Churilin grew more animated. He sat on my bed and said, “What a brain! Now that’s a real brain! With a brain like that there’s really no need to work.”
“Especially,” I noted, “if you whack it with a brass buckle.”
“That’s in the past,” Churilin said, “forgotten… Write down what I’m supposed to say.”
“I told you.”
“Write it down. Or I’ll get mixed up.”
Churilin handed me a pencil stub. He tore off a scrap of newspaper. “Write.”
I neatly wrote “no”.
“What does it mean, ‘no’?” he asked.
“You said: ‘Write down what I’m supposed to say.’ So I wrote: ‘No’. I’ll ask the question: ‘Do you have a civilian profession?’ You’ll say: ‘No.’ After that I’ll talk about the driving classes. And then the commotion will start.”
“So I just say one word, ‘no’?”
“Looks that way.”
“That’s not enough,” Churilin said.
“They might ask you other questions.”
“Like what?”
“That
I don’t know.”
“What will I reply?”
“Depends on what they ask.”
“What will they ask? Roughly?”
“Well, maybe: ‘Do you admit your guilt, Churilin?’”
“And what will I reply?”
“You reply: ‘Yes.’”
“That’s all?”
“You could say, ‘Yes, of course, I admit it and repent deeply.’”
“That’s better. Write it down. First write the question, and then my answer. Write the questions in regular script and print the answers. So I don’t confuse them.”
Churilin and I worked on this till eleven. The paramedic wanted to chase him out, but Churilin said, “Can’t I visit my comrade in arms?”
As a result we wrote an entire drama. We anticipated dozens of questions and answers. And at Churilin’s insistence I added parenthetical stage directions: “coldly”, “thoughtfully”, “bewildered”.
Then they brought lunch: a bowl of soup, fried fish and pudding.
Churilin was astonished. “They feed you better here than at the guardhouse.”
I said, “I suppose you’d prefer it the other way round?”
I had to give him the pudding and the fish.
After that Churilin left. He said, “My pal at the guardhouse goes off duty at twelve. After that some Ukrainian jerk is on. I have to get back.”
Churilin went to the window. Then he returned. “I forgot. Let’s trade belts. Otherwise they’ll add to my sentence for the buckle.”
He took my soldier’s belt and hung his on the bed.
“You’re in luck,” he said. “Mine’s real leather. And the buckle is weighted. One blow and a man’s out for the count!”
“You don’t say…”
Churilin went back to the window. Turned around again. “Thanks,” he said. “I won’t forget this.”
And he climbed out the window. Even though he could easily have used the door.
It’s a good thing he didn’t take my cigarettes.
Three days passed. The doctor told me I got off easy: all I had was a cut on the head.
I wandered around the military base. Spent hours in the library. Tanned myself on the roof of the woodshed.
Twice I tried to visit the guardhouse. Once a Latvian doing his first year of service was on duty. He raised his sub-machine gun as I approached. I wanted to pass cigarettes through him, but he shook his head.
I dropped by again in the evening. This time, an instructor I knew was on duty.
“Go on in,” he said. “You can spend the night if you want.”
He rattled the keys. The door opened.
Churilin was playing cards with three other prisoners. A fifth was watching the game with a sandwich in his hand. Orange peels were scattered on the floor.
“Greetings,” Churilin said. “Don’t bother me. I’m going to flatten them in a minute.”
I gave him the cigarettes.
“No booze?” Churilin asked.
One could only admire his gall.
I stood around for a minute and left.
In the morning there were posters all over the place: “Open Komsomol divisional meeting. Comrades’ court. Personal case of Churilin, Vadim Tikhonovich. Attendance mandatory.”
An old-timer was walking by. “It’s about time,” he said. “They’ve gone wild… It’s terrible what’s going on in the barracks… Wine flowing from under the doors…”
About sixty people were gathered in the club. The Komsomol bureau sat on the stage. Churilin was seated to one side, next to the banner. They were waiting for Major Afanasyev.
Churilin looked absolutely thrilled. Perhaps it was his first time onstage. He gestured, waved to his friends. What’s more, he also waved to me.
Major Afanasyev came onstage.
