We hear on the radio of an important death
The next day we’re sitting in bed not talking much, waiting for Aunty Nadya to come back for more physiotherapy. The State radio speaker in the room is playing really sad classical music, going on and on and on, with no talking in between, and not even any news every half hour, like there always is. The music’s playing exactly the same tunes as the funeral orchestra plays when it passes the School with a body in the back of a bus on its way to the cemetery at the end of Red Decembrist Street. There’s this little brass band that walks behind the bus, playing the same depressing thing.
‘I wish they’d stop playing that yobinny music,’ says Masha, after we’ve been listening for what seems like hours. She bangs her fist on the bed. ‘You’d think someone had died.’
We don’t talk to each other until the cleaner, Aunty Vladlena, comes in to mop the floor.
‘Someone’s died,’ she says, pointing her mop up at the speaker.
‘Wh-who?’
‘Dunno, Dasha. Some big pine cone. Someone from the Presidium or the Central Committee, most likely. Not Brezhnev though, he’s too young. Could be any of the others though.’
‘Wh-why don’t they say who it is?’
‘They will. Eventually. Not likely to be poor old Khrushchev either. He’s been banished, so he wouldn’t get the whole funeral music treatment.’
‘I don’t care who it is,’ says Masha. ‘I just wish they’d drop it.’
‘Last time someone important died, we had three days of this music, so get used to it, love.’
She’s mopping under our bed by the time Aunty Nadya comes in carrying a pair of crutches under her arm.
‘Well, Vladlena, who do we think’s died then?’
She’s not looking at us.
Crutches? Me and Masha stare at each other and then back at them. What do we need crutches for? We haven’t needed those since we were first learning to walk.
‘Could be anyone, Nadezhda Fyodorovna.’
‘Not Brezhnev though.’
‘Nyet … Too young.’
‘Wait a minute. I think it’s stopped.’
They both stand there, looking up at the speaker, waiting for an announcement.
It is officially announced, says the deep, slow voice of Mayak State Radio … we all hold our breath. Except Masha. She doesn’t really care who’s died … that the Hero of the Soviet Union, Yuri Gagarin, the world’s first cosmonaut, has perished.
I feel like someone’s punched me in the stomach. Gagarin? No! No, no, no! How? Aunty Vladlena claps her hand over her mouth. We can’t stop staring up at the speaker. The announcement of Colonel Gagarin’s death has just been made by the Communist Party’s Central Committee, the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet, the Soviet Council of Ministers … on and on he goes about who’s made the announcement that Gagarin is dead, but he doesn’t say the most important thing – how did it happen?
‘P-Perished? What d-does that mean?’
I look up at Aunty Nadya, but she’s gone completely white. ‘It means killed,’ she says after a bit. ‘But who killed him? How? What?’ And then, she and Aunty Vladlena run right out of the room, leaving us alone.
When they’ve gone, I see she’s dropped the crutches on the floor.
Our crutches.
April 1968
And with Gagarin’s death the hope for Communism fades away
You’d have thought the world had ended that day. In a way it had. Everyone just seemed to lose heart somehow.
‘You really shouldn’t take this so badly, girls, you really shouldn’t.’
Aunty Nadya’s sitting in the chair by our bed. It’s been two weeks since we first tried to walk. Two weeks since Yuri Gagarin was killed.
‘How can we not take it badly? That we’ll never walk again? Not by ourselves, at any rate,’ says Masha, thumping the pillow. Masha cried a week ago when Aunty Nadya told us that amputating the leg had altered our balance so much, we’d probably never be able to walk without crutches. The last time I saw her cry was when Lucia left SNIP. Lucia had hopped into our room to say goodbye, and had given Masha a slap on the shoulder, saying, ‘Right, back to the Home Front. If I don’t run away again, I’ll write,’ and when she’d gone, Masha had put her head under her pillow and cried and cried and cried, all muffled. We never talked about that. And she did again, a week ago. She hated herself for crying, but she couldn’t keep it in. We weren’t cripples before, we were just … Together. At least I know it won’t make any difference to Slava. As long as Anyootka hasn’t stolen him away from me …
‘Now come along. At least you can learn to walk with crutches. Look on the bright side.’
