Oswald's Tale

by Norman Mailer

  2

  Zyatouk

  Sasha Piskalev, seventeen years old in the summer of 1958, could not pass his exams at Minsk Medical Institute the first time he tried. It was a serious blow. From childhood, Sasha had dreamed of becoming a doctor. He had been an ailing child, so he always loved and respected people in white gowns, and liked how they came and cured him and cured other people. Any person who could bring sick people over into a healthy state had to be very important. So, after he failed his exams, he obtained a job at Professor Bondarin’s laboratory and served there as an assistant. Bondarin treated him well. Although Sasha was very young, this esteemed professor always called him by both his first name and by his father’s first name, Nikolai, addressing him as Sanich, a nice way of speaking to somebody who’s young, using the patronymic, Sasha Nikolaivich, by way of the short form, Sanich. And, by 1960, Sasha succeeded in becoming a medical student at the evening faculty while still working days with Professor Bondarin.

  He also became friends with Professor Bondarin’s nephew, Konstantin Bondarin. Kostya had finished high school while Sasha was working, and together they had passed their University exams. Kostya also had a friend named Yuri Merezhinsky, an only son of high-ranking scientists. Sasha didn’t really have much time to run around with elite children in their easy life—he had to work, after all, and go to the University—but they took classes together and sometimes did go out afterward.

  About this time, Sasha met Marina, and it started. She was a month or two older, and more experienced, and he was fascinated. Soon enough, he was crazy about her. They went to the movies, he played piano for her, and they listened to symphonic music. Tchaikovsky was their favorite. A month after they started going out, she introduced him to her relatives, and he was invited to meet her aunt and uncle, who had a three-room apartment near the opera house, and Valya fed them tea and cakes. At that time, Sasha admired Marina a good deal, but they didn’t talk about marriage, although her relatives soon began to call him zyatouk, which is a warm word for son-in-law, a nice word. It’s not that they were engaged, but it was supposed that they would be. And Sasha worked and studied well because he had Marina in his life.

  He lived from one date to another. It made his work and study easy. And when he visited her home, Marina’s aunt would put out sandwiches and cakes and either watch TV with them or leave them alone, so they would have a chance to sit there and kiss. Nothing more. This aunt looked like a very simple person, but such appearances were deceiving, because she read a lot, and inside her, Sasha thought, was contained much more than how she looked.

  While Sasha was dating Marina, his medical school friends Yuri and Kostya went out with different girls all the time. Sasha thinks they were laughing at him for being serious; they mocked him sometimes, and maybe they tried to tease Marina. But he felt they were envious because he had the prettiest girl. He doesn’t believe they ever teased her unpleasantly, because Marina had a strong character, and if anybody ever expressed himself in an unpleasant manner to her face, she would reply, “You are not needed yourself!” Nor did he feel that they wanted to take Marina away from him. They could see he was deeply in love, and they, of course, were not in love with anybody. For that matter, he very seldom invited Marina along with his friends, because he didn’t really want to be with them. Maybe he was even a little afraid to take her around them.

  When he would go out with Yuri and Kostya he would drink, but not get drunk, and he would talk a little about Marina, but not in a harmful way. Never. What she told him, he would keep in his heart. It was just that he liked to praise her, because he was so much in love.

  He had met Marina at one of these parties for Medical Institute students, and he had invited her to dance once, and then again, and then he asked if he could accompany her home. She was a very good dancer and he was not, but she could make you feel better than usual when dancing. Which was rare for him. He wasn’t the kind of person who is interested in ballrooms. He had learned how to dance by himself; nobody taught him. So, during their first few minutes he was somewhat awkward, but then she began to lead him, and it was as if she breathed a little more life into him. They could feel comfortable together. He was on the short side, but even when she was wearing her high heels, he was taller.

