Jacob's Ladder

by Ludmila Ulitskaya

  This story soothed me.

  Jacob! Maybe I shouldn’t have written this to you? Should I cross it out? If it’s wrong, cross it out yourself, and tell me I was bad. That’s how it is now. If I’m ashamed before you, I cover my face with your hands. If I’m afraid of you, you are the one I look to for protection at the same time. You are everything to me. This scares me. But it seems it’s just the way it is.

  YURYUZAN–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

  SEPTEMBER 25, 1913

  I remember my words about Christianity in a recent letter. They were absolutely right, and don’t think it was the first time I wrote something like this. Only the exterior, the outside, very attractive, is accessible to us. It holds out the prospect of warmth, peace, hope. It’s childish in its popular manifestation: if you behave well, you will receive praise; if you’re bad, you’ll be punished.

  The Christian Gospels are terribly dogmatic. Christ’s words: “They say this, that, and the other, but I say unto you…” etc. Dogma, commands—and if you don’t carry them out, you will be doomed to Gehenna for all time. Forgiveness for the one who repents is no surprise; but forgiving the cruel brigand or robber? It’s a pity I don’t recall the texts from memory.

  The Gospels themselves are not a religion, but material for creating one. There are as many religions as there are people. From the same texts, you can derive a great deal of real love.

  I don’t wish to talk about such a large matter, because it’s nonetheless alien to me. Religion is something that completely passed me by. Perhaps I’ll have to return to it someday.

  And do you have enough money? Tell me the truth, little one.

  CHELYABINSK–KIEV JACOB TO HIS PARENTS

  OCTOBER 1, 1913

  Dear Papa, I’ve finally arrived in Chelyabinsk. I sent you a postcard saying that the doctor here exempted me from exercise, without even examining me. He just came up to me and said, “Aha, a volunteer! You’re relieved.” The next day, I was sent here in a military train with a detachment of feeble soldiers to be housed in apartments for the winter. Now I only await discharge!

  I was very happy about this, of course. The exercise will not be difficult, they say; still, walking thirty-five versts on the first day, carrying upward of thirty-five pounds on your back, is hard work.

  The nights here are already cold, very autumnal, and it’s easy to catch cold at night, because you sleep in the field in tents, on the hard ground, covered with your coats, with a knapsack for a pillow.

  And suddenly, instead of sleeping in a field, in a flimsy tent with a knapsack under my head, I’m in the city, in a hotel, writing you at a desk, drinking tea from a samovar (and not from a dirty teapot). The ceiling here doesn’t leak as it does in the barracks, there are no superiors, and I am completely free until the troops return from exercise. All this instead of mud, filth, camp chores.

  I feel I have literally revived since yesterday evening. Not to mention the modern conveniences, the soft mattress, electric lights, a clean room.

  … I’m just sick of the loneliness I lived in for so long. I want people, books, theater, music, but, more than anything, a free life, not having to deal with superiors, not having to depend on them.

  CHELYABINSK–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

  OCTOBER 1, 1913

  Good morning, Marusya! I’m writing you from a hotel. I absolutely love writing lying down. It’s morning now. I woke up long ago, and thought about you, then fell asleep again (dreamed), then read a story by Kuprin, and now I’m coming back to you. Although things are so nice at the moment, I can’t help reproaching you. You know, Marusya, I was already thinking … In your last letter you said something about losing each other in our correspondence, becoming more distant from each other.

  My dear wife! As is always the case in life, in illness, in turmoil, when you reach the very top, the apex of growth or development, there’s a break, a turning point. And you find new strength. (Look how bold I am to quote Kuprin’s idea here.)

  I wanted to say something about illness. If it isn’t a serious illness (I’m speaking generally here), it can even bring a certain amount of satisfaction or pleasure. I would gladly be sick for a time if you were there to take care of me. But a serious illness, an illness that goes on for a long time, drives out all poetic thoughts and feelings, and is just plain bad.

