Chapters 1988

Chapter 11

‘The tree is drying out,’ I sigh, sweeping another handful of needles from the table. ‘Time to dismantle.‘ I hate this job. Taking down the tree is always such a sad thing; and a piddly one as well. ‘I will pass baubles down to you,’ I command, ‘and then you can put them in the boxes.’

One by one I take of the bells and balls, the tinsel and candle holders... And then it’s time for a saw.

‘John, can you hold the ladder? I want to sweep the top of wardrobe as well.’ I pass few old magazines that had landed there, a large jar with some hay in it and another empty box for baubles.

‘This can go to the attic now,’ I arrange the Christmas boxes in a pile behind the doors. ‘But what’s this?’ I shake the glass jar. ‘Anything to do with you, Carl?’

I tip the jar over the rubbish bin and firmly shake. The hay is stacked. I pull it out and suddenly a black ball crashes on the floor and dismantles in dozens of black arrows, quickly disappearing into different directions. ‘Ouch! What’s that???’

‘Seems like our grandchildren,‘ John sighs, carefully lifting up a tiny black snake with bright orange collar. ‘Look!’

The tiny creature is truly fascinating. It’s a bit longer than a pencil but much thinner with shiny black skin.

‘Such gracious movements!’ we stand mesmerized while little one explores John’s fingers.

‘Gracious or not, John, but now we have a room full of unknown number of snakes.’

How’s that happened? Eggs survived? Hatched? I carefully lift out the pile of now gray and dried out eggs. Some are still intact, but the majority...

‘John, according to these, there must be seventeen out here!’

‘Sixteen!’ Carl triumphantly lifts another one up. ‘This sneaked behind the sofa!’

‘We need an empty aquarium, right now!’

‘Hold this one, I will get you,’ John puts the twitching baby in my palm and lifts the glass box from the top shelf. ‘This is a forty litre one. Will be enough?’

‘Must be. This one isn’t leaking? They’ll need water.’

I pass the snake back to John and wash the aquarium, then quickly pour some water in from our large aquarium. ‘I refill it later.’

Poor babies! I feel guilty now, really guilty. With all the mess of the past few months I had forget about the Angelica’s hatch. Completely.

‘So now, people, we must find the rest of them.’ John rolls up sleeves. ‘Carl, where is the torch?’

Few hours later we have seven. ‘Let’s call it a day! It’s hopeless!’

‘Yeah, enough furniture lifting, indeed,’ John stretches with a moan. ‘Too much for my back.’

We gaze at the aquarium where the babies are happily swimming around the shallow water.

‘John, can you cut some glass to cover the top while I make dinner? This end the branches are too close to the top. Otherwise they will escape again. Boys can keep an eye on them.’ Actually, boys can’t not to keep eye on babies. Both noses are flat against the glass.

‘How about them?’ John nods at the aquarium. He seems a bit concerned. ‘They need some food as well! God knows how long since they hatched!’

‘Ah, you mean snakes, not our children! Don’t worry; our aquarium is full of guppies! They will do, perfectly.’

They do, indeed. After our dinner I count the remaining guppies, play with some basic math on the sheet of paper and grab the phone watching John quickly dive under the wardrobe.

‘Yvonne? I need help! Do you have some spare guppies?’

‘Plenty! What for? We just got some with really bright coloured tails.’

‘They hatched!’

‘Who?’

‘Angelica’s eggs!’

‘Really? Fantastic! Sylvia said you will never manage. I will rub her nose tomorrow! You are a pro! How many?’

‘Seven.’

‘No, eight!’ John shows me another one he just fished beneath the wardrobe.

‘Great!’ Yvonne sounds really pleased.

‘No, not actually. See, the thing is,‘ I sheepishly start, ‘we suspect there are another nine around. In the room...’ When I finish the whole story, Yvonne probably has wetted herself.

‘Listen, about these guppies...’

‘Don’t worry, Roland will deliver some tomorrow. We must keep them alive until spring!’

I look at the window. A flurry of snow swirls against the glass. In the dim light from the street lamps I can see more snow drifting around in the harsh wind. Middle of January... Spring seems so far away.

‘Nine!’ John happily announces, unfolding blanket. ‘No, baby, this is our bed!’ He fetches this one out of the creases of the sheets and places baby snake in aquarium.

‘This, of course, is a complete serpent’s nest,’ John adds, stretching in the finally snake-free bed, ‘but how about ...’

Really? Great proposal! Maybe we are back indeed? ‘You, grandpa!’ I teasingly unbutton my blouse, slowly letting my hopes grow.

‘Oh, no!’ John jumps up again. ‘If not snakes, it’s your prickly tits all over!’

I knew, taking off my bra in the bed wasn’t a good idea. It was still full of dry needles from the dismantled tree. Oh, well!

‘Never again! Never!’ I pout in despair carrying Rob back in the house. ‘This is totally wrong, John! He can’t walk! What the hell we shall do now?’

Rob had been assigned to a sanatorium last month and doctors convinced me that it’s for good. ’It’s really nice there and the staff there is brilliant. And it will give you some time to run through the paperwork,’ doctor persuaded us.

We took Rob there and indeed, seemed that place is the right one. Building was far from bliss but the staff looked like the really nice ones. It seemed that Rob enjoys it there so we relaxed. And agreed.

But now, taking him home after four weeks is a nightmare. Rob is not walking anymore. And not speaking. He just raises his hands up silently asking to be carried around.

‘What? Calm down a bit. Is he gone worse?’ John quickly bends down, helping me to peel off the layers of Rob’s clothes. ‘Nah, he seems all okay, Aren’t you, young man?’ John winks at Rob.

‘Except he simply has stopped trying, that’s all.’

‘Well, maybe he just had too easy life then? The nurses were really sweet there and you know, he has a charming smile and he is a lazy bugger. Like we all.’ John laughs forcedly. ‘Do not worry and such?’

Yeah, maybe that’s all what it is. Well, I can’t afford be sweet and nice anyway. ‘Rob, listen, you must walk yourself if you want to go out. Just try again, please.’ I lift Rob up and leave him standing, holding on sofa with both hands. ‘Go on, try! You can do it!’

I had spent the past month rushing through the hundreds of offices, and now it’s done – Rob is officially disabled. With a very generous state allowance, enough for a taxi ride or a handful of nuts. Now I can be a stay-at-home mum from without danger of being accused as parasite in this socialistic heaven. The best – as a family with a disabled child we had jumped the municipal apartment queue right to the top. Hurrah! Well, it took me a nice china coffee set to help it happening but anyway it’s done.

The phone rings. ‘Did you saw the program?’ It’s excited father. I nod at John, leaving him to look after Rob. ‘Yes, it was quite good.’

I dare to tell father about Rob so I happily dive into a conversation. Good, actually, is not the right word to describe the last night’s program on TV, I think, lighting a cigarette. It was like... real? For years Soviet TV had been very diligent doing its job – spreading out propaganda. News always was filled with party congresses and plenary sessions, polished beyond reality, and in between it was about some achievements on the production line – how many tons of wheat had been harvested or how many tins of mackerel filled. Not only boring – they were simply so far from reality that watching TV was a pointless exercise. But for a while, in the spirit of glasnost, Moscow had launched a TV program Look which is quite alive, bravely bashing carefully selected wrongdoings all the way long. Following the wind from Moscow, our local TV has launched a program Good evening! for Sunday nights, after the news, and television suddenly feels like a real thing - the live discussions on subjects which really matter, decorated with some not so Soviet pop. ‘Yeah, dad, it was worth every minute of it. It was really cool, especially the bit about the Afghans. All that army crap.’

Since Gorbachev’s announcement regarding Afghanistan it has been like a big festivity time. Soviets are giving up there! What can be better than that? Of course, it would be much better if there wouldn‘t be so many zinc coffins involved.

I listen and then we discuss, and then listen again. Talks, talks, talks... Do I care? I tense, watching Rob’s attempt to make a step. My child is a hopeless cripple! I would like to shout in dad’s face right now, but I swallow and slowly light another cigarette. ‘Sad, really. Oh, I must go dad, now, somebody is knocking at the doors!’

It’s Ben. And he has kept his promise.

‘Let’s call her Muriel!’ Carl offers. ‘She looks like one.’ Muriel? Muriel? Where he did get that name from? What was the last book he was reading? No, it was by Iris Murdoch, not Muriel Spark. Whatever...

Freshly delivered lanky, nearly adolescent three-colour kitten with long coat is tightly squeezed in Rob’s arms so I really can’t asses is she looking like one or not. ‘Rob?’

Rob happily nods, keeping his eyes on the fluffy cat.

‘Where did you get this one?’

‘Oh, it’s a long story about misfortunes of our accountant,’ he grins, ‘this is the end-result of her staggering cat. The end-result of her staggering husband is a divorce so I got this one for free, with thanks. Her mother is full Persian, you know, a stunning one.’

‘A Persian? A good mouser?’

‘I don’t know about Persians in general, but hers is deffo a winner.’

‘Let’s hope then in good genetic because I will not survive another winter like the last one!’ I shudder.

‘See this one?’ I show Ben my middle finger, neatly wrapped in bandage. ‘It’s from last night.’

‘John has gone into biting?’ Ben winks, quizzically looking at John.

‘Dream on!’ John giggles, ‘it’s a rat.’

‘Really? What have you done?’

‘Tried to sweep one out of our bed!’

‘What? Are you, folks, gone completely mad?’ Bed seems concerned.

‘She is right! She screamed and then I woke, and there it was – on top of our blanket, right in the middle between us, blinking furiously and guess what – it REFUSED to leave!’ John laughs.

‘Nothing funny there, we have children! It’s not like a pet one!’

‘Maybe then you need get rid of Albert first? Look!’ Ben points towards Albert’s cage. We look...

Our white Albert, putting some serious efforts in it, is pushing a slice of bread through the cage bars. Outside, in the gap between the wall and the cage, is another rat. A wild one, pulling the bred out. With jointed efforts the bread finally slides through and the wild rat disappears with the slice behind the bookshelves.

‘Ah well,’ I sigh, ‘we are a very friendly house... Sometimes.’

Muriel has jumped out of Rob’s lap and now is furiously hissing at Keggy.

‘At least she is fierce!’

And she is, indeed. The next morning there is very proud Muriel, displaying three rat tails in the middle of the room. ‘Yesssss!’

***

 ‘Did you take boys out for a walk?’ I know what my father wants to know. On the 25th of March another demonstration was held, this time not at Freedom Monument but in the Cemetery of the Brethren.

It’s a truly stunning military cemetery by the same sculptor as the Freedom monument where the soldiers of the WWI had been buried, mostly the ones who died fighting the independence in 1919. Every foreign tourist had been taken there, it’s part of the official tours but locals aren’t really welcomed there because of this independence undertone. Soviets recently did buried there a number of high ranking communist military personnel near the cemetery entrance which is another source for grievance – they simply do not belong there, but Soviets are like that – they try to intervene even with the dead.

This time the demonstration is initiated not by a bunch of doomed dissidents like last summer but by the creative unions – artists, writers and actors - the whole different level. The announcements had been even published in several official newspapers and on the state radio as well. The last year’s wind of changes is still blowing.

‘I didn’t feel like that, dad. Five kilometres is a long way, especially with Rob, and I was coming down with a cold. I know that John’s father went, it’s his day.’

March 25th is another date of mass deportations when in 1949 Soviets cleared out the country side finally, mostly the farmers. John’s father as a teenage boy along with his not so young mother and aunt were dragged out to Siberia simply because they had a quite big farm. He survived but not his mother who died on the way and was buried somewhere along the railway line in the depths of Russia. Seems logical for all the thousands of families with similar stories getting together to lay flowers at the centre of the monument - the female statue, called Mother Latvia, mourning for all her decreased children.

‘Mum went, you know.’

 ‘Really?’ I do not know why I feel surprised. While my mum seems keeping her head out of all this current political excitement by concentrating on more practical things, her family lost most of their relatives on that day as well as their farm. ‘Of course, her uncle is buried there anyway!’ Her uncle was among the ones, fighting for the independence back in 1918. Carl is named after him. ‘Well, I actually wanted to ask mum does she has safety pins stashed away in abundance, I would have some use for them right now.’

‘Safety pins? I will ask, sure. What for? What are you brewing now?’

‘Just ask her, dad, OK?’

Something is brewing, indeed. I am spending my evenings with scissors and a pot of glue. The Greens, or officially the Environmental Protection Club, are planning to show off against the metro. Mass deportations are serious part of our dim history and all that but metro is something that will be part of our future. Or not.

‘John, there will be no need for Muriel’s ratting skills!’ I happy announce when John has finished his dinner. ‘We are moving, soon. Municipality has started offering us flats available. Isn’t that great?’

John’s eyes light up for a moment. Or I just imagined that?

 ‘I had one viewing today already. Complete crap, but a viewing is a viewing. Have another one tomorrow. Not far away. Interested?’

The second flat is not much better, but still. Old, dilapidating house, tiny garden, wet cellar... But closer to the public transport, not on the ground floor, and the flat itself is huge. Huge! Three bedrooms, maid’s room and the dining room of a size of a football field! Well, I’m exaggerating a bit but you got the idea.

 ‘You can’t beat that size!’ John thoughtfully nods, looking around. ‘You can easy fit two soviet build three bedroom apartments in this! But it hasn’t hot water pipe! That’s a big minus for you.’

‘No, dear, for you! You will need to install a boiler then; see, they have a pipe gas here so no problems!’

We both laugh knowing that John and plumbing... Well, let’s put it politely – it’s not a success story.

‘Yes, and lower ceilings so not so tall Christmas tree, and no oak parquet floors either! Be real, what are our chances to get everything?’