“Comrades!”
Silence gradually came over the hall.
“Comrades! Today we are discussing the personal case of Private Churilin. Private Churilin was sent on an important mission with Private First Class Dovlatov.
On the way Private Churilin got as drunk as a skunk and began acting irresponsibly. As a result, Private First Class Dovlatov was wounded, even though he’s just as much of a fuckwit, forgive my language… They should have been ashamed of themselves in front of the prisoner at least…”
While the major spoke, Churilin glowed with joy. He patted his hair, twisted in his seat, touched the banner. Clearly, he felt like a hero.
The major went on. “In this quarter alone, Churilin spent twenty-six days in the guardhouse. I’m not talking about drunken behaviour – that’s like snow in winter for Churilin. I’m talking about more serious crimes, like brawling. You’d think that for him Communism has already been built. He doesn’t like your face, he throws a punch! Soon everybody will let fly with their fists. Don’t you think
I
get the urge to clock someone in the face? The cup of patience runneth over. We must decide: does Churilin stay with us or do his papers go to the tribunal? It’s a serious case, comrades! Let’s begin. Tell us how it happened, Churilin.”
Everyone looked at Churilin. A crumpled paper appeared in his hands. He turned this way and that, looked it over, and mumbled to himself.
“Speak,” Major Afanasyev repeated.
Churilin looked at me in bewilderment. We had not foreseen this. We had left something out of the scenario.
The major raised his voice. “We’re waiting!”
“I’m in no rush,” Churilin said.
He looked grim. His face was becoming resentful and morose. At the same time the major’s voice was growing more irritated. I had to raise my hand. “Let me tell it.”
“As you were,” the major shouted. “You’re a fine one to talk!”
“Aha,” said Churilin. “Here… I want… whatchama-callit… I want to take bulldozer driving courses.”
The major turned to him: “What do courses have to do with it, damn your eyes! You got drunk, maimed your friend, and now you dream about courses!… How about going to college while you’re at it? Or the conservatory?”
Churilin looked at the paper once more and said grimly, “Why are we worse than the regular army?”
The major choked with rage. “How long will this go on? I’m trying to meet him halfway, and this is what he comes out with! I ask him to tell his story and he won’t!”
“What’s there to tell?” Churilin said, jumping up.
“You want some Forsyte Saga
or something? Tell us! Tell us! What’s to tell? What the hell are you bugging me for, you son of a bitch! I can plant one on you, too!”
The major reached for his holster. Red splotches appeared on his cheeks. He was panting. Finally he regained his self-control. “Everything is clear to the court. The meeting is adjourned!”
Two old-timers took Churilin by the arms. I reached for my cigarettes as I headed for the door.
Churilin got a year in the disciplinary battalion. A month before he got out I was discharged. I never saw the crazy prisoner again, either. That whole world disappeared for me.
Only the belt remains.
Fernand Léger’s Jacket
T
HIS IS THE STORY of the prince and the pauper. In March 1941, Andrei Cherkasov was born. In September of that same year I was born.
Andryusha was the son of an outstanding man. My father stood out only for his thinness.
Nikolai Konstantinovich Cherkasov was a fantastic actor and a deputy to the Supreme Soviet. My father was an ordinary theatre director and the son of a bourgeois nationalist.
Cherkasov’s talent thrilled Peter Brook, Fellini and De Sica.* My father’s talent elicited even his parents’ doubts.
Cherkasov was known by the whole country as an actor, deputy and fighter for peace. My father was known only by the neighbours as a drinker and a neurotic.
Cherkasov had a dacha, a car, an apartment and fame. My father had asthma.
Their wives were friends. I think they graduated from the drama institute together.
My mother was an average actress, then a proofreader, and finally a pensioner. Nina Cherkasova was also an average actress. After her husband’s death, she was fired from the theatre.
Naturally, the Cherkasovs had friends from the highest social circles: Shostakovich, Mravinsky, Eisenstein…* My parents belonged to the Cherkasovs’ everyday milieu.
All our lives we were aware of that family’s care and protection. Cherkasov gave references for my father. His wife gave my mother dresses and shoes.