  He had met Marina in the summer of 1960, when he turned nineteen, and no other girl interested him. They dated once a week, and would take walks together and discuss where they wanted to go next time, to which opera or theatre or concert or ballet. The Nutcracker was their favorite.

  They paid for everything half and half. She understood that he was a student, and she was already working. So one time he would buy the tickets, and then she would next time. He remembers that tickets in those days cost about a ruble or a ruble fifty, and they could have sat up in the students’ gallery, in cheaper seats, but usually chose parterre. That was expensive. Two rubles was an average worker’s pay for an entire day.

  He was charmed by her behavior. She was different from other girls. Even her manners were different, and the way she dressed with taste. The apartment where she lived with her aunt and uncle had high ceilings and large rooms and a decent foyer. He remembers he was shy when he came to her apartment, but then Aunt Valya came out and invited him into the living room, and it was easy to talk to her. She was very sociable.

  When he finally proposed to Marina, she said, “Let’s wait a bit.” But he was ready to get married. He was working at night as an orderly in the emergency ward and was earning about 150 rubles a month, more than a doctor—which is why he couldn’t date Marina every night; he was working too hard, and doing it in order to be able to have a nice time with Marina and later set up housekeeping. They could have rented an apartment somewhere. Valya said that they could live with her, but he wanted to get his own place.

  Usually, he would come home with Marina after a movie or a concert and stay about fifteen, twenty minutes before he left. He remembers that Valya’s husband, Ilya, seemed terrifying to him when first they met. He was tall, lean; he had a long nose. Colonel Prusakov. Yet, when he opened his mouth to talk, he was a kind person. However, in that first moment, Sasha felt small, and a little afraid. After all, he knew where the Colonel worked, and Sasha was afraid of the Organs. He thought KGB and MVD were both called the Organs, but then KGB and MVD were mixed up in his mind. And this Uncle Ilya was so tall and gaunt. Perhaps he understood Sasha’s fear, however, for when he started to talk, he was easy, and did not speak in a prosecutorial tone but in a normal, human voice. Sasha had a feeling that they treated Marina very well. Of course, Ilya wasn’t around much, but their home was not without his presence.

  When Sasha would come by to take Marina somewhere in the evening, Valya would say, “Sasha, no later than eleven o’clock.” They were just like parents. In fact, at first he thought they were her mother and father.

  On the other hand, he had very little understanding of Ilya’s occupation. How could a young man understand what went on in the Organs? He knew it was something to be afraid of, and Ilya was high up; there were stars on his epaulets. So at first, Sasha was not only scared of Ilya but, as a result, he was a little intimidated by Marina. Afterward, when he came to know Ilya better, he could see Marina without fear. In truth, he didn’t want to know what Ilya did—didn’t care whether he was a warden of prisoners or an administrator of a factory.

  He did ask Marina once, and she said, “It’s better not to know.” In those days, to someone like himself, KGB and MVD were one and the same: a big, dark spot.

  Sometimes Marina would try to tell him something about her past, but he would stop her. He was not interested. Then her aunt tried to tell him, but Sasha did not consider it dignified to engage in such conversations. Now, he thinks Aunt Valya wanted him to know the story of Marina’s past because she was afraid that if somebody else told him, it could prove hurtful.

  He does recall that he came to Marina’s home after she did not show up for a date, and Valya made tea, and t
hey talked, and were very much aware that Marina was not there. Valya began to speak of Leningrad and the conditions of life then for Marina, and Sasha said, “You know, I am not interested. For the future, I want to have her as my wife. So I am not interested in what is past.” Then Marina came in, and Valya said: “I told Sasha about you.” And Marina, as if she had been expecting this, was very cool to Sasha. After that, it was as if she were trying to escape him. He believes she was afraid of his reaction. He went to her pharmacy, he called her at home, but she avoided him. She liked flowers and his mother had a large garden, so he kept trying to bring her bouquets well into autumn. But she wouldn’t see him. He would wait for Marina outside her pharmacy, and finally he caught her coming home from work, and she agreed to let him walk with her. It was cold, a winter night, and they went to a small park near the opera house, and she told him she had had a very difficult life, told him she was nobody, no good—“I’m not what you think I am. I’m not an angel. I’m no good for you.” Then she said, “You must get out of my life.”

