling her to make her calm down. He seemed to forget about his brother and he was not look for his acknowledgement. He was confident that what he did was the right thing. He smiled happily clapping his hands and jumping up and down in the ecstasy of joy.
I Love You
In that country, everything seemed very extraordinary to him. It seemed that people were the same: in the morning they would hurry to work, in the evenings they relaxed and had fun, loved their children but still….Everyone looked like they were unhappy, sad, and not satisfied with something. But, if you came to see them at home, they would be very glad to see you and would act like you are their closest and dearest friend. They would tire a person out with their questions and hospitality. Everything is so strange, but without a doubt the women and girls are unbelievably beautiful. They are stylish and charming, but are also well mannered, always ready for a laugh and a conversation. You get an impression that they are all madly in love with you. But, he was obviously in love with them. He felt most comfortable at the gym, especially by the swimming pool. Everything there was familiar, just like at home. The girls were in bathing suits that tightly fit their young, firm bodies. He could not take away his eyes from them, one more beautiful than the other. But still in the whole ocean of blue, green, brown eyes, blonde, dark, long, short hair - one of them caught his eyes. She was the most remarkable and beautiful one.
He had to meet her and talk to her. But how? All of the phrases that he had learned before he left over seas were forgotten. He wanted to say so much, and most of all that he really liked her. It was love at first sight. Love! Love…His teacher taught him something about love. It was something very interesting and easy to remember. How did it go? Blue like the sky and yellow like a chick. No. First “yellow”, then “blue.” And then “vase” with the British pronunciation.
He approached her and looking deep into her eyes, said: Yellowbluevase.
And she thought he was a foreigner: No! One of ours! And also so cocky: the first words just “I Love You”.
Pocket General
She is so unbelievably little. She has small hands, beautiful legs, and a delicate face – everything surprisingly miniature. And these beautiful legs take her everywhere and get her to every place on time. And one wouldn’t believe the things that her tiny hands could do in one day…I love her very much. Should she only glance at me sorrowfully with those big, wide eyes, and I would begin to suffer, ready to fulfill her every desire. Does she have a lot of desires? Oh yes! Only how could they all possibly fit into her little head? She clearly formulates her desires and expects the immediate and unconditional completion, not even always letter her desires be known with worlds, but sometimes with just a movement of her little hand or the stretch of her little leg. It is difficult to imagine that this little person could possibly create and grow another human being. The appearance of the tiny wonder was a joyful event for everyone. And now I have two of them: my wife and my son. The army of my little general has expanded. My son adores her as much as I do. We are both ready to loyally
serve her and obey her every whim.
Interview with Myself
How did my adventure start?
Very miserabl.
An old joke comes to mind: a restaurant ‘Nostalgia’ has opened. For dinner they served borsht, yesterdays cutlets, and for desert – compote with a fly. When people were about to leave the waiter used to politely say, “Come back again tomorrow, Jew!” I should not have started to do business with the Russian agency. They did not even invite me to come inside the Americana agency after they ruined the beginning of my vacation. I received neither my visa nor my ticket. So I ended up leaving two weeks later, paying twice as much for the fair. And there wasn’t so much as an apology to be heard. I do not recommend to anyone the services of Americana in New York. (With my arrival I have learned that they ended up bankrupt.)
All of my worst expectations realized?
To my luck, everything was just the opposite.
Does my opinion differ from those of other people returning from their trips to Russia?
“I will not speak for the whole Russia…since I have only been to St. Petersburg.”
So what was my first reaction?
I felt gratified that everything is where it belongs; churches, statues, streets, theaters and museums.
What can I say about the people?
I have spoken to many different people; with the young and not so young, with the kids and with the elderly, in the subway, in the stores, in theaters and even on the streets. I cannot tell you about everyone and everything with just one word. On the whole people became more open-minded, kind and talkative. Everyone is looking forward to the next day with hope. Many have their own points of view. Many look for the new, better ways of life…especially the young people.
What did I consider to be interesting?
With regards to what I thought was interesting, I could write you a few stories.
The New Beggarly
I visited the city where I have lived my whole life after a very long break. Meetings, my feelings…I’ll need time to think this all through and make some decisions. These are some things I can share with you now, and what I think of as a good token of time.
When I was just a little girl, I thought that beggars – they were poor people, that did not have anything to eat, and they were called beggars (ni-shi), (eli) – I added to the end of that word in my mind: “ni shi eli” ( in Russian it means ‘they did not eat vegetable soup’), and I was always surprised when my parents gave me a coin to donate to them. I was sure they would much rather have a plate of hot borsh.
I never understood the invalids who demonstrated their amputated arms or legs, asking for hang-outs. My father was also an invalid of war, but he worked, received his pension and was respected by all. In my childhood and even up until this time I feel fear and distrust, when I see gypsies with their babies on the street approaching me and wishing to predict my fortune and in the end asking for money for their baby’s milk.