‘Kitchen is quite large,’ we carry out our discussion later at night. ‘And rent’s dead cheap.’ I pass the papers to John. He screens the list and finally notices the number. ‘But it’s less than our daily grocery bill!’

‘Exactly! Even Soviets realize that it’s crap. But the space...’ I dreamily repeat again and again, ‘so much space!’

So far our household had has very tight space. We are artists what means a lot of dirt, chemicals and sharp tools around our little humans.

‘Remember the fun with razorblades?’ John shakes his head. ‘It still gives me cold shivers.’

Yes, I remember. When Carl was about seven months old and steady up on his feet, he learned how to move his baby bed around the room. One day, while I was cooking in kitchen, he woke up and rode his baby bed across the room right to our working table. It’s an old, heavy writing table, with carved legs, beautiful intarsia on the edges and the green broadcloth on top. One corner of the cloth was loose and John kept all the razorblades we used for cutting leather there. So when I returned from the kitchen, my darling boy was standing in his bed, stamping with his bare feet on razorblades. There were Gillette razorblades squeezed tight in his little fists, and his mouth was full of them as well. It was truly an unforgettable sight. Strange enough, he hadn’t had even a minor cut.

‘Yes, it will be so much safer now!’ we both sigh with relief.

‘Ah, and we’ll not need to cope with nurse’s alcoholic husband anymore with his habit to hide bottles in our storeroom!’

‘It was wood spirit most of the time anyway! Yeah, no more daily bleaching!’

‘Bleaching?’

‘Didn’t you know? He quite often takes shortcut to the kitchen sink instead of walking to the loo next door. Men!’

We talk long through the night and finally decide. We shall be moving there. We will.

Chapter 12

Oh, the Greens. The Environment Protection group. In general, we do have nothing to do with them. They really are just bored kids with idle hands, getting on my nerves at the best of the times. If I would be ten years younger, sure, they would be great bunch to hang around but now they seem a bit too relentless without any general idea hopping from a thing to thing. But the battle against metro is something we want to join in.

In theory, the tube would be a good thing for the city with its already overflowed streets but... First of all, it would be complicated because of the grounds. Our city is built on sand with so many underground streams running around that making this project mark the safety levels would be very expensive and job consuming. But it can be done, of course – Leningrad is built on even worse conditions and tube is fine there. This leads to the second and our main problem – we do not have experts and we do not have workforce so it all will be imported from Russia. According to estimations, it would mean at least 20 thousand new workers. Then add their family members. Then add the builders who must build the apartments for them beforehand, and add their family members too... With the city where the natives are nearly outnumbered already, such an army of workers from the depths of Russia would be the final straw. So while the idea of metro was tempting and truly not a bad idea, the side effects of such a project would be really devastating. Thus – NO metro!

Few days ago a chap from the Sculpture class appeared with a medal made out of plasticine with a slogan “Metro – NO!” on it. It was funny but not very practical for further use. After a quick brainstorming it was decided that it can be photographed (by John) and then pictures copied to make out badges. After another brainstorming Vil came up with another brilliant idea – to turn the badges into a parody of medals, so popular among Soviet Army veterans who sometimes looked more decorated that a Christmas tree. So now I was cutting, gluing and adding safety pins to them, putting all our breadwinning jobs aside.

The Greens got the permission for the demonstration to be held on 27th April. As the company was expected to be quite wild, we decided to leave boys at Nana again. Just in case. Good thing - at the last minute the officials changed the location – instead of centre of the city, it was allowed to be held in Arcadia – a romantic park way out the centre, on the other side of the river

The morning cleared out and sun appeared just at the right moment. In the centre there were quite a large crowd already when it was announced that meeting must be moved to Arcadia.

‘Hey, we are green! We can walk there!’ somebody initiates and off we go. The green flags go up high with our octagonal symbol of the morning star, with loud slogans like “No Metro!” and “Metro not friend!” the well organised and impressive snake of ten thousand people marches through the whole centre of city, over the bridge and further to the park, creating much more furore than if the location of the demonstration would be left unchanged. O-ops! Soviets did it wrong again!

There are some bullhorns for orators but the massive crowd needs much more powerful sound systems to make the speeches really audible so very soon all the speeches are cut short and replaced by singing and cheerful slogan chanting. As before.

‘Hey, it feels exactly like last summer!’ I shout in John’s ear.

‘Better! Look around, we have new people joining in!’

John is right. The last summer rebels were mostly mourning, peaceful gray-heads who were no danger for anybody, even the Soviets, but now we have mostly youngsters around us. Quite determined youngsters, I must admit.

‘Let’s do it!’ I nudge John, spotting a boy with a pen and paper, collecting signatures against tube.

‘Yeah, I thought so myself!’

We jump up and giggle, and sign the damn thing. It feels naughty. Like waving two fingers up in the air.

The crowd sings the usual folk songs: about drunken sailor and then about the rooster, crowing three times in the morning to get all the girls up, about the horse, lost in the fog and such...

 ‘Sash!’ Some old folksongs really are not appropriate for public. Yet. At least ones like that about combating cockroaches We shall beat, beat, beat the red ones... We sash each other and giggle and sash again but it feels that genie is out of the bottle already. It’s the adrenalin rush, helping overcome the fear, grinded deep in our minds.

The police around us is quiet. Even silent.

‘You know, my uncle said that they had an order for today – not to understand Latvian. So funny!’ it’s Gunnar, of course. His uncle is in police, so he might know.

‘An order? Majority of them doesn’t understand a word anyway!’ It is like that, indeed. Most of police are Russian speaking folk and have no slightest idea about the native language here. Nor the customs. ‘Are they looking for clashes or what?’

‘Quite the opposite! The idea is like if they do not understand or at least pretend to be mute, then they can avoid heated discussions, right?’ Gunnar explains, giggling.

‘Oh, I see! So now we have a police hiding behind dumbness. How cool is that?’ John makes another sarcastic note, adjusting the focus of his camera. This time it’s Kiev.

It feels cool, indeed. The whole April had been cool. The traditional art street festival in the city was wilder than ever. Last week there was a funeral of one of the best known dissidents. That was something special as well. While in general funerals are not amongst the most exciting events this one was. Despite the weather and no publicity, the funeral was attended by thousands thanks to a growing gossip road. Grave was filled by hands only and I did patiently wait in the queue to add my own handful. And at the end all the grieving joined in for the song. The anthem! Our deadly banned national anthem!

And then, of course, was the beauty contest! The beauty contest in full glory on Soviet TV – I do not know what’s more surprising – the public funeral of a dissident or that one!

‘Road of fire... it’s coming, it’s our awakening...’ chants the poet and it really feels like that. ‘It’s coming with the morning right now...’

Ouch! I have nothing for the breakfast and to be honest, nothing decent for the dinner tonight as well.

‘John? Will you be okay if I leave now?’

‘Why?’

‘The fridge is empty. Awakening or not, we still must eat.’ I check my purse. ‘I’ll jump into market. We can meet later at Nana’s.’ I wave, diving in the excited crowd. I can smell the spring in the air.

Central market is a huge one. We believe it’s amongst the biggest in whole Europe with its historic capelin hangars. Market is a mixture of the shops and private sellers. Five kilos of potatoes, some carrots, a beetroot... what else? Meat or fish? Meat is so expensive here... I sneak through the crowds of the fish hangar. Cod! There is chilled cod! I find the end of the queue. Fish is not my favourite, and cooking it would be a messy job but it’s cheap and all the cut-offs will make a great soup for pooches.

‘Hiya! You from park too?’ It’s Vita, another of our artist friends. Her darling Hedgehog is quite active member of Greens.

‘Hi! Yes, escaped. You can’t fill tummies with speeches only.’

‘Yes, I know, my fridge is totally empty as well. Listen, did you hear about the nuke?’

‘Shit, sure! We need it like a hole in head, aren’t we, but most likely we shall not escape. You know what I mean?’

‘Well, with just two thousands megawatts we can’t really survive on our own, to be honest. The line from the new Lithuanian nuke is not ready yet and it will be no solution anyway.’

‘Yeah, instead of planned six million megawatts they settled for what – half of it? Safer, sure, but no good for us. So... yeah...‘ I nod.

‘They are planning to start construction in ten years time. At least four million megawatts but I heard about a new design which basically has no power limits. Awful, really.’ Vita seems really upset.

‘Yeah, the lake near the Lithuanian nuke already is much warmer than it should be and all the fish is gone. And here they are planning to build right on the beach. And knowing that Baltic Sea is just a shallow lake actually...’ Queue is moving slowly so we have time to discuss this in depth. 

 ‘Did you hear that idiot saying that ecological problems are the Western thing, that we do not have them? Truly, he said it with dead serious face.’ Vita makes a face.

‘What this queue is for?’ A plump Russian woman pushes between us, breathing fiery mixture of garlic and vodka like a dragoon.

‘Menca,’ we both answer in unison in pure, polite Latvian, turning our backs to the fire hazard.

‘What you said?’ Russian dragoon is annoyed. ‘WHAT?’ According to her reaction it really sounds like we had offended her.

Somebody in the queue behind us starts giggling. ‘Girls, don’t be so rude! Don’t you dare say “cod” in Latvian on public again!’

‘Menca!’ I snap over my shoulder for the second time.

‘Answer me in Russian! I will bloody not learn your fucking stupid language, you, Nazi! You all need to be shot, all of you! Fascists!’

Sure, I would be able to provide the dragoon with Russian треска but I’m not in the right mode today, I’m really not. Instead I just offer a big, overpolite smile and turn my back to her. Choke on it, bitch!

 ‘Well,’ Vita tries to ignore the screaming dragoon and returns to our conversation, ‘this is exactly like the usual crap which goes with it. Our officials said that there will be no more than twelve thousands imported to build the sodding nuke but that bloke from Moscow accidentally let out “we shall build a nice new city for about 40 000 builders, who all, let’s be real about it, will be imported”. He went even further explaining to the ignorant public that as they will arrive with their families so there will be necessity to build new factories to supply the family members with jobs... At least he was honest.’

‘Can they ever stop?’ I quickly look over my shoulder at still screaming and shouting vodka dragoon. ‘I mean, in general?

‘That Moscow bloke seemed to be naturally surprised why we are making such a big fuss about it all. I wish he would be able to see this dragoon through our eyes.’ Vita nods towards still screaming woman.

‘Okay, we are buying out half of the power we need but what is the point to build a new nuke just to build more factories and take more and more immigrants to provide new factories with workforce? It’s like merry-go-round which never stops!’

‘Yeah... And when it stops, it’s all about fuming vodka,’ Vita finishes with a big, hopeless sight. ‘And garlic... How is baby Keggy doing?’

We are lucky. When after around an hour in queue we are approaching the counter, there is still plenty of cod left. I pick up two of the biggest ones, approximately three kilos each. They cost me less than a half kilo of the cheapest meat would.

When I crash with two heavy shopping bags in the hallway at Nana’s, boys are excited. ‘He is here!’

‘Who?’

‘Netta’s boyfriend!’ Carl giggles, sticking out tongue and rolling eyes. Even for him idea about Netta having a boyfriend seems funny.

‘Behave yourself, young man!’ I give Carl a nudge. ‘Go to our room!’ But it’s too late. Netta’s door flung open and she drags out a young man by hand.

‘Meet Forkie!’ she screams excitedly skipping around in the hall. Forkie? Oh, yes, that one.

‘Nice to meet you,’ I offer my hand. Forkie silently, with some suspicion takes it and I instantly regret my politeness. His handshake reminds me the very dead cod in my shopping bag. So does his expressionless face.

‘I will marry him next month!’ Netta carries on. ‘I bought my dress already! And the suit for Forkie! He looks so-o cute in it!’

Well, Forkie is anything but cute; but it’s not my business.

‘How nice! How is Nana?’ I ask in hope to hear that Nana is having a heart attack right now and Grump is riding the shed for a suitable axe to chase so called fiancée away. Nana has the final say here and I’m sure that Nana will never agree; but seems that I’m wrong here. Nana appears from kitchen with a big smile all over the face. ‘Hello! Where is John? Cinnamon buns will be ready in a minute!’

‘I left him there with the lot, it’s not over yet. I just needed some shopping before market closes.’

‘Oh, children, you all might stay for a dinner tonight; there is no need to rush home!’

‘I do not know yet. John might have some job to do later.’ Job is always a good excuse with Nana. I really would not like to spend the evening gazing at the happy couple. Forkie might sensed it as well because while I drag my boys and bags into John’s room he has left.

‘Is he cute or what?’ Netta dashes in and crashes on the sofa.

‘Can he speak? I hadn’t heard a word out of him. What he does for living?’

‘Oh, don’t be silly! You know, he had a really hard time when she left him and such... Right now he is taking a break.’

I know. According to Netta, he is not studying, he is not working either, and he just divorced, leaving two toddlers behind. Not a very impressive list. Oh, yes, I forgot. He has a flat.

‘I see. Well, I wish you luck!’ What else I can say? Netta is determent and Nana approves this union. So it will be. ‘Better show me your dress!’ I move onto much safer grounds.

John arrives about a half hour later and I can untangle myself out of the heap of tulle.

‘The wedding is on.’

‘Really? Such a shame we have that important doctor’s appointment then,’ John winks. ‘Hope they will have a great time! Want a bet?’

‘I would give it a... year. The most.’

John is even less optimistic. ‘Six months, no more.’

‘On a bottle of champagne? ‘

‘A deal! Oh, and, by the way, can you do something with this? ’ John opens his bag and takes out a crow, neatly wrapped in his jumper. ‘I found this one in the park. Probably damaged wing or something like that.’