‘What bright side?’ Masha’s all knotted up inside. ‘We did the amputation to look better for that stupid Committee, we did it so we’d be graded Four, and now we’re on crutches they’ll probably grade us Three. We’ve just gone and assassinated our chances of a good future …’
‘Now, don’t talk such silliness, Masha. We’ve got to leave tomorrow … assassinated your chances, indeed …’
‘Talking of assassinations,’ says Aunty Vladlena, walking in through the open door. ‘Did you hear it was the Americans that killed Gagarin?’
‘Well, so they say … Vladlena, we really shouldn’t believe rumours—’
‘What else are we supposed to believe, when we don’t get told nothing?’
‘The less you know …’ says Aunty Nadya, getting up with a sigh.
‘It’s like the whole country’s died with him, isn’t it?’ goes on Aunty Vladlena, ‘just like the whole country’s been shot in the heart somehow, like Gagarin was by Uncle Sam.’
‘Please stop that, Vladlena, I’m having enough of a problem with the girls. Dasha can’t stop sniffling about him and neither can any of the kitchen staff. We’ve had salty soup all week …’
‘Da-oosh! Well, whatever you may say, Nadezhda Fyodorovna, it’s like we’ve not just lost Gagarin, it’s like we’ve lost the will to go on and fight for everything, you know? He was our shining light. Those yobinny Americans! We should nuke the lot of ’em.’
‘That’s quite enough, Vladlena – as if Masha’s language isn’t bad enough as it is. I do believe you’ve been drinking. Now off you go, shoo, shoo.’ She shuts the door on Vladlena, turns back to us and sighs again. We all know Aunty Vladlena’s right, though. Everyone’s going around looking like deflated balloons. The Soviet Union just doesn’t seem to be the Best of all Possible Worlds any more without Yuri Gagarin in it. I hate the Americans more than ever now. ‘Come on then.’ Aunty Nadya gets up and shakes her head. ‘Let’s try to walk with those crutches again.’
We learn a bit more about the Comrade Healthies on our trip back to school
‘Two heads, two passports, two tickets,’ says the official at the boarding desk. She’s supposed to be processing our tickets for the Aeroflot flight, from Moscow to Rostov-on-Don. She goes back to shuffling papers, and doesn’t look up when Aunty Nadya leans over the counter with our three passports.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, comrade! They don’t need two seats. They need one!’
We got here really early, to avoid queues, but I can see out of the corner of my eye that other people are catching sight of us and slithering up to look.
‘Now you just listen to me, comrade,’ she goes on, waving the passports at the official. ‘The Ministry of Social Protection has allotted enough money for only two air fares. Mine and theirs. They were given one ticket between them on the train up here because they lie on one bunk. Now they are post-operational amputees and must fly, but again, they only sit on one seat. Are you going to question the Ministry of Social Protection?’
The woman doesn’t look up. She just says loudly: ‘Next.’ Aunty Nadya elbows the next passenger in the chest as he tries to get past, and turns back to the official.
‘They’re tiny, see? Like children, and they have one bottom for one seat. Turn round and show them your bottom, gi
rls.’ We do, but I don’t think the woman is even looking at us. Everyone else is though. ‘And the flight is in less than an hour. I demand you let us through.’
‘Nyet,’ says the official.
‘What do you mean, nyet?’
‘I mean nyet. Like I say, two heads, two passports – two tickets. Buy another one or stay behind.’
‘Pozor!’ She angrily digs in her handbag and hands over her own money for our extra ticket. That must be a month’s wages for her.
Masha gets to sit by the window in the plane and I put my head on Aunty Nadya’s lap. She’s still cross as a box of cockroaches, but Masha’s bouncing up and down, all excited to be flying, forgetting that we can’t walk by ourselves any more, and that the Commission is next week. And that Aunty Nadya’s had to pay for another ticket. I wish I could forget things, like Masha does.
‘You’ll be seeing your Slavochka soon, and Olessinka, and Lyudinka,’ says Aunty Nadya, stroking my head. She’s still stroking me when I fall asleep.
When we land, we let everyone off first because there’s an ambulance coming to meet us, to drive us from Rostov-on-Don to Novocherkassk. The two women paramedics get on, to help us off, but when they see us walking down the aisle, holding the seats for support, they just back away. Further and further away, ’til they’re almost falling out of the plane door.
‘Come along, comrades, here are the girls,’ says Aunty Nadya crossly.
‘We’re not taking that,’ says one of them.