Not long ago in Russia, I have encountered a new kind of beggar; actually I would call them poor or needy instead. They were kind of “poor businessmen.” When musicians played many different instruments with the holsters of those instruments used as a donation box. People would walk by and throw money in those holsters and sometimes crowds gathered around and enjoyed the performances of those poor businessmen. I have seen this before in large cities of America, and in Stockholm, and in Prague, but this was the first time I have encountered such musicians in St. Petersburg. A large audience gathered daily to admire a whole orchestra in the very center of the city. They played professionally.
In Petrodvorets, among the fountains, young people that were dressed “a la Mozart”, with high spirit performed compositions by Mozart. A mother and two sons gathered quite a large audience. The younger of two sons was maybe with, and he skillfully played the flute. All three of them were dressed in beautiful concert costumes. People listened to them with the greatest of admiration and donated bills into their elegant black trunk.
“New Beggarly” invent the most amazing and surprising “scenarios” just to earn an extra kopek. I remembered a woman with a box full of kittens and a sign that said: “Help to save the animals”. Or for example a middle aged man that made his puddle stand on two feet with a sign around its neck that said: “I do not get pension, but I still want to eat. Help me...”
The biggest impression left a little girl, a with “caucasian appearance”, as they say in Russia now. She was seven-eight years old and dressed like an Indian girl, even with a star between her eyebrows. She put both of her little hands to her chest and gently with a thin voice said, “In the name if Chris, please donate a kopek…” My companion found a few coins in his pockets and offered them to the little girl. The girl looked at the money and shamelessly proclaimed: “This is not enough!”
“Then give it back to me!” said the man.
”There you are!” – said the little girl, brushed off her hair and ran away. It was obvious that she was not in need of the money for “borsh.”
Yes, new times, new beggars.
Could there be a civilization without beggars?
That is the question.
The Guitarist
I was staring at a young man, so long that it could have been considered rude of me. Yes I particularly liked his type when I was younger: a tall brunette with bright eyes, even his mustache was trimmed just the way I liked it. He also had a guitar in a case. I promised myself long ago that “I was done with it.” Actually I promised myself twice. One tine in the subway when I have noticed that men on the escalator across from mine would not turn heads to look at me once they passed. This was the first “sign.” And another time when during the rehearsal for one of the television programs I was teaching young girls how to stand correctly and how to make their eyes look pretty. During the show for demonstration I have used myself as an example as an example and said, “Even though I am not young anymore I am always ready.” When nobody disagreed with me and tried to convince me otherwise, I understood that this was the second sign, and “the certain does not rise.” No reason to wait for the third sign.
He started talking to me. Could it possibly be because I did not take my eyes off him while remembering the past? How embarrassing. Luckily I momentarily recognized the familiar accent: Speak Russian. It is my native language!” I happily exclaimed.
“How fortunate,” – he said surprisingly. “I really wanted to talk to you but I never dreamed of talking about my experience in my own language. Everything else resembles a dream.”
He told me that from the time he was an only child he loved the guitar. His mother who was a music teacher began to teach him how to play the piano when she discovered that he had an ear for music. He wasn’t cooperative. She attempted to send him to school where he could learn how to play a violin (it is also a string instrument), but he secretly changed classes and began learning how to play the guitar. After he received a mid-level music education, he continued in the conservatoire. And no he teaches music. He used his own method of teaching how to play guitar, and has his own playing style. He maintained a thesis and now is planning to open a private school someday. But for now he teaches in the conservatoire and offers private lessons, he needs money. His worries and exultation he explained by telling me that he was coming from European classical guitar competition. No, he did not win. Yet. He finished in the Top Ten. And he was sure this was only the beginning. He would try not to miss the most prestigious competitions, and that’s why he needs a lot of money. I was surprised to find out that the players no longer get sent by the authorities to these competitions, but that anyone willing to pay can go. Obviously they have to announce to the creators of the competitions of their desire to attend ahead of time, and then the initiations will be send out. My new acquaintance was literally drunk from all of the meetings with colleagues from different countries, with their variety of styles and types of performances. He had no doubt that in the future he will be the winner, but for now he was ready to perfect his skill and to learn all of the rules and ways of competitions. After telling me his views and plans he quickly asked me about life in America. While talking we did not ever notice how we arrived in St. Petersburg. We exchanged business cards and he said to me, “I would be happy to introduce you to my mother, but I am sure you will not have free time. If you will be in the neighborhood of the hotel ‘Europe’ look me up: I play there every night. It is the lion’s share of my earnings. Then he smiled and added, “And of course my mother doesn’t know anything about it.”
WHY?
“Why? Why have I come here? Why did I need to come here? Why?” – he kept asking himself and tried to find the answer…
No, he didn’t have a car there but public transportation took him anywhere he needed to go. And last years he was always taking taxis. Especially on business trips in the capital, where he was often invited for the filming of new movies.
Now he owns a car, not a very new one but reliable enough. He delivers pizza in it.