  Someday when illness strikes I won’t have to leave your side. I alone will be your nurse. We will live a long life together, until old age, until illness takes us both. And we will take care of each other.

  I have terrible plans for winter: burying myself in my books day and night. We’ll read lots of books, and a bright, beautiful life will open up before us, won’t it, Marusya? I’m not thinking about music as much as I’m thinking about scholarly research at the Institute these days.

  Fly, time, fly by! If I could drive it with a whip, I’d crack it all day long.

  OCTOBER 15, 1913

  What am I going to do with you? I received another letter in the spirit of “So-so. Not so good.” You write about being a wife, a lover—what can I say? Do you wish to be my wife or my lover? I don’t understand the difference, God help me! You will be the closest person in my life, the person most needful to me—and that’s all. You would be a lover if I was already married. Then I would leave my wife for you. But this would never happen. If I marry, it will be forever.

  Marusya, my good girl, I don’t ask you for much—only to believe my fidelity. Yes, you can recall bad things I’ve said or done—but you’ve never heard lies coming from me! I have said many bad things about myself, said too much—but it’s only because I don’t know how to protect you, and it’s often difficult—but I have always told you everything!

  Why, oh why, all this sadness in the subjunctive mood—“If only this, then that would … or could … or should…”? And if you believe me, why don’t you remember my words, my constant refrain: “No, never, not for the world”?

  Yes, you are my wife, my first wife, my remarkable, wonderful lover; and I don’t care what will happen in twenty years. We need only to be sure of the present moment for our marriage.

  This is the formal, official part of my conversation with you. The unofficial part I’ll whisper in your ear. And not just today, but forever and ever.

  Oh, what a happy ending it would be if we were sitting side by side. I would kiss your hands, and say: “It doesn’t mean anything, it’s unimportant. You’re imagining it.” And right away you would see that I was right, and it would comfort you for a long time.

  Don’t be sad, my heart. Soon. Very soon now!

  * * *

  Don’t worry about the money. It’s not from Papa. No one knows about it. I teach private lessons here. And I’m very happy that I can help you in some way. You have to spend all of yours on getting fitted out.

  When a woman’s dress is shabby, she becomes self-conscious. But when she is dressed well, we don’t even notice it! (There’s a proverb there.)

  OCTOBER 17, 1913

  Good evening, good dusk to you, Marusya! I’m so glad you’re fine. I’m also exceptionally fine—fine “squared.” Perhaps you’d like to know whence this exceptional state? Why “squared”? Because Private Volunteer Ossetsky has been thrown in the guardhouse for ten days, for insulting an officer. And in recognition of his record of good behavior, with no prior infractions, another five days were tacked on. I hope that it will be possible to reduce the sentence, because the volunteer in question has fewer than fifteen days remaining to serve in the army. In addition, unfortunately, there is no suitable place for arrestees in the barracks. The best-beloved superiors (Commander-Fathers) would never have expected to find such unruly specimens in their midst, of course.

  Recently, all my superiors have literally taken a dislike to me. Eternally nitpicking.

  Today is the 17th—there are fourteen or fifteen days to go. There are already fifty weeks behind me, only two short weeks left. When you get this letter, there will be only ten da
ys or so.

  The entire year, the most difficult year of my life, has brought me everything I have. There will never be a worse year. If I had lived this year in Kiev, it would have been otherwise. Worse, and otherwise. How will it end? Is it really true that everything is for the best in this best of all worlds? Is it possible that the boorishness of this officer was a necessary step along the way of my path in life?

  OCTOBER 23, 1913

  Good day, my good girl! The door has just banged shut behind me, and I am alone with my loneliness and my thoughts. The task before me: that my arrest become an interesting way of passing the time. I will write down everything, every single thing—and you will read it when it is all in the past, and perhaps my recollections will appear sweet and vaguely poetic by then.

  And so—I am in prison. Excellent. Let Tolstoy be my mentor in the circumstances of my present life. I am referring, of course, to the story “The Divine and the Human.” My life should now turn into a burst of will, a single absolute, unremitting aspiration. I don’t want to pace desperately from corner to corner, tear at my hair, and weep.