‘Dad! Where we will keep it?’ Carl is right in. ‘Rob, dad bought a bird!’

‘Ouch! Now you are gone utterly green, aren’t you? One Green’s meeting was enough!’ I tease, unwrapping the blinking bird.

We watch the crow standing and flapping wings without consequences. ‘I can’t see any injuries. Both wings seem even. And so do legs.’

‘There must be something wrong if it can’t fly. Can you feed it or do something?’

‘Like what? Turn its neck? Or maybe yours?’I mock, but deep inside I do know that I have no choice. ‘Crows... they are omnivores, are they? That must be easy.’

We chop few bits off the cod. No luck. John fetches a slice of bread from kitchen. The bird shows no interest. It just stands on the desk, flopping wings and screaming his guts out towards heaven... okay, just ceiling.

‘It definitely looks starved. Why the heck it doesn’t eat?’

‘Mum, you must feed it like Angelica then.’ Carl suggests.

‘Right, and it will snap my fingers off! It’s what you want? Look at that beak!’

But Carl is right; I must try to feed it somehow. ‘I think the cat way will work here. You know, the way you feed a pill to the cat. Jumper will do. ‘

I carefully wrap the screaming crow in the jumper. Now the quite impressive talons and wings are out of the fight. I try to put the piece of cod into the beak but no luck. If it’s open, the fish fells out. If it’s closed, it’s... closed.

‘I’m going nowhere, John. Ask Nana, she must have some syringe in the kitchen. And some dish, water and a raw egg yolk. Let’s try it differently.’

Few minutes later I have a quite yucky brew in the needleless syringe. ‘Well, then. No messing around now.’

I use the technology I learned with Angelica: left arm holds the beak open while with the right arm I squeeze the mixture in the crow’s beak. The bird is quicker. Whizzzz! Phlop!

‘It works, mum, it works!’ Carl jumps in excitement; Rob claps hands.

‘Yeah... Sort of...’ John giggles and runs to the kitchen to get a cloth. I still can see with one eye. The other is covered with egg yolk and bread mixture, slowly dripping down my face. So is my hair and my new jumper. But at least some went down the beak, that’s for sure because now crow is screaming its guts out looking for more.

‘You like that, do you, bird?’ Carl asks giggling. I can’t figure out what is he asking about - the food in crow’s tummy or my wonderful garnish. Then John is back with a towel and my vision is back in full. At least until the next squeeze.

Splash! Crow shakes its head again sending bits of mixture as far as the wall. At least the ones which do not land on my face again.

‘Mum, you will need the bath! And a washing day!’

‘Yeah, thank you, all of you! John, I think this is a baby crow, early in the season, and seems that it simply has no idea how to eat or to fly yet. ’

‘Ouch! Then we need to keep it for a while until it will learn.’ John is in the world saving mode. ‘I think Nana still has an old parrot cage somewhere in the shed, I will ask Grump.’

Of course, Grump has some cage in the shed so when I manage to clean myself up at least to the passable level, we are ready to leave. Two children, Rob’s buggy, two large shopping bags, an empty cage and a crow tucked in John’s bag...

‘Netta, you better rethink seriously.’ John winks from the doorstep. ‘Married life is not for faint hearted; trust me.’

Chapter 13  

Tonight we have a moving in party. Our new bedrooms have layers of fresh paint, the floor had been scrubbed, painted and polished. And this afternoon I have been out shopping furniture while John helped his father whitewash the ceiling in the dining room for the second time.

 We need two extendable beds for boys and a new pull-out sofa for the dining room – some kind of Soviet version of IKEA. As with everything, there is no hope to find anything fancy in the shops, but basic furniture is still available. I wasn’t picky – with two boys and a slobbery dog anything goes, except white.

Vil, Charlie’s little brother is the first one to arrive. He is not very good at anything, but as additional manpower he will do. ‘WOW! That’s posh!’ He checks out the new premises. ‘You can get lost here, you know!’ He drags out a bottle of wine from his inner pocket.

Then Raul and Charlie arrive with two full bags, followed by John’s sister Netta with her friend Eva, carrying Nana’s cream cake in an old hat bag. Seems, that Forkie is left home alone for tonight. Yes, they got married, by the way. And we managed to politely ignore the event.

‘How is married life then?’John winks, letting girls in. ‘The dream of passion?’

‘Don’t be so filthy!’ Netta shudders indignant. ‘He is such an idiot anyway!’

‘Seems like novelty of marriage started to worn out?’

‘No, seriously, he sits all day and does nothing! Can you imagine that? Nothing!!!’

I can understand Netta’s point. She is in her last year of Art studies, works as a part time teacher, sings in two choirs and tries to be a new Suzy Quatro in a newly established rock band.

‘So I decided to divorce. Before I’ll get pregnant. There is no point.’ Netta uncomfortably giggles and waves. ‘Family life is definitely overrated. I moved back to Nana. Yesterday.’

‘Right.’ John makes a funny face. ‘Two months of freedom were enough for you. Right. Our dear mother must be thrilled now.’

Then Gunnar arrives. And Vita with Hedgehog. They carry an antique rocking chair.

‘Fab-luss!!!’ I jump up in air. ‘John! We have a rocking chair!’

Sometimes a weird dream about my distant future is haunting me. I’m sitting in a veranda in the rocking chair. You know these really old fashioned verandas with thick layers of cracked, peeling off white paint and umpteen little panes, patched with squares of stained glass all around. To be honest, I hate these, they are so stupid, but in my dream I’m sitting in one. Happily. Rocking back and front, back and front, floorboards feebly squeaking underneath. Dreadful, isn’t it? Whatever, a rocking chair is fantastic! ‘I love it!’

The boys’ room was done first, then our bedroom and bathroom. Now is the turn for the dining room.

‘You know,’ excited Charlie bounces around the room, ‘the Creative Unions are calling for the mass movement. People’s Front!’

Lady Jane quickly jumps back in her cage and using her beak, slams the door behind.

‘That’s neat!’

‘Yeah, she has developed few quite quirky habits. One thing - she doesn’t like visitors much.’ John giggles. ‘Everybody wants their independence, you know. Speaking of People’s Front...’

I sit in my rocking chair, sipping tea. The boiler is bubbling and gas cooker is on. I just put in the oven the second try with tiny slices of bread, covered with cheese... A yummy smell is drifting around. It’s a bliss!

‘People’s Front is not the hottest news, to be honest.’ I take out the tray of the oven and spray some herbs on top of the golden cheese. People Front or not, now I have whole kitchen to play with! ‘The same calls had been coming from Estonia and Lithuania for a while now. Coincidence again?’

‘Definitely not. So nothing to be amused about. It was expected, indeed.’ John agrees with me. At least on this one.

‘I think it’s just a new Soviet trick to put all this growing resistance into some controllable flow.’ John nods, steady wrapping his last film strips in tissue paper. ‘Honestly, Charlie, have you read all the speeches of the Creative Unions?’

‘Well, not, actually, I’m seriously allergic to all sorts of speeches.’

‘So am I. But just peek in a bit.’ John reaches in the drawer and takes out an extra fat newspaper. ‘It’s all about supporting perestroika and glasnost - too much of usual Soviet tango and clapping in unison for my taste. Trust me, we can do better.’

‘Mum!’ Carl pulls my sleeve. ‘I want read that newspaper! Can you show me how to read?’

‘Oh... well... you know all the letters, right?’ Carl learned the Alphabet way before his third birthday, but then we decided that reading must wait for some time otherwise he will have problems at school. At least, I had. I was bored to death in the first year. And in the second and all the further ones as well. But now... I really have no time right now. ‘So just read them together. That’s all.’

‘Really? It’s that simple?’ Carl seems a bit suspicious.

‘Yes, it is. But don’t take this newspaper. Take that.’ I pass him yesterday’s paper. It has some piece about national symbols and such, but nothing really important.

‘Thanks!’ Carl happily jumps off the chair. ‘Hurry, Rob, let’s go do reading!’

Charlie pats Muriel who has spread herself all over the desk. ‘But...’

‘Be real, there is no “but” in this malady. Who on earth can explain the brilliant term of ‘more democracy’, for example? There is democracy or there is not. Like with pregnancy. You are or you are not, no one can be more pregnant or less pregnant.’ I look at John and make a silly giggle.

It’s a painful subject, the pregnancy, better not to be mentioned. I so wanted a large family. And so did John. But since doctors axed Rob’s future, it’s out of question. We can’t. No, we still can, ish, but we are strongly advised not to. It hurts. Badly. Of course, there is always another path – adoption, but I don’t want a child so much  – yet – to go through the whole Soviet officialdom... Who I want to fool? I want. Another child. I want it so badly that walking past a full pram physically hurts...

‘Mum, what does de-occupation means?’ Carl peeks back in the room, waving the newspaper.

I shake off my thoughts and smile. ‘Well, it’s when the occupants go home. When the occupation is over.’

‘And what’s occupation then? Russians?’

I sigh. ‘It’s not so simple...’

 ‘I told you it would be wiser to keep the reading thing back a bit! I presume now it’s too late to offer some children books?’ John still giggles after the short course of Soviet expansion boys are tucked in beds finally.

‘So now, when monsters are out of the way,’ John looks around. ‘Charlie, which brush you want?’

‘I bought a roller with me. It will go faster.’

Old newspapers, all over the floor, are rustling under our feet while we quickly apply the fast drying base on the walls. 

‘Listen, Charlie, just read what she says!’ Hedgehog, eagerly mixing paint in the large bowl, points to a lengthy bit in the newspaper. ‘Remember one – she is a deputy of Soviet Supreme Council, none less! I doubt she would put her well oiled life under the risk.’

‘Yeah, but the language protecting part sounds convincing.’ Charlie takes a bit defensive position.

 ‘Probably it can be done but would it be enough to preserve us? Look at this! Marvellous azure, isn’t it?’ Vil dips the brush into paint.

‘Add a bit more white, this one will dry darker on the walls!’ Charlie arranges his tools. ‘Let’s do it!’

When walls are ready, room looks really great. Now we have a pile of furniture parts, wrapped in brown paper, waiting for advanced fingers.

 ‘Where we shall start?’ After all the paint splashes are scrubbed off, I am hopeful and optimistic. Charlie is our man.

‘I presume with the big one,’ Charlie is happy to be in charge, ‘then we at least will get that out of the way.’

I suspect that the big foldable bed will be the most complicated due to the pull–out mechanism what is not attached to the mattress. The instructions that come along with it are very detailed, but don’t make any sense, at least to me.

Netta decides that we deserve some music. She drags the box from the bedroom, plugs it in and start digging through reels, humming. In Soviet empire there are three options - disc player, reel-to-reel tape recorder or a cassette player. All have their pluses and minuses. Records give you a quite limited choice about the contents – choice of classical music is quite bearable, but the rest... Well, there had been some discs with Beetles and ABBA and such, but it usually takes five years or so as a minimum for the Soviet music industry to copy the original disc (Soviets do not bother with copyrights). Andy Williams is bearable but if you prefer some rock, there is no offer. Soviets don’t do rock.

Cassette players have another problem – sound quality, so for us and many others the best choice is the big and clumsy reel-to-reel tape recorder Majak. With some adjustments sound quality is good and choice is limited only by purse because “black market” has every new album with a delay only by a month or two. ‘Slade will do,’ she finally decides, adjusting the end of the tape. ‘Something easy!’

Boys lean over the plans.

‘This doesn’t make sense at all!’ Charlie shakes head in disbelief. ‘They can’t make them more twisted, do they?’

‘It would help if the instruction would be in Latvian! This is made here after all!’ Eva points with some prissy undertones in her voice. ‘But that’s too much to ask, isn’t it?’

‘Don’t worry, we all shall end up in Daugavpils soon anyway!’ Charlie blurts from the depths of sofa. Daugavpils is the second largest city here. ‘Yeah, the census data looks really scary! It’s thirteen percent now there!’

‘Of what?’ Netta asks perplexed. ‘Thirteen percent of what?’

‘Latvians, baby, Latvians! The rest are Russian speakers there. You can’t hear Latvian on the streets of Daugavpils at all.’

‘So bad?’ Raul gazes for a moment in his glass, and then takes a long gulp. ‘For the loss of our second largest city! Cheers!’

After some heated discussion Charlie decides to ditch all the instructions and start with the base – the bottom frame and the ends. It goes quickly. Then boys manage to attach the springs to the mattress and lift it on the frame into position. It takes some lifting to work out which side is which but at the end they manage.

‘But they can’t ban Latvian language totally, can’t they?’ Netta’s beautiful dark eyes are wide open.

‘Here we go again!’ John angrily sighs. ‘Netta, you are the shame of the mankind! Wake up, babes!’

‘Where was the last time you filled a form in Latvian?’ Raul smirks, topping up his glass.

Netta blinks in silence, looking for the right answer. ‘But it doesn’t mean anything. They are just saving paper or something!’

‘How stupid one child can be?’ Vil dramatically pats on Netta’s head. ‘Never mind, dear, it will get only worse.’

New sofa looks good. I’m please with my purchase. Now the last bit is left – attaching the springs to the sides of the frame.

Charlie tries. Then he tries harder, but still no results. ‘I can’t reach there,’ he mumbles from the depths of the sofa.

We all offer our ideas, but none of them work. We sat on the floor in silence.

‘Are you sure they gave you the right parts?’ Raul asks doubtfully.

‘I have no idea, but this was the only one in gray there, others were stupid blue, with flowers. We have no choice anyway; we must deal with what we have here.’ I point. Customer service in Soviet empire is lacking some finesses – looking for spare parts, sort out some mistake or even complain about the broken bit is as hopeless as to find a smile behind the counter.