‘Whatever do you mean? Help them off immediately.’
‘Nyetooshki.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why can you not take them?’
The two of them look at each other, then one says, ‘Well … for a start, it can walk, can’t it? Ambulances are for people who need to be stretchered. This is a waste of State time and money, that’s what it is.’ They’re getting angry themselves now. I’ve noticed when people are afraid, they do that. ‘If it can run down the aisle it can run to the bus station.’ And then they almost tumble backwards down the steps in their hurry to get away from us and back to the ambulance.
Aunty Nadya stamps her foot angrily, but there’s nothing she can do, so we walk out through the airport to the bus stop and she sits us on our suitcase on the pavement.
‘Oh, for goodness sake, comrades, get away from them, just get away! You’re like flies round a dustbin!’ She bats at all the usual crowds of stupid, gawping people who are pointing and calling us the same old names. Masha doesn’t say anything. What’s the point? We both cover our faces with our hands to keep off the flies. I wish it wasn’t so hot. I wish there was some shade.
We sit there, for what seems like all day but Aunty Nadya says it’s only been two hours, when our bus comes.
‘Here it is at last, girls, here’s the bus. Up you get. Hey, comrades! Comrades! Let us through, I have post-operational amputees, please show some common kindness. Comrades!’ But it’s no good; they’ve all pushed past us with their bags. By the time we get on, there’s only one seat left. We stand looking at this one little seat, and then around at the fat, sweaty, stinky passengers, who are staring at us but not getting up. They all want their seats.
After a bit, Aunty Nadya sits down with a puff, and pulls us on to her lap facing her. The man next to us is chain-smoking papirosas and has a cage of hens on his lap. We rest our heads on her shoulders and hold her through the bumpy, two-hour ride. It’s so hot I think I’m going to melt into a puddle. Masha’s sick into a plastic bag.
‘Right, girls, well done. Well done. Off we get.’ She helps us off and sits us on our suitcase again while she looks for a car to flag down.
There aren’t any at all on the streets. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says, wiping the sweat off her face. ‘Every car moonlights as a gypsy taxi, so we’ll be home in no time.’ She sounds cheerful, but she’s looking tired. ‘No time at all.’
Finally a red Zhiguli comes round the corner, and she stops it and bends down to talk to the driver. ‘I have post-operational amputees here,’ she says. He doesn’t even look at the two of us. Some people do and some people don’t. ‘We need to get to the School for Invalids on Red Decembrist Street.’
He spits on the ground. ‘Ten roubles.’
‘Ten! That’s ridiculous, it’s five minutes from here. That’s a day’s wages.’
‘I’m the one with the car.’ He spits again.
‘I only have five roubles left, comrade. Please take us for five. They’re very weak, and just learning to walk on crutches. It’s hot and we have luggage. Please, comrade. Please.’
He shrugs. ‘There’s a shortage of petrol. No one will take you for five. Let them walk.’ And he drives off.
‘Very well, girls. Very well,’ she says, straightening up. ‘Walking it is then. Pick up your crutches. Off we go. It won’t take long. Not long at all.’
The back streets are all uneven, with cobbles and potholes, and we haven’t gone twenty metres before the crowds come out of nowhere. She’s right, they’re like flies lured by the stench of rotting food. Aunty Nadya’s struggling along with our suitcases, and there are dozens of men behind us, and no one offers to take her bags, and we’re trying to balance with the crutches so as not to fall flat on our faces in front of them all. And it’s still so hot. I keep thinking of Olessya and how I’ve got to be extraordinary and telling myself that I’m walking to Slava. Back to Slava. I won’t cry, I won’t. Some of the kids start throwing stones at us.
‘Remember your dignity, girls,’ hisses Aunty Nadya. I think she’s afraid Masha’s going to start throwing stones back, but she’s too tired to do anything. ‘Remember your dignity.’
May 1968
We go before the Medical Commission to get graded
‘Right, you, no stuttering. They’ll think we’re gibbering idiots if you stutter. Got it?’
I nod. Me and Masha are waiting in the anteroom to the Room of Relaxation, where the panel of the Medical Commission is sitting. Masha keeps fiddling with the button on her trousers.
‘But can’t you answer their questions, Mash? Just this time? In case I do stutter?’
