LITMIR.BIZ

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under the muffled drum-roll-like chant from behind the wall to the Pillutikha’s, whose blather at times peaked up into piercing but indistinct shrieks.

      Then I went to Club and, coming back, again saw Pillutikha, back-lit by a distant bulb in the room, she never turned on the light in the kitchen where she stood up against the hateful wall. After all the 4 parents of our khutta returned from work, Pillutikha would increase her volume to which the usual comment from Father was, “Ew! Again that Goebbels at her hurdy-gurdy!”

      Once Uncle Tolik put a large teacup to the wall to hear what she was croaking about. I also pressed my ear to the cup bottom, the gabble got nearer and sounded already not from behind the wall but inside the white teacup, yet remained as thick as before. Mother advised not to pay attention to the half-witted old woman, and Aunt Lyouda explained that Pillutikha was putting curses on all of us thru the wall. She turned to that same wall and pronounced with perfect poise, “Be all of that back to your bosom!”

      I don’t know whether Pillutikha was crazy indeed. She managed to live alone, after all. By the end of the war, her daughter left Konotop for the safety’s sake, to avoid troubles for her cheerful behavior with the officers at the German Company Headquarters lodging in her parents’ khutta. Pillutikha’s son Grisha was doing his ten-year stretch in prison for some murder. Her husband died; no TV by her side. Maybe, she kept cursing so as not to go nuts, who knows…

      Grandma Katya never commented or said anything about Pillutikha, she only smiled a guilty smile. On some days she moaned occasionally but not louder than the muffled Goebbels’ speeches from behind the wall… And suddenly an ambulance arrived and she was taken to the hospital.

      Three days later they brought Grandma Katya back and laid her on the leatherette-covered mattress-couch, constructed from the remains of the big sofa brought from the Object and put under the window in the kitchen, opposite to the brick stove. She did not recognize nor spoke to anyone, and only moaned loudly. In the evening our two families gathered in front of the TV and shut the door to the kitchen to cut off her moans and heavy smell. The Arkhipenkos moved their beds to the room and it became a bedroom for 9.

      The next day the ambulance was called again, but they did not take her away and only made an injection. Grandma Katya quieted for a short time but then again began to sway from side to side on her couch, repeating the same screams, “Oh, God! Ah, probby!” A few years later I guessed that “probby” was a shortened Ukrainian “forgive me, God”.

      Grandma Katya was dying for 3 days.

      Our families stayed at neighboring khuttas; the Arkhipenkos at Number 15, and we at 21, in the half of Ivan Kreepak. Older neighbors were giving our parents indistinct advice about breaking out the threshold to our khutta, or some of the floorboards inside it. The most common-sense proposal made Ivan Kreepak’s wife, auntie Tamara. She said that the couch with Grandma Katya stood under the window with a half-open leaf above her head, and the fresh air flow protracted the sufferings of the poor thing.

      That same evening, Mother and Aunt Lyouda dropped into our khutta to grab more blankets, then they put out the light and got out onto the porch. There Aunt Lyouda neared the kitchen window and closed the leaf tightly. Then she stealthily stepped down to Mother and me—I was holding the blankets—with a smile of a naughty girl on her face, or so it seemed in the dark moonless night.

      In the morning Mother woke us, sleeping on the floor in the living-room of Kreepak’s khutta, with the news that Grandma Katya died.

      The funeral was the next day. I did not want to go, but Mother said I should. I was burning with shame. It seemed to me that everyone knew that Grandma Katya was suffocated by her own daughters. That’s why I let loose the ear-flaps of my rabbit-fur hat and pulled it over my eyes. And so I went all the way from our khutta to the cemetery, keeping my guilty head low, and looking at the feet of those who walked ahead of me.

      It’s possible though that no one ever guessed that such my stance was caused by shame and not because of the strong wind slapping my face with icy pellets.

      At the cemetery, under the shrill crying of the three trumpets over the uneven mound of snow mixed with black earth lumps, all Grandma Katya’s children were sobbing too, both Mother, and Aunt Lyouda, and even Uncle Vadya.

      (…living on, we harden more and more, someday I’ll grow less sensitive than those iron crackers from the thread-bare scrip of the wanderer in search for her beloved Finist the Falcon Radiant…)

      The news of the Yuri Gagarin’s death shattered us, though not so tragically as the death of Vladimir Komarov eleven months before him – getting harder we had learned already that astronauts were also mortal. The TV announcer, keeping his eyes down to the sheet of text on his desk, read that in a training jet plane flight, Gagarin together with his partner-pilot Sehryogin crashed when approaching the airfield. Then he looked up thru his thick-lensed black-rimmed glasses and declared the All-Union mourning.

      When a person reads from a sheet of paper it does not mean that they hide the eyes to conceal their shame, they just do their job, how else would we know the news? Shortly before Gagarin’s death, I heard in the adults’ gossip that after all, he didn’t live up to what you’d call an impeccable hero, because he became too vain and proud, and he cheated on his wife. Consider, for instance, that wide scar in his eyebrow which appeared after his jump from a lover’s apartment on the second floor.

      (…but who’s interested today in all those rumors, be they true or false?

      For my son Ahshaut, and so for all of his generation, Gagarin is just a name from a history textbook, as for me was, say, Marshal Tukhachevsky.

      Orbited the Earth? Well, OK, good job.

      Got executed by a firing squad? Well-well, bad luck.

      However, for me Gagarin is not a textbook but a part of my own life and, as long as I’m alive, I am interested to find out what happened, how and why. And, when digging for certain facts, it’s hard not to fall in love with Internet search engines. The only venue for getting info then was the radio-voices from behind the crackle-’n’-burst static 24/7 or the yarn by Zone old-timers. The first was effectively unreadable, like the Pilutikha curses inside the pottery pressed to the wall, the lack of exact dating and absence of references made the eye-withesses’s tales sound fairly mythological. Still and yet, even before the rise of Netscape, I managed to learn that his attitude to the superiors in the chain of command grew markedly conceited after cosmonaut Vladimir Komarov returned to the Earth in form of a scorched firebrand…

      Vladimir Komarov knew that he would not survive his space flight because his backup, Yuri Gagarin, when inspecting the spaceship Voskhod, found two hundred technical flaws which he listed in a written report of ten pages. He passed the report thru his higher commanders to Leonid Brezhnev, the then Ruler of the USSR. The commanders held the report by them, they knew that Brezhnev would never agree to postpone the launch date taking risks that Americans might get ahead of the Soviet Union in the space flight race.

      Komarov could refuse to go to his obvious death, but then the doomed spaceship would be manned by his backup and personal friend, Yuri Gagarin. On the doomsday morning, Gagarin appeared at the launch pad wearing an astronaut spacesuit and demanded that he be sent instead of Komarov, but he was not listened to…

      After the burial of Komarov’s ashes in the Kremlin wall, next to the ashes of Marshal Malinovsky, Gagarin’s behavior became extremely defiant and uncontrolled. By unconfirmed rumors, at one of the government banquets, Yuri Gagarin splattered his glass of vodka into Brezhnev’s face.

      Americans rule out the plausibility of such an incident not because of the lack of perspicacity inherent in the mixed up nation taking root in simpletons unable to survive among the population of their origin but because of the different grammar. Since in the Russian language “mother” and “death” are of the same grammatical gender, for a Russian mujik, consciously or unconsciously, there feels some similarity in the 2. Well, how to plausibly bring over the meaning of “Death-Mommy” to Americans if all they've got is just “Mr. Death”? Not anything fits into one's mind until they got it under their skin… As a tangent effect, they shove an anti-tank mine under their belt

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