‘It’s like the whole Soviet life – whatever you do, the outcome always is wrong!’ Eva sighs.

’Yeah, this can’t go more wrong, indeed!’

 After another heated discussion the frame is taken apart again. So now, like an hour ago, we can start again from the beginning. Frame is pulled out in the middle, the mattress is positioned on top and boys manage to attach the ends of the springs to the frame.

‘Easy, see? Now only both ends must be attached and we are done with this,’ Charlie optimistically pats the sofa.

Each end needs only four large bolts, and thankfully there is no confusion about which end fits to which.

‘Done!’ Raul victoriously climbs out of the back of the sofa, ‘Try it out!’

I look at the sofa, proudly erected in the middle of the room. I like it. It looks good. I lift the bottom up in the air and wait for the springs to click it in the right position. It clicks. I let the bottom part slide down. No, it doesn’t look like one in the shop. It looks completely wrong.

‘Hey, boys, it’s back to front!’ it’s the feminine eye of Eva who spots the problem.

With a big sight our team start taking the sofa apart again. Turning frame the other way round doesn’t work so at the end we realise that’s the spring mechanism that has been put in the wrong way. Oh, well!

Another twelve bolts later we are finished.

‘I would do with some coffee now,’ with longing in his voice announces Charlie, collapsing on the newly erected bed. ‘Maybe you have some, by accident?’

By accident I really do have some. If tea is easy to buy, coffee is a whole different story. It doesn’t grow under the Soviet sun so we learn about success of Soviet foreign policy by the supply of coffee. Overall it can’t be very successful as there was always some shortage of coffee as far as I can remember, but now it has become a real problem. Nobody loves us anymore.

My father has found a quite steady coffee supply - the purveyor of the Supreme Council, Soviet version of our local parliament. While ordinary people did feel lucky finding small, green beans from Vietnam and then tried to find out recipes in grandma’s cooking book how to roast coffee in your own kitchen, elected members of the Supreme Council enjoy huge golden brown Arabica beans. So does my father and thus - me.

The purveyor of the Supreme Council in theory is the most desirable “friend of influence” – he is able to offer basically anything but father has limited himself to the coffee only. It is the only compromise he is able to make with the state for himself.

‘Well, I think I have some to sacrifice here on the furniture altar!’ I unwillingly leave the room.

The dining room looks neat. One wall is covered with book shelves. Between both windows stands our large mahogany wardrobe which belonged to John’s grandmother’s aunt, and on the opposite wall - a large mirror.

The next wall is occupied by our new pull-out sofa. As the bedside table we place a large dowry chest with metal binding, made at the beginning of the 18th century.

Netta has presented us one of her large impressionist style paintings – John sitting in the Castle Garden Cafe – which we hang above the sofa. Done!

Sofas of the boys are much easier puzzle to sort out so soon, with a great help of a large coffee pot, they are ready.

Tomorrow boys will be having them as well as new bright puce camel wool blankets and two little stools with leather tops.

‘Looks neat!’

‘Time for a party!’ Vil is enthusiastic. ‘Night is young!’

Night is young, indeed. We carry the chairs outside in the garden. Nana’s cake had disappeared long time ago but I have sandwiches and few more wine bottles waiting in the pantry.

‘Census data in Riga are getting close to the middle as well,’ Charlie continues, staring in the dark.

‘Aren’t we there already?’

‘Officially not. It’s still like 48/52 right now but we all know what they do with data.’ Charlie sighs. ‘You know, folks, it doesn’t feel good, not at all. Another ten years at this pace...’

‘You know the solution!’ Raul bursts out laughing. ’Breed for Latvia!’

‘Yeah, that’s the way!’ John nods towards the house, ‘we are doing our job!’

Feeling the pressure of the dreadful census data right on the streets, many families decided to follow the slogan from the catchy pop song Breed for Latvia! of some amateur group by few exile Latvians in America.

‘We are a minority in all our major cities already, that’s how it is, whatever census data says.’ Charlie announces in the darkness.

‘Then two is not enough!’ Raul teases.

‘At least it’s a start!’ John laughs, ‘We are doing better than you, lot!’ That’s true; none of them have any children. Yet. ‘Where is your patriotic spirit?’

‘I do not want any!’ Eva sounds tearful. ‘Bringing them into this world...’

‘What’s wrong with this world? See, the beauty of the dark sky and bright stars... We can try for one right now!‘ Vil mocks. ‘My patriotic spirit is right up already!’

‘It’s actually quite ironic how big belly can become a form of anti-soviet resistance!’ Eva gives Vil a strong nudge.

‘Or folksongs.’ I add.

‘What’s wrong with that?’ Netta pulls head out of bucket again. She is singing in two choirs right now.

‘Hush, sunshine!’ Raul calms her down. ‘Nothing wrong, nothing, just keep singing!’

Indeed, all the choirs and folklore groups are a big thing now. National costumes and all that. It’s not that anybody has gone wild on folk music, of course, but it’s a way to keep our national identity and, yes, ... to show THEM.

 ‘The ironic part is that it all is supported by Moscow!’ John reaches for another sandwich. Strange enough but that’s right. Since Stalin’s era Soviets strongly support traditional music and dances; well trimmed, of course, but still...

‘Oh, yes, you have paid holidays for concerts and festivals!’ Netta points, chewing on sandwich. ‘And you do not need to beg for a bus or likes.’

‘Eh, it will be over soon. Right now government is so confused juggling with the ideas and consequences of the perestroika. When they will realise what’s this all about...’

On the other side of the garden fence a heavy train rushes past, leaving behind the smell of burning diesel and some chemical.

‘Zarin?’ Vil theatrically sniffs the air.

‘Dream on! It’s ammonia.’ Gunnar waves dismissively. 

I gaze in the night. Really, if you think a bit... Media also has started to change. Slowly, step by step, but still... Instead of everything painted in pink with just some rare black polka dots of inevitable minor criminal activities, one after another discussions about real social and economical problems appeared on the pages of the newspapers and TV screens. ‘Yes, media is changing.’

‘What do you think?’

I didn’t realised I said it out laud. ‘About media. Oh, they are quite weak and cagey, these public discussions, but you can see that perestroika really creeping in.’

‘Designed by KGB,‘ grunts Charlie.

‘Whatever, but changes are there! It would be something completely unimaginable just few years ago! Can’t you see that?’

‘Oh, it all seems too good to be true!’ Eva makes a face.

I’m getting bored. Ah. All these talks... I gaze at the garden. ‘Night is growing chilly; window must be closed soon... Let’s go back inside!’

Fitzy walks in the dining room and confused looks around, slowly assessing the new situation.

‘Look at her!’

‘Who?’ John and Charlie lift heads from the paint bowls where they are trying to figure out the right shade for the doors. That’s our next job.

Jane has walked the perch to the cage door and opened it. With a gracious jump Fitzy is in, curling in for the night.

‘Do they sleep together?’ Charlie blinks, questioning his vision abilities.

Jane looks at him and slams door shot.

‘Seems so,’ John chuckle. ‘I was wondering the other morning what was that white stuff all over Fitzy’s head!’

‘Now you know.’ I sigh. Our cat is sleeping right underneath the Jane’s perch. ’A bit of a shitty life, isn’t it?’

Chapter 14 

Next morning when I finally drag myself out of the bed I find Carl at the desk already, reading. None the less, the Bible. ‘Interesting?’

‘It varies,’ Carl replies evasively, keeping his head in the book. I peek over his shoulder. The Jeremiad. Yeah, probably very similar read to the yesterday’s newspaper, in general. ‘Where is Rob?’

‘Making breakfast.’

The new kitchen is a mess with happy Rob in the middle of it. Mostly it’s butter, but I must admit, some of it has been applied on the bread as well. The rest is spread on the table, floor and Rob’s new sweatshirt.

‘Hi! How nice of you!’ I accept the sandwich which looks like a piece of very contemporary art. I must admit, I’m domestically challenged, but right now this kitchen is too much even for me. Damned People’s Front! It’s their fault for me staying up so late last night, I mutter, scrubbing butter of the floor. ‘Right. Now about the reading. Do you want learn it as well, like Carl?’

Rob happily nods, eyes sparkling.

‘Great. Then, first of all, we must work on talking, Rob. Seriously.’

I have had spent many sleepless nights trying to decide what to do. What if doctors are wrong? What if Rob lives past the teenage years? What then? He can’t spend life like a log in a wheelchair! He must learn to speak, whatever doctors think of it! And then the rest – reading, writing, math!

‘Let’ s start with letters then!’

We go through the Alphabet and Rob diligently tries to repeat letter after letter.

‘Great! You can do it, see? Now we might try words.’

That goes much harder but at the end after numerous ‘ats and ‘okks we reach quite clear “cat” and “dog”.

‘See? You can, Rob, you can do it!’ I’m so happy. Excited. He will talk!

The political life is getting more exciting as well. June starts with big plenary meeting of Creative Unions during which many brave words are spoken. Well, the sauce is still the “right” one with perestroika, glasnosts and obligatory thanks to Gorbachev, but behind that quite serious things had been said. This time brave words are not even so important – the main achievement is by WHOM they are spoken.

Last year it was bunch of knobheads, bridgeburners by default, accompanied by mass of mourning pensioners who have nothing to lose except few more tears. Not much of a quality. The metro demonstration was run by airy youngsters mostly because it was a good fun. But now the local Soviet crème de la crème had started to move out from shadows. And these people have a lot to lose.

 The life of a Soviet artist is either a hopeless struggle because you are nobody (and these nobodies even have no way into Creative Unions) or its reasonably good, some kind of a wealthy Soviet upper-class, well cherished propaganda tools. Each one of the Creative Union members has enough of material and not so material privileges to lose by speaking up. So they are serious players, and they are no fools either. At least most of them.

So when it comes to 14th June again, we decide to take our boys with us. In comparison with the last year, the difference is huge. The demonstration is legal. That’s the main thing. And that’s a very difficult concept to explain to our boys when we are walking through the park towards the newly built Congress Hall.

‘Mum, please! See, there is another one!’ Carl points towards the policeman. ‘Please, let me kick him!’

‘No!’ John barks with some authority in his voice but even Carl picks up the funny undertone. ‘Seriously, son! It’s agreed that there will be no troubles from both sides, and it seems that they are keeping their promises so we’ll better keep ours.’

‘But, mum, please! See these two national guards there? Can I at least spit on them?’ I sigh. It’s not easy to teach kids good manners in this mayhem of a life, it really isn’t.

The second reason why we do feel quite safe is John’s new job. Soviets adore passes and permits. Since John took the photographer’s job at the museum, he carries the identity card with bright red cover which by no surprise really impresses every official, police included. In our Soviet space everybody knows that people with identity cards have certain rights. And as nobody is sure about what kind of rights each one ID card provides (like in John’s case when it doesn’t give you any) police and lover level “boys in grey” do not even check on them. Wave it with enough confidence and that’s it.

The meeting starts as expected. Park is full of people, and now you can see all ages mixed together, decorated with many well known faces. The first speech is by chief editor of a biggest, most popular newspaper. Soviet newspaper, by the way. Impressive. Then speak several members of Creative Unions which is what’s expected. Then speaks the newly elected chairman of the Supreme Council and a young pastor (clergyman?) of the Lutheran church - this is as common combination as unicorns hanging around backyard, munching your strawberries. Another step into unseen universe!

It is planned to walk from the Hall to the Freedom Monument after all the speeches. Normally it is just a five minute walk through the park but for all the thousands it will take at least an hour so traffic will be closed and police is ready for that. What police is not actually ready is when, after the main speeches in the middle of the crowd suddenly the flag is erected. The one, THE FLAG! The red-white-red one I hadn’t seen in my life, just saw on old, carefully hidden pictures, the one which hadn’t had flown openly for past fifty years!

The multithousand crowd gasps in unison. The goose bumps creep up along with emotional tears.

‘Look, boys, look! It’s the flag!’ we lift both boys over our heads. ‘Look and remember!’

‘It’s Konstantin from Helsinki group,’ somebody behind my back whispers in awe.

The police are shattered. To get the illegal flag down now? It would lead to insurgency and in this crowd would lead to injuries, maybe even deaths - no doubts about it. But... It’s like glasnost, right? So to leave it? But it’s illegal!

After some nervous fidgeting and shuffling the flag is left untouched. And so we walk – with the flag way high above our heads at the front.

‘What a brave boy!’ an elderly lady wipes tears which are streaming down her face. “God bless him, God bless him!’ Brave? Or mad? Well, actually two weeks later Konstantin and his mother quietly are rounded up, their Soviet passports confiscated and both evicted from Soviet paradise, for better or worse. Short and sharp. So far about glasnost, indeed.

This eviction might be quite special or simply stupid as only a month later hundreds of red-white-red flags are raised during the next meeting, called specially for the rehabilitation of it, and at the end of August the banned flag is officially legalized by Soviets.

***

‘Yes, girls, of course!’ I pass the plate with little muffins around. ‘A day centre would be great thing, but I’m thinking about integration in the local schools where it’s possible. Our children have rights to a normal childhood!’

Perestroika has done one good job. Now we are allowed to found non-governmental organisations like some interest groups, and we, the parents of disabled, have decided to create one. For us. We want better life for our children This is our first informal meeting, with a tea and like. My best bone china is out and boys are dressed up to nine.

I’m particularly interested in education. Rob seems a very bright child but no local school will accept him. In Soviet system he has a place in a special boarding school for physically disabled, two hour bus ride from the city where the education level is far from desirable. ‘I do not want to give up on my child!’