  I wrote my schedule on a piece of paper. At the bottom is a large inscription: “Our Lady, Holy Virgin Mary, give me strength!” In the severe and comfortless Hebrew monotheism there is no such warm corner. We’ll see. Now it’s time to make myself comfortable.

  OCTOBER 25, 1913

  The military guardhouse resembles, most likely, an ordinary prison. The difference is that your own soldiers are the ones guarding you. At the end of a watch, this sentry might himself become a prisoner. If your own company is on duty, all the better. We are very dependent here on the sentry superiors—noncommissioned officers. Prisoners consider twelve noon, when the new watch appears, to be the beginning of a twenty-four-hour day.

  At 6:00 a.m.—prisoners’ reveille—the door opens, and you go to wash. You fold back the plank bed and go out. It’s still completely dark. Up by the ceiling, a tiny window covered by a grate lets in a meager light. Not until eight o’clock is the twilight bright enough for reading. Right now it’s eight o’clock.

  After washing, you sit in the dark, waiting for the guard. Finally, you hear him call out, “Tea.” He comes up to the door and thrusts the spout of the teapot through the “spy hole,” filling the cup you hold under it. All day long, you hear nothing but “Guard! Take me out to relieve myself!” The keys jangle, and they lead someone out.

  By five o’clock, it’s already dark. They don’t give you any light. At this time, I practice music—I do ear training, recall various pieces, whistle, and sing.

  My neighbor on the right, a Jew (he’s in for theft), sings Yiddish songs and prayers the whole day. My neighbor on the left sings, too—military marches, waltzes, and yesterday he suddenly broke into “O Sole Mio”!

  I hear a woman’s voice in the sentry room. What does it mean? It turns out that in one cell there is a twelve-year-old boy, a pupil from a martial-music school. They “gave him up for music” when he was seven years old. For his schooling, he is required to serve for five years. He’s awaiting trial now. He’s being tried for escaping service for the sixth time. This lively, intelligent boy is learning to be a first-class criminal, of course. One soldier was discharged on leave to Sevastopol. This boy tampered with the ticket, to make it valid for two, and went with him. He worked as a musician on a naval vessel: “I dreamed of sailing on a boat like that my whole life.” A few months later, inquiries were made about him, and he was sent back to his company under military guard. He was held in many guardhouses along the way. He happened to pass through Voronezh, where he was from. He saw his mother there. “She came and brought me some sausage, and started to cry. I don’t like that, so I went back to my cell. She stopped crying, and then I went out to see her again.”

  This cruel military atmosphere puts the mind to sleep once and for all, and hardens the hearts of the majority of grown-up people who come into contact with it. So you can imagine, Marusya, how devastated the soul of this young boy is after all these years.

  He is facing pretrial imprisonment, a trial, and sentencing—to a (child’s) disciplinary detachment of music pupils, for the duration of his punishment—and serving three more years in his company.

  The nights are tormenting. The bed hardly deserves the name. I roll up my uniform and put it under my head, put on my overcoat, and go to sleep. The hard planks chafe your sides, your shoulders, your legs. You fall asleep for an hour, then wake up and turn over. It’s very uncomfortable. Although I’m not terribly particular about creature comforts, I’ve never had to adjust to conditions like this. It’s not easy to sleep on wooden planks.

  I remember that during my training I had to spend one night sleeping on the ground. I slept beautifully the whole night long. But this isn’t unbearable, either. Now it’s day, and night doesn’t terrify.

  Today I am almost happy and satisfied with myself. In the morning I worked on French, and during the day I studied my economics textbook. Tomorrow my studies will be wonderful. Today, before-lunch passed seamlessly into after-lunch, because my entire lunch consisted of a few hunks of contraband cheese. I asked the sentry, and he ran to the store to get it.

  Dusk, dusk at four o’clock. My day is ending. There are still five hours left to pace around. My neighbor sings mournfully. I hear music in my head—Rachmaninoff. If only I could look at you for just a moment and kiss your hands quietly. I can’t see a thing! Goodbye, little one.