That is his job now…
It is so hard to find addresses he needs for delivery, because the town is unfamiliar and the street names written in a foreign language are hard to recognize quickly while driving.
“Why? Why did I come here?”
The pay at the job is so little. Minimum of wage plus tips. It is so humiliating. There, he was the one who gave tips with ease and pleasure. How much he drank the best wine at the most fashionable restaurants on all kinds of occasions: the berth of the son, the anniversaries of close friends, prizes on movies at film festivals, government recognition for successful work. All of that was in the past…
“Why? Why have I come here?”
When there was no pizza to be delivered, his boss made him work in the kitchen: cleaning, washing, unloading the cars, carrying heavy packages and boxes. By the end of the day he was absolutely exhausted. Completely exhausted. No more energy.
It had happened before. There too. But there was such enjoyment and pleasure, and satisfaction: new work, new achievement, new success, new victory!
“Why? Why did I need to come here?”
Finally, he is on his way home. Home? Was it really “home”? They rented a tiny place and furnished it with the stuff found in the garbage.
Back there it was a real home! There was expensive imported furniture there, real woolen rugs covered the floor, none of this artificial nonsense.
“Why? Why did I do it?”
With difficulty he got out of the car, climbed on the second floor and rang the door bell of their so called apartment. His son opened the door. The boy’s face was shining and he burst out with: “Congratulate me, dad! I am a valedictorian!” The word was not familiar and it sounded strange, but the hart began to beat with joy and happiness…
The best of the best, the very finest of all who graduate the school – that is the meaning of the word…
My Kind of Guy
Why do American students study Russian? There are all kinds of reasons.
Some have been in Russia and have fallen in love with the country and the Russian people. Others are hoping to make contacts that will be useful in their future work. And there are romantics who want to read Tolstoy and Dostoevsky in the original…
This is a story about one of the students who turned out to be out of the ordinary.
He was a black policeman, a big, serious, heavy-set man, who worked in a prison. His dream was to go to Russia and get acquainted with Russian prisons.
His large family, night shifts and poor preparation in the grammar of his native language hindered his progress in class. The teacher tried to find special ways of teaching him “the fun and easy way”. But he had no time for fun…
“Once upon a time there lived an old man with his wife by the shore of the deep blue see…” – the students repeated after their professor the beginning of one of the Pushkin’s fairy tails, with filling and enthusiasm. Then they improvised: “Once upon a time there lived some students in the city of Tampa”.
“Once upon a time there lives I a policemen” deliberately pronounced the prison guard. There was no need to correct and disappoint him…
Emboldened with praise, for the next lesson, he prepared the following assignment with special care: “Describe the appearance of a Russian writer or poet.”
“He has black, curly hair. He has large, dark, clever eyes. He is the greatest Russian poet. He is my kind of guy”. And of confirmation of the last sentence, the policeman proudly showed everyone a portrait that he had found in the university library. It was a portrait of Abram Cannibal, the great-grandfather of Alexander Pushkin.
The professor could not pass up such a marvelous chance to tell the students about Pushkin’s family. It was so interesting for them to know, that the maiden name of Alexander Pushkin’s mother was Cannibal. The father of Nadezhda Osipovna Cannibal
(the mother of the poet) was Osip Abramovich Cannibal, one of the three sons of Abram Petrovich Cannibal.
Abram Cannibal was a foster child and a godson of Peter the Great and the great-grandfather of Alexander Pushkin, the best Russian poet, who captured the heart of the American student, the black policeman, who worked in a prison and studied Russian.
He definitely decided to go to Russia and not only to get acquainted with Russian prisons but by all means to see the places where Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin lived and wrote. Pushkin, who was the great-grandson of Abram Cannibal and for sure… “his kind of guy”.
PRINCESSES AND WOLVES
(Grandmother’s clever tales for smart children )
I have two grandchildren: Elizabeth, whom we call “Alisa”, and Daniel. Since I have grandchildren that means
I am a grandmother.
Do you have a grandmother?
My grandchildren love fairy tales. I have already told them every one I ever knew.
Does your grandmother tell you stories? If not, then you can listen to mine along with Alisa and Daniel.
I say that the tales are mine because I made them up myself, and no one has heard them yet.
You and my grandchildren will be the first ones.
Long days always end, and then evening comes. Before we go to sleep we yearn for one last bit of interesting and unusual news. That’s why I tell stories to my grandchildren, and now, to you too.
Usually we talk for a while before a story and again at the end of a tale. Now you can join our talks as well. Have you done everything you should before going to bed? You haven’t forgotten to brush your teeth, have you? Unpleasant things could happen if you have.
What kind of things? Soon you’ll know.
Ok, now we have had our talk, the way my grandchildren and I do before a story.
Remember, we call it the “talk- before the story” time. And afterwards there will be an
after-the story talk too.
What happens next? Why, of course, a story about a wolf and a doctor.
Listen a story about the wolf, who pays a visit to the dentist.
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