‘So do I!’ Shouts a buxom woman with tired face. ‘But mine is mentally disabled and I need a place where I can leave him safely during the day when I’m working! I need to work, mine pissed off, of course!’ She means her husband, I presume. Yeah, the usual story – surprisingly large amount of fathers disappear when facing a disabled child. Seems like they can’t carry such a burden. Maybe that’s John’s case as well? But Rob is so smart and bright!

‘Yes, dirty buggers! All of them!’ adds a woman in mid-forties with a completely gray hair and heavy lipstick all over her teeth. ‘You have no idea how it feels to go alone chained day by day to the child like that.’ She looks like she has found the consolation in a bottle already. ‘We need larger benefits! We can’t survive on this ridicule of a benefit!’

‘Larger benefits would be useful, but that’s not all we need.’ A young, beautiful woman bows her head. ‘We need doctors to take responsibility as well.’ I know her story. She gave a birth to a mongoloid girl. Doctors convinced that the second baby will be perfectly okay, and she went for it. Now she has two beautiful girls, looking like two China dolls, both with Down's Syndrome.

I look at the women around the table. They all are so different. But their eyes... They all seem so similar. There is pain and anger, and defeat. Will mine turn the same way?

‘Even with us they manipulate!’ Dina, our leader, is angry. ‘The monthly allowance is five times smaller than the cost of a child in the state care! They are deliberately doing this pushing us give up on or children! So we are not lost as a workforce! Listen, I have an idea! We might try...’

She is not able to finish her proposal. Rob rushes in, pale. ‘Mo, quick, Angelica is bleeding!’ That’s at least is what he wants to say while it sounded more like ‘’yy, ‘ik, Angee’s eeing!’

‘Sorry, ladies, it’s emergency!’ I jump up and follow Rob but there is no need to search for our snake. Angelica is already crawling in the hall, leaving behind little spots of pale blood.

‘What happened?’ I lift Angelica up and check the holes both sides her neck. ‘Fitzy?’

‘No, mum, it was Albert,’ Carl sheepishly comes out of the room, carrying Albert in his palms. ‘I just wanted to introduce them and see can they make friends, but then Albert attacked her.’ He defensively looks at me. ‘It was him, not her!’

‘We shall sort it all later, now Angelica needs a help.’ I dash back to dining room, holding bleeding Angelica in my outstretched hand. I don’t want to ruin my best white blouse I dressed up for the occasion. With another hand I rummage through the medication cupboard, looking for some antibiotics. ‘Where all the plasters have gone?’ I mumble, hurriedly rummaging different boxes. ‘Damn!’

‘I have some,’ Dina automatically reaches for her handbag.

‘Oh, great, thanks.’

I push some plates and cups further to make space on the table and lay Angelica in front of me. Scars are not huge but look really deep. A quick squeeze from the antibiotic tube - that’s all I can do for her. And then I must deal with that freaking bleeding of course.

‘Dina, can you pass me one?’ I reach my free hand out and Dina puts an unwrapped stripe in it. ‘Thanks! And now another one, please.’ I puff hard trying to wrap the strip around snake’s neck. Angelica, of course, is not thrilled and hisses and flexes frantically in my arms.

‘Done! Looks good and no more blood!’ I’m quite impressed with my skills. Bleeding has stopped and Angelica looks like prepared for the winter ahead with white ‘scarf’ wrapped around her neck.

‘Sorry, girls! Now, where we were?’ Angelica is back in her cage and there is nothing more I can do for her now. ‘Dina, what you wanted to say?’

No response. Women are sitting around the table in silence. Some of them have mildly green faces. Stiff fingers are clutching handbags.

‘I must to go,’ the buxom one suddenly jumps up and waves her wrist. ‘Dental appointment. Biruta, are you coming? I can drive you right up to the centre.’

‘Me too?’ Another one jumps up.

‘And me!’

A moment later the room is empty, only Dina giggles in her chair. ‘Well done, boys! Now we can properly sit down, clear all the muffins and draw the plans!’

We pull our cups closer and lean forward over the papers. ‘Democracy is so tiring!’ Dina adds, biting into a muffin.

Chapter 15 

For the next few weeks the talks about People’s Front continue irritate me like a smell of paint, drifting around. Long talks about things we already know. The flirting with Soviets and perestroika. Dishing out the careful, well measured bits of truth by teaspoon when we have one and only truth in our minds – freedom. Independence. There is even some general plan starting to form - to go for the next elections.

‘This is ridiculous!’ I toss the newspaper over the table for John to read the new plan. There is no such thing as political battle or election campaigns in Soviet universe. There is always only one candidate, who is elected by 98.7 or something percent of votes – end of story. No one who doesn’t fit the Communist Party, can get even close to the elections. ‘Even if this plan would work, the candidates who would be accepted for the next year’s elections, will be hopeless. We can do better than that!’

And seems that indeed, we can. Few days later I notice the sheet of paper, glued to the electric post. The wobbly typed words tell about founding a new political movement.

Contrary to leftish People’s Front, and not as radical as Helsinki group, the new thing looks promising. The National Independence Movement. Some of the names we know from Helsinki group but the rest is new. What I like is they do not mess around with Gorby’s perestroika and all that malarkey. They are very straightforward – independence and only independence is the way. Leaving the Soviet Union. I like clear targets but I would like to see them and only then make my decision.

‘The meeting is planned on 10th July. John, what do you think?’

‘In Arcadia Park?’

‘Aha, were Metro meeting was held.’

‘Thanks God, midsummer is over!’ John folds the tissue paper over the last strip of film and writes the date on it. ‘It’s not very good for the health.’

‘It wasn’t so bad, you know,’ I shake head, putting the iron away and stacking the clean children clothes in the pile. ‘It wasn’t raining hard this year. We had seen worse.’

‘The beer was good,’ John adds with a chuckle. It’s not very clear if it’s a complaint or praise for the event.

Midsummer is quite an old, heathenish tradition which had survived through the centuries of Christianity and Soviet years of denial. In old days this June night was filled with certain, meaningful rites but now it has reduced to few, most important things – night out at bonfire with beer and BBQ. It’s also about making wreaths and caraway cheese, singing folk song and few other minor things, but the essentials are bonfire and a lot of beer. This year, as a part of perestroika, it was even made legal.

With Carl and Rob in tow we decided in favour of John’s colleague Mara. It seemed less extreme option. She has a house on the river bank, filled with quite energetic relatives. Even Keggy had been invited for a rafting night.

‘At least we all survived. That’s all that counts.’

John doubtfully looks at his bare feet. ‘My shoes might have slightly different opinion.’

‘Not a surprise, huh? As far as I know you are not Jesus so walking on water was not an option when you decided to leave the boat in the middle of the river.’

‘You know, it was getting quite wet there.’

‘It was the middle of the river! What else you expected? That one little leak was no danger whatsoever.’

‘Of course, I know that, otherwise I would take the children out too. Probably I just hadn’t enough of the midsummer spirit in me, or not enough beer... Anyway, it’s over... So...What do you think? I would rather go to that meeting.’

Yes, sure. ‘I do not want miss it either.’

Boys are harder to convince to have another great day at Nana’s.

‘Mum, it’s ridiculous! I’m all grown up!’

‘No, you are not!’

‘Mum, you are worse than Soviets! You deny my rights as a human being participate at political meetings and deprive me from expressing my political views! I think, Amnesty International would have something to say on this subject!’

‘For your knowledge, young man, nobody is taking seriously Amnesty International, at this end of world anyway!’ This child really must be banned from reading newspapers and watching TV. ‘I’ll deprive you badly! You are grounded for A WEEK! No news at all! And no newspaper reading either! Suck it, buttercup! ’

 ‘This is worse than gulag!’ Carl is completely and utterly upset. ‘No TV? Not even The Muppet Show?’

The Muppet Show as well as Black Adder and even Monty Python series is some weird sidekick of glasnost, replacing at least some hopeless Soviet documentaries and patriotic war movies on TV.

‘No, Muppet Show you’ll, it’s a children program. And I will ask Nana to read you some fairy tales today!’

‘Mum, please... It’s cruelty!‘

‘NO.’

‘What’s this?’ John suddenly asks, pointing finger to the open window where a strange cat jumps in and disappears, very businesslike, under the dining table. ‘Muriel on heat?’

‘No, it’s one of Keggy’s friends.’

Since we had moved, Keggy has had established his own circle of friends. Fitzy is still his best one with Muriel as the second, but he has expanded his love for cats to our entire neighbourhood. When I take him out for a walk, usually three or four cats join us, walking side by side with him with tails proudly up in the air.

‘A cat?’

‘Look under the table! Then you might finally understand why I always ask you to keep that window closed!’ I point to the one behind John’s desk. Outside there is a huge chestnut tree, spreading a strong branch right to our window.

John lifts the tablecloth and there he is – our Keggy, happily stretching behind his bowl. In front of the bowl are sitting now five cats, picking meaty bits out of his porridge. While we stand there, silently, another one, a tabby, jumps through the window and joins the company under the table.

‘The tabby one I know. It belongs to old Maria on the ground floor. And I think that black one, with white paws lives on the house on the other side. But that gray one I see for the first time.’

‘I see,’ John nods. ‘At least... You know...’

‘You better look at this!’ I pass John a sheet of paper. We both stare with admiration at few words, written under the cute drawing of a snake.

‘I luv Ankelika’ John’s eyes light up. ‘Must be Rob then?’

I proudly nod. ‘See? He is learning to write now. He can read everything already! Not bad, isn’t it? After all he is only three! I think soon he will be talking like Carl.’

‘That will be some fun.’ John giggles after a thoughtful pause.

On the day of the meeting Arcadia Park is full of policemen, strolling casually circle after circle around in pairs.

‘Oh, our darling men in blue!’ John gives me a nudge giggling. Yeah, it’s funny. The thing is, Arcadia Park is like an unofficial meeting place for gays so all these pairs of men in uniforms having casual walk around....

‘Hi!’

Of course, Gunnar is here and so is Roland.

‘We left Vita and Yvonne over there. And I saw Charlie earlier on the bridge there.’

‘Oh, good.’ I look at my watch. ‘Soon they must start. Better move closer to the stage if we want to hear something.’

And they start. Fast, efficient and impressively sensible. We already know some of them. Einars with his little wire rimmed glasses, he is from the Greens. Aivars... Some others. The oldest of the group is one of former Soviet officials who was kicked out before Khrushchev’s Thaw for nationalistic tendencies.

This lot do not mess around - independence and how to get it. They talk no nonsense – not at all that dancing around perestroika and vague mentioning the sovereignty offered by People’s Front. The structure and organisation. Regional groups and working groups. According to Soviet constitution there is the legal way out. So the legislation group. The main targets are discussed for the groups for economy, ecology, culture... The group leaders are appointed for now, and if you would like to join, you can register over that table... And then, if you feel like that, pick up a work group you would like to contribute...

Efficient. Exciting. And scary. I look at John and he looks at me. Filling forms is a new level, so much different from just “walking past” in the crowd. Can we? Do we?

‘Yes, let’s go for it! If we must die, let’s die with a music on!’ John winks. ’I can’t carry on like this anymore. You?’

Well, yes! Of course! You can have such an option only once in the lifetime. To do or not to do... ‘You know, if we shall end up in a prison, I hope that our boys will be proud of us!’

‘Listen!’ I pull the sleeve of a guy in head of a culture work group after John and I had filled the forms. ‘You seem to have forgotten about churches. You know how many of church buildings soviets have had expropriated, and the legal issues as well...’

‘Uh-hm?’

Seems like Aivars have no clue what I’m talking about. ‘See, only single parishes are legal subjects right now, not Churches themselves. And getting back the church buildings is one thing, renovation and the maintenance is another. As you know, most of them are registered cultural monuments so every heating pipe is a battle, and the rest are dilapidating. There is a lot of crap, from properties to Sunday schools and libraries to sort out if we talk in general.’

‘Right!’ Aivars throws at me a sheet of paper, quickly scribbling on his. ‘Then it will be your department, okay?’

I look around. John has wandered to the other end of the stage in hope to find better angle for pictures and we are divided by a crowd now.

‘Well, I presume, I can. Yes.’ The thing is, I really do know the problems. At least of the Lutheran Church. But problems of other denominations can’t be much different.

Well, Gran, here we go... No, my Gran wasn’t a religious person, not at all. But she had a childhood friend from the neighbouring farm who ended as a head of the Lutheran church. “Oh, I had been wearing the Archbishop’s trousers!” once she enlightened me on her airy youth. “Of course, he was just a math student then.... Such a fun we had!”. My grandmother’s early ‘not-a-crush’ in some twisted ways had lead me into having a godfather who is part of the ‘old guard’ – pastors who graduated the University before WW2 and after spending some time in Soviet prisons and gulags, survived and still carry on. They are in their seventies now and surprisingly sane. You can’t beat the proper classical education, I muttered under my nose listening how the trivial things like patching the roof were discussed. I really had a respect for them.

So yes, why not? I know their problems. The legal status for the Churches themselves, getting back expropriated properties... Yeah, I can manage that, at least for a while until somebody better suited can take over.

‘OK, I will take it,’ I unfold my share of the registration papers and settle down at the end of the table. ‘Yes, please?’

Few hours later it’s all over. I have officially joined an illegal, anti-Soviet political movement. Yes!!! And even more – I’m the head of one of the groups!

‘What you were thinking of!’ John shakes his head in disbelief when we are united again.

I sigh. I can hear excitement in John’s voice, I know he is thrilled, but he is also right – I’m not a lawyer. All I hoped for was to join the culture department maybe, let’s say, to discuss the maintenance of the monuments of cultural heritage. I’m an artist after all.

‘I know, I know, but hopefully we shall manage. Maybe there are lawyers on the list,’ I wave registration forms people had filled in.