  He felt Marina wanted to humiliate herself in front of him, so he repeated, “I am not interested in your past; I am only interested in our present and in our future.” Now, he wonders if maybe she just wanted to get rid of him, although he doesn’t think she was dating anyone he knew. When she tried to tell him about Leningrad, however, she grew very emotional; she cried. He, however, kept saying, “You are here for me, and you will be. I don’t want to know what happened to you before. You are now my life and we’re going to be happy all our lives.”

  She became quiet. Later that night they kissed each other, and she said, “I don’t deserve you. I’m bad.” But he told her, “I love you exactly how you are.”

  That was it. They were together again. He went home. His mother was very strict, and he had to be home by a certain time, but on warmer nights, sometimes she would walk him all the way to his home, and then he would come back with her, and that way they could enjoy an hour or two, walking back and forth.

  This happiness, which began in the summer of 1960, had continued for Sasha, but for its one interruption, until March of 1961, when the Medical Institute had a large students’ party at the Trade Union Palace. He invited Marina, of course, and Kostya Bondarin was there, and Yuri Merezhinsky, and as he recalls, Yuri brought Alik, an American. Just about the time that everybody was dancing, this American, Alik, invited Marina to do the same. Then, Sasha also danced with Marina—for that matter, many men had invited Marina to dance—Sasha didn’t pay any great attention. She was dancing, that’s all. But over the next couple of weeks, Marina became distant. When he called, Valya said she was not in. And when he went down to her pharmacy, she tried to avoid him again. So he knew that something was wrong. As they say in Minsk, “There was a black cat running between us.” Soon enough, he learned that he had a tragedy in his love affair. It was over. His life, and his dreams, vanished. Even now, it is painful.

  He waves his hand gently, as if the residue of this old sorrow, more than thirty years old, could overflow again. “It’s okay,” he says. “We stopped dating each other, and in a month or two, somebody told me, ‘Sasha, did you hear that Marina’s going to marry that American?’”

  She was still in his heart. Whenever he had to go to her pharmacy for medicine, he would follow her with his eyes when she passed. He didn’t have tears, but it was as if a cat were inside his soul, scratching with its paws.

  3

  White Nights

  Now that Marina is in her early fifties, she remembers her grandmother as snobby. She doesn’t know from what kind of roots Tatiana came, maybe peasant stock like practically everyone else, but Grandmother was snobby. Maybe she had married a little bit better than her peasant relatives. Her husband was a sea captain, and she was a strong woman. Marina can picture her grandmother even better than she remembers her mother. Her grandmother always smelled good to her, clean and crisp. She was very Victorian, very opinionated. And here was Marina, born from a woman who wasn’t married, Tatiana’s own daughter Klavdia, yet her grandmother never disowned mother or child.

  They all lived in Arkhangelsk. Marina wonders if it’s as lovely a wooden city as she remembers. But, of course, to a child, even birch trees smell good after a rain. When you are a child, you are closer to earth, so you are near to all those smells of flowers and herbs, and Marina remembers playing in a park on the day she met her stepfather, Alexander Medvedev. He came and said, “Hello, I’m your father.” She remembers it was just after the war ended in 1945, and she can still recall how happy people were and how happy she was.

  Yet, after this war she would have nightmares. And she remembers that her grandmother’s household was so strict. When she was five years old, she hated to go by herself to the bathroom, because God could see everything. “I was embarrassed. If I’m going to tee-tee—and God sees it—that’s not proper to do, you know?” When people used profanity, she would try to close her ears. She never could bring herself to repeat ugly words; it burned her ears.