  Baratynsky’s verse is going round and round in my head. I remember it well. I remember Lermontov well. And Pushkin very well.

  NOVEMBER 5, 1913

  My imprisonment experience is over. I’m in a rented apartment, awaiting the discharge orders.

  Masses of reserves—about one and a half thousand bearded, strapping peasants—joined the company. Now they are in formation outside the window to go to lunch. There weren’t enough copper and aluminum cooking vessels. They fetched black tin washtubs from the baths and poured the cabbage soup into them.

  In the evening, I walked through the barracks for the reserves. People sleeping on straw, not getting undressed, snoring; someone cries out in his sleep, cursing. Simple folk. I’ve been living among them for a whole year. So close together that our differences get erased. They feel that I’m one of them—so there is no question of mutual misunderstanding. A sluggish, uninteresting mass of people. In most cases, crude and slovenly; they love winning and forgive everyone who wins. They’re nasty, not very smart, sometimes gratuitously violent and cruel (hooliganism), and all of them respect science for its profitability.

  There will always be exceptions. But, alas, I’ve come across precious few. In fact, there weren’t real exceptions, only exceptional deeds. Sometimes I scrutinize them and wonder—who will remain in my memory in the new life that’s about to begin for me? There are no exceptions, and the exceptional deeds are easily forgotten, and all that remains is a monotonous gray background. Without people, without souls, without bright spots. Gray, colorless—like butcher paper.

  I even start feeling indignant. Where is Platon Karataev? Where are the people who inspired characters in The Snow Maiden, or in Boris Godunov, people who built the Kremlin, people who told such remarkable tales, sang such memorable songs? Where is the tiniest fragment of Mikula Selyaninovich, the folk hero, or someone who bears even the slightest resemblance to Ivan Tsarevich? Where are the turbulent, impassioned figures from Malyavin’s paintings?

  Is it only because we’re in the Orenburg province? True, it’s impoverished, dreary. But is it really that different in Penza, or in Riga? The only thing they know how to do well is go to war and die without thinking. Without a murmur—they’ll do whatever you ask them to. Sorrowful thoughts.

  CHELYABINSK–KIEV JACOB TO HIS PARENTS

  NOVEMBER 5, 1913

  I received everything—the money and the letter. But I’m still waiting for discharge orders. I’m also tired of writing letters. I’m glad it will all be over soon. This year ha
s seemed like ten. I still can’t believe everything that has happened. Until I see you at the station, I won’t believe it. This year has had a bad influence on me—I’ve been cut off from people, theater, music. I wasn’t able to study properly. I’ve grown wild … And I’ve never wanted to study as much as I do now. I am aware of the difficulties that await me. I’ve completely forgotten how to focus. It will be a long time before I can really catch up in my classes. I’m especially concerned about finance law. I don’t have the books I need, but it’s not easy to find them in Kiev, either. On the other hand, I’m well versed in political economy. Unfortunately, I’ll have to take an exam in statistics again. This irks me, because I already passed it in the second year; but now the volume of required information has increased, and I’ll have to take it again.

  Oh, if you can, get me a subscription to the symphony concerts for the month of December. I desperately need music. Now my only comfort and amusement are motion pictures. I go often. And my favorite reading matter now is the book of train schedules.

  CHELYABINSK–MOSCOW JACOB TO MARUSYA

  NOVEMBER 6, 1913

  Still no discharge orders! This is my plan: as soon as they discharge me, I’ll go directly to the station, take the train to Moscow, where I’ll stop for a day or two, and then on to Kiev. I’ll take my exams (some, at least) and in two or three weeks I’ll travel to you in Moscow and stay for a long time. I won’t tell anyone at home about Moscow. They are tired of waiting. But I am even more tired—I’ve dreamed about you several nights in a row. Oh my, how hard it is without a wife … It hits me from time to time. You know what it’s like, too. I kiss you deeply, dear one!