Later at home when boys are in bed and Keggy has had his evening walk, we sit down and start screening the application forms. ‘An engineer... a teacher.... another teacher... a post lady... What do you have there?’

‘The some,’ John puts down the last form. ‘No lawyers. A gardener. A driver. One accountant...’

‘Oh, that’s good. Accountant can take care of all the paperwork then.’ At least that would be a blessing. I know my weak points and any kind of paperwork is among them. ‘What do you think we should start with?’

The dawn arrives earlier than we expect but the sleepless night had been quite productive. At least now we have few major outlines to start with. ‘I see a busy day ahead,‘ I smile relieved, pushing the notes away to fit fresh coffee mugs on the desk. ‘This starts to look quite something!’

‘Well,’ after a moment of silence says my godfather. ‘I presume... Yes, you can talk with him.’

The first thing we need is a place for meetings, we decided last night. There is no way I can squeeze all these people in our dining room. In theory what can be more suitable for us than a church? What a shame my godfather’s congregations ares more than an hour drive out of the city, he would let us in without a second thought but I need something nearby, right in the city. After the breakfast I sat down with the phone. It takes some time to explain my problem but at the end he gets the idea.

‘Yes, try to talk with Gailitis first,’ he finalises. ‘He is suitable... I think.’

Of course, you never know for sure. You can only presume. But I quite trust his judgement. And that’s the nearest church anyway. It would suit me perfect. So I try. The same day. I walk to the church to find out the office hours. And then, two days later I’m in the pastor’s office. I speak slowly, judging every word I say. It’s not an easy thing. Trust is hard to build in few sentences.

‘You say, I was recommended by him?’ the pastor’s welcoming smile freezes.

Yes, I know. Sounds dubious. The ‘old guard’ had been quite unpopular for the past year or so when young and rebellious pastors founded their Rebirth group, like the independent branch of Helsinki group. This pastor is in his fifties so he probably sympathizes with the rebellious youngsters more than with the old guard. He might be even a supporter of the Rebirth group. I have no clue.

I nod. ‘He is my godfather.’

‘Well, I need to think about it.’ Gailitis seems deep in thoughts. ‘See, if I’ll let you in our premises, I must join the movement and the group as well.’

‘Sure. You are very welcome.’ I mean it. He is the manager of the Church’s head office so he most likely would be very knowledgeable addition. ‘It’s not like we are some underground secret organization even if we are not entirely legal. Yet. Things are changing fast.’

‘Yes, I know, but I must to think everything over. You know, it’s not that simple.’

I know. Situation indeed is not simple. I had these discussions with my godfather ad nauseam already. While on spiritual level Lutheran Church is doing very well right now with new people cramming through the doors, technically it is deep in shit. During Soviet ruling, the third of congregations have gone along with two thirds of clergymen. What’s left is not worth much – two hundred parishes and only about eighty clergymen in the whole country. Majority of these left are way over the retirement age and are running on their last legs. What will be left after the old ones will be gone? These were the continuous nightmare thoughts for my godfather.

The Theological Seminary, established in sixties, hadn’t been able to contribute much due to Soviet repressions. Gailitis is one of the Seminary graduates, but there are not enough graduates for continuity so each one is important. Very. “We all had put our hopes on Modris,” I remember the argument I had with my godfather just few months ago. “He was our only candidate for the next Archbishop! The best and the only! And what he has done?” My godfather sounded like a thunderstorm.

I agree, Modris is the clever one. He was a nuclear physicist after all before Seminary. “He blows it all up! With all these political activities he had lost his pastor’s licence!” I can understand his concern. The best young pastors are all in Rebirth group and yes, all of them now are on the Soviet’s black list. “Do you understand that they all might be arrested any day? Especially Modris and Juris. Do they have at least some responsibility towards the Church?”

My argument was that enough is enough and such life isn’t worth to be continued just for sake of it. ‘If it will carry on like it was, Church will be gone anyway, with or without the young pastors! So they do have the point.’ That set godfather back. He was the sensible one, worried to death about future. But there I was pointing that nobody actually cares about the future anymore, especially sensible. It was a very hard concept for him to accept.

Now it is time for Gailitis to decide. Sure, he will think it all over; sure, he will talk with his family and with somebody at Church’s head office. But at the end he will be alone to make his choice.

‘Can we meet the next week?’ Gailitis offer after a moment of awkward silence.

Oh, well, it’s not a “yes” but not a strict “no” either. So there is a hope. ‘Sure!’

Two days later I receive a phone call. It’s minister Gailitis. We can have the cellar office in the church for our meetings. Hurrah!

 Chapter 16

Oh my God! My mouth feels fairly dry now like somebody had stuffed it with sand. For some unknown reason I suddenly fling my arm out in a wide gesture then grab my neck and make a choking giggle. ‘Hello, folks!’

Standing in front of complete strangers, who are slowly filling the seats in the church’s cellar, feels terrible. But... They arrived, yes? They decided to come to this meeting. Some of them must be brave, some wise, some probably are complete nutters and someone must be KGB informer. What exactly do they all expect? How I can lead them and where?

I’ll faint! What I was thinking? No, seriously? I’m not a leader. Never had been and never wanted to be. My other hand, uncontrollable, is jingling loud some change in the jacket’s pocket.

‘Hello, people!’ I start again, this time nervously screening cracks in the ceiling.

 An elderly man raises his hand up like at school. He looks like a typical head of the congregation. ‘Can we start with a prayer?’

Ouch! Here we go! Among things I had been thinking about all past week, this I wasn’t expecting. ‘I would leave prayers out of our meetings for one and only reason. We are not a religious organization, you know, our aims are political.’

I’m looking at blank faces, even with a slight disapproval in some of them. They didn’t get it. Okay, let’s try again.

‘Forget about us being in a church building right now. It would be better to meet at a club, really. Anyway, we all are here because we joined the National Independence Movement. Right? So our political aim is the independence. Democracy. And - as a part of our way to democratic society, we must restore the rights of the Church. Any Church. Lutheran and Catholic, Jewish and Orthodox. Every one, regardless our personal beliefs or even lack of them. Can we all agree on that?’

Light murmur follows my question. Seems that it will be not an easy concept to adopt. But nobody is ready to express opinions right now. Well, somehow we must move on.

‘It will be not easy but we all must learn the basics of democracy, myself included. So let’s do it the democratic way. Let’s vote. Yes?’

Gradually one hand after another goes up. ‘One, two, three...’ I count them. ‘And now, please, who are against?’

After a moment of hesitation four hands are raised. ‘Thank you! So with a total majority we had voted ‘yes’ for our overall political goals. Now...’

I explain quickly that we must vote into position a secretary who will keep protocols and other paperwork in order. Nobody volunteers. Of course. The years of keeping ourselves not involved are stronger than the first sprouts of newfound courage.

‘We do not know each other here, so now it’s up to yourself. Think – maybe you can write fast? Maybe you are good with paperwork? We really need somebody sane here who can keep the track. If somebody will be really unsuitable, we can always change. Anyone?’

‘I might try,’ after a long silence and uncomfortable shifting a girl my age raises her hand.

‘Can you introduce yourself?’

 Actually it’s not needed. The relief is filling the room. The new secretary is elected unanimously.

‘So now,’ I want to keep up the speed, ‘can the new secretary take the seat here?’ I pass the sheets of paper and few pens to the girl. ‘Now we can finally start.’

The first strategy is simple. To find out what exactly must be done. Then – how. I hope that at least by then there will be a lawyer among us. Until then...

‘I can keep nearly everybody informed,’ offers Liene, the lady from the post office. ‘But it would be better if we should split ourselves at least in three, maybe four groups so it can be done faster.’

Good idea. So we do create the groups according where we live.

‘I have a typewriter if that’s any help,’ offers a teacher. ‘It’s very old but at least it’s not on KGB registers.’

Nobody really knows for sure but there is a belief that each new typewriter has its own identity – letter positioning, distance between the certain letters – minor things but enough to be individually identified by KGB if such need arises.

‘Yes, sure!’ the new secretary jumps at the offer. ‘It would be better than use my office one.’

And so gradually, step by step we set up in motion. Well, to be honest, it feels like a kindergarten group have had decided to play politics. We are not politicians. But we definitely know what we want. To get rid of Soviets. The independent state. To have freedom to live in a democratic society if we decide to. To speak our own language, after all.

***

‘John? Are you staying home tomorrow?’ I have a plan to visit all the heads of denominations. To get the list of most important changes right from the top. There is no point to go to Lutheran Archbishop right now. He is hopeless. If Soviets will say BO-O-O! to him he might drop dead instantly. So I relay on my godfather and our host here.

The head of Roman Catholics is very evasive. I feel that even with John Paul II as a pope our Catholic church will slip away from anything. Well, it’s good to know. The next on my list is the head of Russian Orthodox Church.

‘Are you interested in getting back the cathedral?’

Soviets hadn’t been very nice even to Russian Orthodox Church which historically always had a serious political influence in Russia. In the heart of our city, right next to the monument of Lenin, the Orthodox cathedral had been turned into a planetarium with a bar in addition. Bar, unofficially called God’s Ear is actually a very popular place.

Archbishop of Orthodox Church is quite shocked when I introduce myself.

‘But...’ after a moment of silence he says, ‘you are... from the National Independence Movement, right? And you came to me? To the Russian Orthodox Church?’

‘Yes, indeed.’ So what? What he expect? That we’ll start shooting Russians on streets? For goodness sake, my grandma was Russian!

‘It’s quite simple. The Cathedral was yours, had been expropriated and I came here to ask you would you want it back. If yes, we shall put it on our ‘’to do” list.’ I probably sound incredibly silly for him.

‘Well, yes, but I can’t promise to fill it with Latvian congregation.’

‘Our goal is a democratic country, believe or not. It’s not our business to order what you can and what you can’t do with it. My only question is – do you want it back?’

‘Why shouldn’t we?’

‘I don’t know... To get it back in shape as a church will be very expensive project in the first place. It might be money issue. It might be spiritual one with all that bar thing there right now. I don’t know. That’s why I came to ask.’

‘Yes, of course, we want it back and yes, we have enough funds for all it will cost.’

I really have no idea how many churches in the whole country had been turned into clubs, warehouses, and even cattle-sheds. Or just left in ruins. Right now I know two who had been turned into a concert halls, Anglican church is a popular youth club, St. Peter’s – an exhibition hall... And it’s in this city alone.

‘Fine. That’s agreed then.’ I have a feeling that I have left this Archbishop very confused. To be honest, I don’t care. It’s his problem, not mine. I got his approval to go for the cathedral along with other church buildings.

This is my day out. It’s the end of the month and I up to shopping. Political battles are one thing but Soviet economy is so twisted that you just must twist yourself along with it to survive. Planned economy includes mandatory revenue targets for the shops. For that they need to sell. To sell they need commodities on their shelves which is the usual nightmare of the shop managers as warehouses are not exactly filled to the roof as well. But at the end of the month, if the revenue is dramatically poorly, the gates of the warehouses might spit out something to improve the numbers, some “deficit” as we call it... like East German washing powder or Turkish soap, Indian tea or Hungarian shoes... Might... Something...

Boys are at Nana, my purse is full, fridge – empty, and I’m out on the hunting path. Supermarket I finished already. Nothing. Zilch. I got only a piece of deep brown corduroy. So next stop will be at Children’s World. But before that I’ll treat myself with a peaceful cup of coffee. And a cake... or two.

 Right behind city’s oldest supermarket, built in 30’s, is hidden a little coffee-house which sells gorgeous cheesecakes. The morning rush hour is over and it’s early for the lunch yet so cafeteria is nearly empty; only few naughty secretaries are gossiping in corner and an old lady, savouring each sip of her coffee, watches the busy street outside right at the front.

Coffee is quite... e-eh, Soviet, but cakes are fantastic, fresh from the oven. It’s a nice treat to sit peacefully for a while and watch life going past instead of trying to stop my life jumping around under the table on all fours. It’s great that there is Nana to look after them!

Door opens and a group of young girls rush in, creating a noisy queue.

‘Hiya!’ It’s Jines, a very tall blonde, math student, as mad as Hatter. Her name is Ines, of course, but that added J at the front fits her better. She drops her bursting tote on the floor besides me and runs back to fetch coffee.

‘Do me a favour,’ Jines peeks at her watch and empties the cup after quick exchange of the latest gossips. ‘There is a professor today I really would like to listen. Can you please, take these in?’ she gets out of her bag a big file. ‘It’s not far away.’

Since she got an evening job at newspaper’s letter department she is always running to sort out one impossible problem after another. ‘Where to? Don’t tell me this is one of your prison buddies.’

‘No, but like. See, this is a second hand orphan here, nine years old and already quite a character. When his mum died he was raised by an aunt but she died recently as well. No other relatives. We printed his story a month ago and now this is a last bit from us – there is a trusted family who is ready to foster and adopt him.’

I can do that. As much as I hate Soviet offices I can do my little bit for this boy. Newspapers these days are truly the last hope fo sort out from the municipal landlord who can’t patch a leaking roof to puppy rescue.

‘Yes, sure.’

‘Fab-luss, owe you one!’ And Jiness is off again with her mates.

The district’s orphanage court is right in the centre. The dilapidated house itself is a sight but halls are even worse with cracked beige lino and dusty windows.

I open the doors of the office. Oh, these Soviet offices, they do have the whiff of especially doomed air in them. ‘Hello! ’

‘And you are? I have no bookings for today!’

‘Oh, I’m nobody, actually.’ I make an estranged smile. ‘I just bought some papers in for you.’