‘In c-case you st-stutter? You’re doing it now! Listen to yourself!’ She slaps me on the cheek. ‘No, I can’t fucking well answer all their questions, you’re supposed to be the clever one. They’ll ask us algebra and history, and all sorts of trick questions too.’ I nod again. I wasn’t stuttering. She’s lying. I only stutter when I’m with someone. ‘And about what we want to do, and stuff like that, so you’d better say you want to be a doctor or something.’ I nod again. ‘And don’t stutter!’
The door opens and we’re invited in. We get up and tuck our crutches under one arm each. The three of them are sitting behind a long wooden table right at the end of the room, so we have to walk right up to them. They watch us approaching, then they look down at their papers and start writing.
‘G-good m-morning,’ I say after a bit, thinking I should be polite.
‘You may go,’ says the one in the middle, still writing. Go? I don’t understand. Neither does Masha. Go where? The woman looks up then. ‘I said you may go. Do you not understand plain Russian?’
We turn around then and walk right on out.
‘How come you all got asked questions and we didn’t? How come?’ Masha’s staring at Olessya and Little Lyuda, like they’re in some sort of conspiracy against us. We’re all sitting on our bed that evening. After the Commission.
‘I don’t know, Mashinka,’ says Little Lyuda. ‘They asked Sunny Nina questions too and Big Boris, and all the boys. I don’t know, I really don’t. But maybe it’s a good thing. Right?’
I don’t think it’s a good thing at all, but I don’t say anything.
‘Anyway,’ says Olessya slowly. She looks a bit sad. ‘Anyway, I’ve got an exam tomorrow. I’ve got to get top marks, so I’d better do some studying.’
‘We’ve got an exam in algebra tomorrow too,’ says Masha. ‘Can you help me, Lyudochka? Help
explain to your little Mashinka the rules of algebra again? My scarecrow here doesn’t explain it like you do. Pleeeeze?’
‘Yes, of course I can,’ she says, smiling. ‘We can do it now if you like. All together.’ Little Lyuda is so healthy. And Slava hasn’t even been talking to Anyootka. He’s been with me all the time. He touches me, just a little touch, whenever he can. And he looks at me with his deep dark eyes. Everything’s going to be all right.
We get our grades, then Masha scares me
‘Grade One?! Grade One?!’ Masha can hardly speak, she’s so angry.
‘I can’t understand it, I can’t,’ says Olessya. She’s got her head in her hands. We’re outside on the wooden ramp leading down from the school door. ‘And I can’t understand how the rest of us got Grade Two. That means we’ll be banished to closed institutions for the rest of our lives, doing nothing except staring out of the window. Why? Why? What happened? What’s happening?’
‘Well, at least you’re yobinny Grade Two. I’m Grade One! How can I be Grade One?!’ says Masha, thumping her fist on the steps.
Big Boris is sitting on the dusty ground. We’re all in shock. Slava’s just shaking his head. Sunny Nina’s with us. She started off in our class, but she was put up to the one above because she’s so bright, so she’s graduating now. Sunny Nina got Grade Two as well. She wanted to be a geologist. Now none of us can be anything. Don’t they want us contributing to the Socialist work force? After all they’ve done for us? Don’t they want us to work to a Communist future?
‘It’s because she stuttered, isn’t it? Isn’t it? My moron?’
‘Shut up, Masha,’ says Olessya.
‘But Grade One!’ she goes on, ignoring her. ‘That’s Total Defectives. That means paralysed and not being able to think, or move, or do anything for yourself. It means imbecile. And all because she stuttered. It means peeing yourself, it means—’
‘Shut up, Masha.’
We sit there for a bit then, none of us saying anything. Slava’s got his transistor radio on, like he always does, and there’s this stupidly happy Soviet song on, with the singer shouting Further and further! We will strive to succeed even further! And there are these stupid cymbals too, clashing, and the orchestra almost bursting right out of the radio, it’s so … so triumphant. It’s as if everyone in the world’s laughing at us for thinking we could be part of their perfect society. We sit there listening, and I’m just thinking that Grade One means you might as well be dead. Grade Two means you might as well be dead, but if you’re not, you can earn some kopecks by putting cardboard boxes together for a living in an asylum. I’m also thinking we could go and live with Slava in his village with his parents. Because the only thing worse than being kept in an asylum is being without Slava.
The Less You Know the Sounder You Sleep Page 19