  Grandmother was religious. For Marina, when she was young, everything good was with Grandmother, and everything outside was devil’s work. Komsomol and the Communist Party—garbage.

  Her grandmother used to say, “You know, if I want to keep an icon in my house, there will be an icon. Come and arrest me.”

  With her grandma, it was always what is best for Marina. Her grandma would tell her fairy tales and point out the moral. Grandma would teach her not to lie. “Maybe that’s what keeps me going,” says Marina now. “Not that I am always truthful, but I am not comfortable in lying—you can catch me like that. I betray myself very quickly.”

  When Marina would disobey her grandmother, she would be kept indoors for several days, and her mother never dared to interfere.

  Marina can no longer remember when she learned that her stepfather was not really her father, but she did not find out from her mother. A girlfriend had overheard Klavdia talking about it to her mother, so Marina came home and confronted Klavdia with what she had just learned, but her mother’s only answer was: “I don’t want to talk about it. Later.” Marina says: “I guess we think that later on a child will understand, but I felt hurt, and I rebelled against my mother. I punished her. I loved her, but I made her suffer deliberately. I was testing her: How far can I push to see if she loves me? My mother said, ‘When you grow up, I’ll explain to you everything, but now you’re just too young to know.’ I thought what she had done was sloppy, even dirty.”

  After her mother died, Marina found some papers. Her mother had been looking for Nikolaev. It was after Stalin died and amnesty was given to former prisoners. So her mother had been filling out papers, looking for Marina’s real father. Marina remembers that when her mother was close to dying, she still wanted to punish her. Klavdia was in a hospital, and Marina would bring her cruel messages from Alexander’s mother, Yevdokia. This mother-in-law didn’t like Klavdia. Some messages would even say that Alexander was fooling around—which he never did. His mother was lying, but Marina didn’t know—she thought Yevdokia had proof. Of course, she also knew it was going to hurt her mother. Marina would say, “Well, Papa is probably seeing someone healthier.” Her mother started crying. Then she said, “Don’t worry, Marina, it won’t be long. We’ll find out who really loved us.” That’s what she said. “Between love and hate,” says Marina, “is a thin line. I didn’t hate my mother; I wanted all her love. I didn’t want to share her. That’s how possessive I was of my mother, let’s put it that way. Yevdokia was cruel. She was evil enough to know that I would be a good messenger for her cruel words. You know how teenagers are.”

  After her mother’s death, Marina wouldn’t live by her stepfather’s rules about curfew. She felt he wanted a new woman in his apartment and Marina was in the way. She doesn’t know if this was true, but that’s how she felt. If she came home late at night, her stepfather would lock her out. He grieved over her mother so much, however, that Marina doesn’t think her step
father was really a mean person. She looks at him differently today. “Now that I’m fifty-two, I walk in my mother’s shoes. After my mother died, it haunted me. That remark I made to her in the hospital. She was always lovey-dovey with my stepfather, and I was jealous.” She had overheard too many intimacies between her stepfather and her mother. When she would hear the bedsprings squeak, she would put pillows over her head. She couldn’t think of her mother as a woman until she had her own children. Until then, she didn’t think women were supposed to have such needs. It was such innocence. How could her mother allow that to happen when other people were present in a room, even though the room was dark? Marina wasn’t embarrassed for herself; it was that her grandmother was sleeping there, and Marina had to think, “What if she heard?” Since they all lived in one room, Marina thought it was awful, and she was embarrassed for her mother. Just like dogs; couldn’t wait. It wasn’t that frequent, but . . .

  In later years, when her mother was sick, she could overhear her stepfather’s mother, Yevdokia, saying, “Why did you have to marry that woman? You could have got a healthy woman. Why do you bother to cater to this one?” And all the while Marina was thinking that if her mother had married Alexander in order to give her child a name, she had not succeeded so well. She was still Marina Prusakova. Alexander had never adopted her. That was another blow.