The lady behind the desk reaches for the file and flickers through. ‘I see. That’s good. Take a seat, please.’

One look at the scruffy chair this side of the desk is enough for a refusal. I impatiently lean against the wall. I need to go shopping! ‘As far as I know the newspaper had prepared everything in order, I am sure.’

She looks exactly like a typical Soviet bureaucrat in my worst nightmares – big, grumpy lady in a frumpy suit and stiff frizzy perm. A typical army wife, no doubts about that. Half of Soviet offices are filled with these. A lot of golden jewellery and very noticeable lack of brains. Yeah. But on the positive side seems that she is civil at least.

 ‘Yes, it seems so,’ the woman carefully takes one paper after another out of the file and scribbles some lines in her notebook.

‘As far as I know, the family is really suitable.’ I nervously prattle away. Offices always get that effect on me. ‘The three boys, all really good, and the farm. You know, they live in quite remote area and it will keep him away from really nasty trouble.’ According to Jines, the nine year old in question already was on the glue sniffing track and was quite familiar with booze as well. Seems the lady in front of me knows it as well. She nods in silence.

After another awkward silent moment she draws her attention from papers and takes a long, scrutinizing look all over me. ‘Why you do not want to adopt him? Had you thought about adopting? Yourself?’

Me? Why should I? I just hear about him less than an hour ago. Sure, we had discussed adoption possibilities with John after the doctors’ verdict. Cheating to get pregnant was out of the question. I simply can’t do that. It would be totally unfair for John. The same with AI. So adoption seemed the only fair possibility. Then the child would be not mine and not John’s but equally ours. So yes, of course, we had. But just discussed.

‘Hm-m... Well, yes, I had been thinking sometimes, like in theory. But not about him. See, he is all wrong for me. He is nine – my boys are only four and five right now. It would be the wrong way around, the influence, I mean.’ A thin smile. I’m trying my best to sound clever and reasonable. ’For him it would be much better to grow up under influence of older boys, away from the tempting streets of the city.’

What else to say? ‘See, if I would adopt, I would be looking for a younger child, right now the three years old would fit perfect,’ I laugh it off lightly. ‘And definitely a girl as I have two boys.’ I put my best smile for her. Done and dusted.

The lady doesn’t smiles back. ‘I see...‘ She nods and just keeps staring at me. Then she reaches for the shelf behind her and pulls out another file. ‘If that’s the case then I have exactly one right for you. Here.’ She opens the file. ‘Are you interested?’

‘Yes!’ I collapse on the chair, breathless. ‘Yes, of course I am.’

Am I? Oh. My. God.

‘She is three and a half now. Was hanging on air just until recently, and now I need to place her in the orphanage somewhere, and I thought...’

Do orphans have the sell by date now? Did I miss the punch line? ‘Where is she now?’

‘In the children’s hospital.’ Lady recites the address.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Light cough, as far as her papers say. Just nothing. You know how it’s in these cases; hospital is a good place to hang around until the papers are sorted out.’

‘Oh, I see. Is she an orphan?’

‘Nope.’ Lady shakes head in resentment. ‘The usual stuff. Mother is in prison, and her parental rights were finally removed by the court. Drugs.’

Oh, shit! A child of a drug addicted criminal. Oh, wait a minute... ‘Is she okay, the girl, I mean? Not affected by mother’s habits? I’m not being fussy, you know, but since I have one seriously disabled child at home, I can‘t afford another one with health issues. Sorry.’

‘No, no, she has a clear health bill, except...’ officer checks in the file, ‘... she wears glasses.’

‘Oh,’ I take a long, deep breath. I didn’t realised I did stop breathing for a while. ‘Glasses! It’s nothing! I do have them as well. What’s about her father?’

‘I suspect he is just a write down line in the birth certificate. You know how it is.’

Yes, I know. Soviet law is very generous to single mothers. You can choose any name you want to be registered as a father of your child. Even Lenin, if you wish.

‘She still has both grandparents. Mixed family. Grandmother is Russian, grandfather – Latvian. ’

‘Why they can’t adopt?’

‘They don’t want to. I had been working with them... what.... for past six months now and they had really pissed me off.’ Officer looks like she means it. ‘They just can’t make their minds up. One way or another.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Row after a row; now they are divorcing. Oh, I even do not want to talk about them. I hoped at least that grandfather will decide but yesterday he finally signed the refusal. So much time wasted. So, what do you think?’

‘Me? Yes, of course. YES.’

‘Well, then that’s sorted out.’ Woman turns very businesslike instantly. ‘Here is the list. You know - the doctors and all that lot to be done.’

She passes the sheet of paper and I screen through the list. The alcoholic register, the drugs, yes, easy enough, I cross one after another off mentally, tuberculosis, mental health... Oh, shit! John is still on that psycho register for the army. SHIT! I quickly search the options in my head.

‘Sounds quite a lot of papers. I wonder if there is a possibility for me only to adopt the child, you know, without my husband. He is very busy right now and I’m sure he will be not able to collect all these certificates fast enough.’

‘Oh, yes, it can be done, of course. He must sign only one paper then - that he agrees with the adoption. You know, that he agrees that you adopt the child.’

‘Oh, he will. He definitely will.’ I smile. He sure will when he will learn about it. ‘What’s next? After that? I will gather all these papers as soon as possible. Ouch...’ I check the list again. ‘The apartment check...’ That’s it; we will not qualify with that one. Definitely.

‘The apartment... it’s a big one, but not with all the facilities in place. Is that a big problem?’

The official behind the desk just smirks, making impatient gesture with a hand. ‘Look around! How many have it all right now? Forget about that, just gather the certificates! ‘

Yeah, this building is far from desirable. Old, dilapidating wooden house with squeaky stairs and cracks all over the ceilings. Worse than ours, much worse.

 ‘So you feel sure?’

 ‘Yes, of course, I am. I definitely am.’

‘Without even checking on the child herself?’

‘Well, she fits. Right age, right sex, no serious health issues. What else counts? Do we shop around in hospital after giving the birth? “No, I do not want this baby, that one on the right with blond hair and blue eyes seems much nicer, wrap in, please.” We take what’s born, without discussions, right? So here we go. We’ll pretend that she is just born! How is that?’

The childcare officer now is laughing. ‘Well, if you are so sure then go and look at her. Here is the pass for the hospital. Ask for the head nurse of the ninths ward. Oh, and tell the editor thank you from me.’

After the dim office the sun outside is shining very bright. I crash onto the nearest bench right behind the little Orthodox church and draw out the cigarettes. What just happened? What I have done? Adopting. A child. Like that. Am I completely mad or what?

I inhale deep and watch as the column of ash grows at the end of cigarette. Well... It’s too late to start thinking about it all now anyway. What’s done, done. John... I must tell him. Right now. I grab my purse and check for coins. Yes, I do have few two kopeck coins. The first phone box is ruined. In the second one the receiver lead has nothing at the end. Shit! As usual – when you need a phone, none is working. There are two more boxes over the street. I light another cigarette with trembling hands and cross the street. The first box is littered and smells of urine. Since the number of telephone boxes seriously outnumbers the number of public loos available in the centre of the city, it’s just... normal. But at least phone works.

‘Museum?’ John’s muffled voice comes alive shortly after the phone swallows the coin. I imagine him sitting at his desk and carefully sorting out the orders.

‘Guess what? You will be a dad soon! We are having a girl!’ I excitedly scream in the receiver, trying to overcome the loud traffic as the shattered door of the box refuses to close. ‘How great is that?’

‘What?’ after a moment of silence that’s all John is able to produce.

‘We shall have a girl, John!’

‘Are you pregnant? Why do you think it’s a girl then? Did you went to the doctors?’

‘No, it’s not like that. Just wait a minute,’ I look around. I’m only few blocks away from John’s office. ‘Put the kettle on, I will be right there!’ I slam the receiver down. Ha, got you, I know that now you are a bit cheered up. Sorting the orders can be devastatingly boring.

I’m in the dark room in less than five minutes. Kettle has not even boiled yet. ‘See, I went shopping this morning as I said and then met Jines.’

‘How that can lead to a pregnancy?’ John looks slightly amused.

 ‘She just asked me to sort out some papers at the orphanage court for the newspaper and when I delivered them, I was offered to adopt a little girl.’

‘Just like that?’ John shakes head in disbelief.

‘Exactly just like that. I will go to the hospital to look at her right now. Can you make it as well?’

John looks at the chemicals behind his mug, the grunting distiller, erratically puffing in the corner and the rolls of films to be developed. ‘Nah, not today.’

I nod. John is a dedicated workaholic. And a bit slow sometimes - the idea of becoming a dad needs to sink in for a bit as well, I suspect. ‘Well, then, keep fingers crossed. I’ll dash. Shall we meet at Nana later or you will be coming right home?’

‘Home, I think. Will you manage?’

‘Sure! I left Keggy at home this morning. It’s only the boys. For now I will leave it here.’ I put the bundle of corduroy in the corner – my only purchase today.

 

  

Chapter 17

When I reach the hospital in the outskirts of the city I have calmed down a bit. The head nurse of the ninth ward is hard to trace but I feel like I can move Himalayas right now, not only a plump nurse. ‘I’m from orphanage court,’ I introduce myself when nurse is called out of cafeteria, ‘to meet...’ I peek in the pass, ‘... Julia, please.’

‘Yeah, they called already,’ nurse indecisively grunts under her reddish nose. ‘You can take her for a walk, weather is good enough today. Behind the main building, in that forest, there are squirrels, you know,’ she offers a bit more lively.

‘How is... Julia?’ I hate that name. I truly hate. I will definitely change it. ‘Is she well now?’

‘No, she is still coughing, but that’s nothing. Do not worry. Want a peek?’ she pulls out a folder which I suspect is Julia’s hospital history.

‘Yes, please, it would be great.’ I must admit, I am nosy. Very nosy, to be precise. I quickly scan through the pages from the back to front. Current temp sheets and all that... rubbish, I’m not interested, a cold is a cold, if even that. The front page of the file finally contains the important information. 3100 grams at birth... healthy, ...all shots up to date, ...mental development according to age. Huh. That’s it. Now I’m sure I feel strong enough to meet my daughter-to-be.

Nurse waddles off to return shortly with shy little creature in crumpled hospital pyjamas and slippers which are at least five sizes too big for the little feet.

‘Hello!’ I try to stay calm.

‘Привет!’ small, shy voice comes back somewhere behind the nurse’s back. Shit! The child is speaking Russian. Oh, well, she is just three, so it will be easy to switch languages fast. Until then... I will try to talk to her in both.

‘How about a walk? Пойдем погулять?’ I offer my hand and after a moment of hesitation, it is accepted.

‘So then it’s arranged. Lunch is within an hour so you be better back then,’ nurse ushers both of us through the ward door. ‘Enjoy!’

Clumsy slippers as well as pyjamas are not suited for any walk but I try my best finding a sunny spot right at the back of the hospital. The child carefully watches the path, putting one huge slipper in front of other, occasionally pulling up the pyjamas trousers with her free hand.

Huh, then. So this is my daughter. Well, my first impression... She is very unhappy. And a very ugly child. Honestly! It also looks like she has a seriously bad squint. The cheap glasses with one eye covered with a greyish plaster don’t help to improve her looks. The hair had been cut short and ugly, probably by a busy nurse in hospital and it looks lifeless and tangled now. Pale, almost white face. The teeth... occlusion is all over the place and even I can see that brace is needed ASAP. And the main thing - there is no sparkle in that eye that I can see behind the thick glass. Oh, but on the other side... well... that eye is heavenly blue and the hair – as blond as they come. The adopter’s dream – a little blond girl with blue eyes! Now I understand why officer was laughing.

I want hug my little sad girl, lift her in my arms and tell her that all will be okay.... but I can’t. She is not mine yet. I can’t give her false promises. So instead we carefully discuss the sunny day, the hospital’s breakfast and the ‘toy nurse’ who always let them play. Child is shy but sounds bright. She replies in Russian every time but seems that she understands most what I say in Latvian and doesn’t need much translation. All in all it all looks... better than I expected. 

The next morning we are not messing around. John has come in terms with news in no time and is overexcited now. Taxi is ordered for 8 a.m., Keggy properly walked long before that and boys are clean, fed and ready for another day with Nana. We sat long with the Yellow Pages last night, working out the best route for me. And we dived deep in our stash “for the rainy day”.

Before we take boys up to Nana, on the way out I jump into the local Municipal housing office for the first certificate - on our living space. Then John takes boys up to Nana while I start my main journey.

The alcoholic, drug and mental register are next to each other at the other end of city, after boys are lead up to Nana. It is my lucky day as there are no queues! I’m out and back in taxi waiting with all three of my certificates in less than half an hour.

 The TB register is on the opposite side of the river – but as my luck continues – is open today and also no queues! Usually all these places are pestered with driving licence candidates but seems that collapsing economy has affected this market as well. Good for me!

Right before noon I release the taxi with an impressive tip and proudly walk with all required certificated into the still dim but much more welcoming office of the Orphanage court.

‘You got them all? Already?’

I can pick up a slight surprise in the lady’s voice and it is hard to hide my triumphant look. ‘Yes! Today is my lucky day, absolutely.’

‘Great!’ the officer nods, checking all the certificates. ‘I presume you met the girl yesterday?’

‘Yes, she is nice. So what’s next?’

‘I presume now you can take her home. I will squeeze your case through the court next week and then you will need to change her papers in your name.’

‘What? How? As simple as that?’ One of John’s relatives went through the adoption process two years ago and for her it lasted exactly nine months. Full nine months of hard walking from office to office. I never heard of 24 hour adoption.

‘Yes, why not?’

‘Well, then, I presume, I’ll hurry.’