My parents often argued. Then they divorced. The divorce was practically the only peaceful moment of their life together, one of the few instances when they acted in concert.
Andryusha was my first friend. We met during the evacuation. Actually, we didn’t meet, but lay next to each other in baby carriages. Andryusha had a foreign carriage. Mine was locally made.
We ate equally badly, I think. There was a war on.
Then the war ended. Our families ended up in Leningrad. The Cherkasovs lived in a ministerial building on Kronverkskaya Street. We lived in a communal flat on Rubinstein Street.
Andryusha and I saw each other frequently. We went to children’s matinees together. We celebrated all our birthdays together.
I went to Kronverkskaya with my mother on the tram; the chauffeur brought Andryusha to our house in a war-spoils Bugatti.
Andryusha and I were the same height, about the same age. We grew up healthy and energetic.
Andryusha, as I remember it, was bolder, fiercer, harsher. I was a bit stronger physically and, I think, had a tiny bit more common sense.
The Cherkasovs had a dacha, surrounded by firs, on the Karelian peninsula. The windows opened onto the Gulf of Finland, with seagulls soaring over it. Every summer we stayed there.
Andryusha was given a maid. The maids were changed frequently; as a rule, they were fired for theft. Who
could blame them? Nina Cherkasova had foreign things lying all over the place. The shelves were packed with perfumes and cosmetics. This excited young maids. Noticing yet another loss, Nina Cherkasova would frown.
“Luba is being naughty!”
The next day Luba was replaced by Zina…
I had a nanny, Luiza Genrikhovna. As a German in the post-war period, she was subject to arrest. Luiza Genrikhovna hid out at ours. That is, she simply lived with us, and at the same time she brought me up. I don’t think we paid her anything at all.
Once I was staying at the Cherkasov dacha with Luiza Genrikhovna. Then this happened: Luiza Genrikhovna had thrombophlebitis. A dairymaid she knew recommended putting excrement on her legs. A folk remedy. To the dismay of the people around her, the remedy worked. Right up to her arrest Luiza Genrikhovna exuded an unbearable odour. We put up with it, of course, but the Cherkasovs turned out to be more refined. Mama was told that the presence of Luiza Genrikhovna was not welcome.
After that Mother rented a room on the same street, in a peasant house. Nanny and I spent every summer there. Right up to her arrest.
In the mornings I went to Andryusha’s house. We ran around the property, ate blueberries, played ping-pong, caught beetles. On warm days we went to the beach. If it rained, we played with clay on the veranda.
Sometimes Andryusha’s parents came. His mother came almost every Sunday. His father came about four times each summer, to catch up on his sleep.
The Cherkasovs themselves treated me well, but the housekeepers weren’t as nice. After all, I was extra work. Without extra pay.
So Andryusha was allowed to be naughty, but I wasn’t. Rather, Andryusha’s pranks seemed natural, and mine – not quite. I was told, “You’re smarter. You should set a good example for Andryusha.” Thus, I was turned into a small governor for the summer.
I felt the inequality. Even though people raised their voices at Andryusha more frequently, and punished him more severely, and I was always set up as an example for him.
Still, I felt hurt. Andryusha was more important. The servants feared him as the master. And I was just one of the folk. And even though the housekeeper was even folksier, she clearly didn’t like me.
Theoretically it should have been different. The housekeeper should have liked me for being closer to her socially. She should have felt sympathy for me as a classless intellectual. But in reality, servants love their hated masters much more than it seems. And of course, more than themselves.
Nina Cherkasova was a cultured, wise and well-bred woman. Naturally, she would not allow her friend’s six-year-old son to be humiliated. If Andryusha took an apple, I was entitled to one just like it. If Andryusha was going to the movies, tickets were bought for both of us.
With hindsight, I now see that Nina Cherkasova had all the good qualities and all the flaws of the rich. She was courageous, decisive and focused. She was also cold, haughty and aristocratically naive. For instance, she considered money a burden.
She said to my mother, “You’re so lucky, Nora! Your Seryozha is happy if you give him a caramel. But my big lug only likes chocolate…”
Of course I liked chocolate, too. But I pretended to prefer caramels.