‘You have the yesterday’s pass? I will ring the hospital to release her for you then. Good luck!’

Out of the office I collapse on the same dilapidated bench as yesterday, even more confused. That’s it, I completed the adoption. Nobody will believe it. Nobody! I haven’t even told anybody yet, I was expecting it go at least few months, even longer. Now... What’s next?

It takes three cigarettes until my plan is ready. The bed. First thing is the bed and then the lot. I jump up and wave the taxi. Thanks’ God, I dived really deep into the stash this morning.

My luck continues. There is the same model of the bed that we bought for boys. And even better – it has been put together already. Saves time. The blanket on the shelf looks a slightly different shade but still – nearly the same as our boys have. Oh, yes, a pillow... and that’s it. I push the bigger note in the driver’s palm and my purchases are tucked into the delivery minivan immediately. At home I offer another note and bed is carried in and the rest of furniture moved around quickly to fit everything in. And another note gives me a seat back to the centre of the city where my next stop is at the supermarket, the Children’s World.

I can’t take my girl home in hospital’s pyjamas and slippers. I have a mental list in my head already. From toothbrush to dress, from hairclips to boots – she needs everything. I quickly run through the shop. The choice of shoes is miserable, but I find two pairs of sandals and some slippers. It will do for now. My luck continues – there is a queue for tights! Colour choice is not the best - light blue, white and bright red, but at least it’s something for the start. Dozen pairs of socks. Knickers. The dresses... Well, there is even some choice for these. Good quality wool, pale purple, with Peter Pan collar. Perfect. The red one with white lace all over. But I can take the lace off. And a baggy dark blue one, more like a school uniform. It will be the right one for “gardening” with boys. What else? Oh, there is a queue in the coat department. Now, in the summer? I dash towards it and WOW! There are nice white summer jackets with printed puppies on them. Really cool stuff! I grab three of them so they can all have matching ones. Done! And while I’m here, the pastry shop. Yes, they do have their famous Ladybug cake left. Actually, the cake itself is crap, the standard biscuit with some jam and double cream in, but the top! It’s covered with chocolate glazing and wonderful ladybug figurines on top.

Now I have two big shopping bags full. I look at the watch and then check the notes in the purse. So far not so bad. I still can afford few more taxi rides today.

Its late afternoon when I finally reach the hospital and the nurse is already waiting for me. Child is out of the dowdy pyjamas but the things she is wearing do not look much better.

‘Hi! How are you today, Julia?’ Gosh, how I hate that name.

The girl at nurse’s office nods with a big dose of uncertainty. Actually she looks a bit better today with hair washed and brushed. And a hint of smile in that blue eye.

‘Look, did you like the yesterday’s walk we had?’ I chatter, diving into my bags. ‘But we didn’t see any squirrels, right? So I thought that we can go for another walk today. To my house.’ I lift out one item after another and lay on the chair next to me. ‘I do not have any squirrels but I have a dog, two cats and a bird. And two boys. They are quite nice too. How about that?’

Julia probably hadn’t heard a word what I said. Her eye is fixed on the outfits. ‘Which one you like the most?’ I offer with a cheerful smile. A girl, now I have a girl!

Julia carefully screens the dresses and then points to the red one - ‘тот!’

‘Oh, that’s nice, isn’t it? Do you want to try it on?’ I lean forwards. ‘These slippers yesterday, there were not very comfortable for a walk, right? I bought you some nice sandals, see? They are the same colour as the dress. You’ll look beautiful!’ With trembling hands I unbutton the faded cardigan she is wearing now. Julia obediently lifts her arms when I take off the shirt. I can feel that she is still stiff and unsure. So am I.

When the dress is on, I feel proud about myself. It fits. Even if it’s not the best of designs it fits perfectly so I feel less of a failure as a mom right now. ‘You look beautiful!’ I admiringly look at little confused creature after the last button is done. ‘Now, look, these white socks will fit really nicely with the red sandals. Hope they will be comfy.’

Julia carefully sits on the edge of the chair and lifts one bare foot for me. Yes, they fit. Almost. Maybe a half size too big. Not so bad. Really not so bad.

Nurse stands by her desk, folding the large file in her hands and appraisingly gazes at us. ‘Hurry up, you must sign here.’ She hands me a form and a pen. ‘That’s it then! Good luck, Julia!’

And then we are out of the hospital gates, looking for the taxi. Now I have a daughter. I inhale deeply trying to stop the racing mind, going in circles in my head. ‘Wait a minute, Julia. I can’t keep up with you!’ The bags feel even heavier than before topped up with the thick folder. And now I need hold one little hand as well. ‘Well, honey, I think we need a plan now. How about if before we’ll meet that dog and cat and boys, we go to meet John. He is nice, he is really nice, and then we shall have a cake. Sounds good enough?’

Julia nods, impatiently skipping around me. She is itching to go. Wherever. So off we go, in a taxi, back to the city.

‘John?’ I knock on the lab doors, just peeking my head in. John is sitting behind the desk, weighting some ingredients for developer.

‘Oh, hi!’ he looks at me a bit surprised. ‘I didn’t expect you today. Did you get all the certificates?’

‘I did. And even more... ‘ I laugh, opening the doors wider. ‘Let me introduce! Our daughter!’

John sits, staring in awe while I let the creature in red dress walk in. There is an awkward silence and John looks... well, yes, freaked out. Then slowly a beaming smile takes over. ‘Hi!’ John offers his hand. ‘My name is John.’

‘Привет!’ Julia takes his hand with suspicion, ‘ты ни врач?’

‘No, I’m not a doctor!’ John laughs, shaking his head. I can see that Russian language is a surprise for him.

Last night when I was telling John every minute detail I knew about this child it has had slipped past his ears. Yes, her grandmother was Russian, but that was all I knew. We hadn’t had a thought that probably she was the only person, spending time with a girl, and then there were these six months, hanging around in hospital where definitely the majority of nurses were speaking Russian only. But still. I can see that for John the language is bigger surprise than that cross-eyed look. That’s good, because language is easier to sort out than a wondering eye.

‘I’m a photographer. I make pictures.’ He reaches over his desk and offers Julia a handful of waste prints. ‘See? That’s what I do.’

‘What you two are up to now?’ John asks when Julia is seated and has accepted a glass of apple juice. ‘Did you steal her from hospital or what?’

I quickly report on the events so far. John is shocked. ‘Really? We can take her home tonight? Is it legal?’

‘Seems like it is. See, I got her papers.’

‘Ouch! That was quick!’

Yes, it was, indeed. ‘Court case will be next week or so, she will give me a ring. Until then it’s not official, not yet.’

‘I see...’

‘No, John, she is ours, according to the officer. Already ours, do not worry. We do not need to keep the distance. She gave me that assurance this morning.’

‘That’s great then.’ John sighs, lighting the cigarette. We both stand on the porch in silence until both cigarettes are burned out. Through the open door we watch Julia slowly sipping her juice.

‘So what’s the plan?’ John asks. ‘I have basically finished here for today.’

‘I think we can walk through the parks to Nana’s to fetch the boys and then probably by taxi home. I think... If you will go up to Nana to get the boys, we can wait outside... You know...’

John nods without further explanation. Of course, we will tell Nana. One day. Soon... probably after the court case, but definitely not today. Not right now. Not until we have settled in.

‘Let’s go then! Give Nana a ring so she can get boys ready, will you?’ John reaches in the pocket for the keys. ‘Julia! Kate! We are going for a walk in park. How about an ice-cream?’

Last night, among other things, we discussed the name. Julia. I really do want to change it. I always knew that if I will have a son he will be Carl, and if a daughter – Kate. Like my cool grand grandmother. Julia... It’ll be like “where is your Romeo” and all that crap through the school. Too ambitious, if not simply stupid. I want a sturdy, solid name for each of my children. Like Carl and Robert. Good, old fashioned names. John is with me in this. And in some twisted ways being very old fashioned is quite trendy, at least among our friends. So we agreed on Kate and even prepared our strategy. We shall call our girl in both names until she will get used to it. Gradually. It probably will take a month or two, but it can be done.

I put the receiver down. ’Nana says that she will get them ready in a minute. I warned her that you will be in quite a hurry.’ You always try to be in hurry with Nana otherwise she would twaddle you right into your death bed.

John locks the office door and we slowly walk down the street. Sun is low now and it’s getting chilly. John carries one bag, I take care of the other. Thus we both have a hand free for the little cross-eyed monster, skipping between us. It feels... good. Absolutely wonderful.

Carl dashes down the stairs and through the doors first. ‘Mo, you know, Grump said that Puce might be pregnant...’ He rushes to reveal the latest news about Nana’s dog and then he notices the girl, holding on my hand. He stops and gulps the end of the sentence.

They stare at each other in silence. The door swings again and there comes John, carrying Rob. John carefully puts Rob next to me and then looks at Carl. ‘Boys, say hello to Julia Kate! If you will be nice to her, she might decide to be your sister.’

Carl puzzled looks at dad, at Rob, at me, still gulping air in silence. And then with a big scream our oldest jumps on the girl, wrestling her in a serious bear hug. Then it’s Rob’s turn for a hug, while Carl ecstatically screams his lungs out. ‘We have a sister, we have a sister!’

Julia looks confused if not scared so I gently remove Rob’s arms and grab Carl by the back of his shirt’s collar. ‘Hey, that’s enough! You can’t behave like that on the street! Now, when you have a sister, I hope to see better manners, you know.’ Not that I actually hope but at least one can always try.

At home euphoria continues. While Carls rushes around, trying to show the new sister everything at once, Julia holds on much calmer hand of Rob, following him like a shadow. All together we walk Keggy and then it’s time for a dinner. After the last ladybug has been snatched, cat removed from the table and leftovers fed to Keggy, its bed time already. At least for the children. For us... Nigh is just starting.

‘And how you do expect to get the independence back? Soviets will like, give it to you? That’s not gonna to happen or am I missing something?’ John bites into another piece of fruit cake while a brew the coffee.  Sometimes I really do regret that Charlie’s studio is just few blocks away.

The core of the argument is about the ways to reach the independence. Charlie is a big believer in the most schizophrenic one, picked by People’s Front – to get our people on the ballot papers which seem possibility as with all this glasnost thing there will be more than one candidate in each constituency. And then just vote on about secession. Yeah, right, like it can happen.

Charlie scratches his chin which is covered in few days old stubbles. ‘And what is your plan? Are you planning to take it? With Gramp’s bazookas?’

It’s our inner circle joke. After the second Helsinki group’s demonstration we noticed that Grump has bought a new can of oil and has started spending evenings at telly, cleaning his old hunting arsenal – two ancient one-barrelled guns and his proper hunting gun, happily humming under his nose, driving Nana nuts. No, no, Grump is definitely not a violent man, especially since he is able to walk with the stick only now. It’s more, like, “just in case” thing. Like an extra sack of potatoes for the winter in the cellar or wardrobe shelf stacked full with soap and matches. Just in case...

‘Sure not, you knobhead!’

 ‘Yeah, our hope is the oldies! You know, my father also bought something. A signal pistol which is readjusted for the slightly different ammo. Actually he bought it to scare robbers but if an OMON boys knock on the door and will be naked and standing still… who knows…’ I chuckle.

The ideas about armed resistance had been raised again and again and every time had been written off as a KGB provocation. It would be the last thing to do – we knew we have no chance that way. First of all, the amount of all kinds of weapons circulating around is very limited and, let’s say it like that - lightly outdated. I suspect that one of Grump’s guns had participated in Crimean war, so all in all we are completely armless nation with ability to make only beavers shudder. Against us would be the local garrison – nobody knows for sure but about hundred thousand men. And then there are all these rocket bases and submarine bases... And that’s only now, on our own grounds. Soviets have no problems to crush on as the nearby garrisons as well.

‘One shot, and Gorby will have all the excuse he needs to drown us in our own blood, and nobody will even wink!’ John points.

‘But at some point they will crush us anyway!’ Vil is enthusiastic. ‘Maybe your dad is right, maybe we need prepare at least what we have! Then we will be not slaughtered silently, like lambs!’

‘And your point? If they will be crushing armed people, it will be just another civil war and everybody will turn their backs. Firing at unarmed people always looks worse.’ I totally agree with John.

‘So we need stand still and let them kill us?’ Vil is furious.

‘Exactly! Don’t forget the singing part! Especially if there are some Western media around to witness it!’ I grin.

‘But...’

‘Oy, shut up! Who cares about what will happen afterwards – you will be dead anyway! We all will be dead.’

Some had remembered the short paragraph about the Salt March from schoolbooks, some had even read Ghandi’s theoretical works, but while India and everything from India had a special aura for us, Ghandi‘s name was not among them. For our generation it wasn’t Mahatma, it was Indira, daughter of Jawaharlal Nehru. And friends of Soviet’s can’t be our friends. End of story.

‘Well, I truly think that the legitimate way is the only one. The citizen way. That way at least there is some hope for that “afterwards”.’ We had been discussing this for past weeks.

It is a far shot but in theory a possible way. To give the voice to people who were last legal Latvian citizens in 1940, before Soviet occupation, and their legitimate offsprings. In this group call for independence would be very strong, that’s for sure. So they do have legitimate rights to call Soviets to cease the occupation and West starts recognising Baltic States de facto. The problem is – nobody knows exactly what the international law has to say about this, it’s all very indifferent and vague. ‘We should need a strong support from Hague, of course, but...’ I add.

‘Yeah, dream on, nobody will notice us!’ John spits out but there is no bitterness in his voice tonight. We have our little secret peacefully dreaming in the children’s room.

‘John,‘ I suddenly remember. ‘I forget the toothbrush! I forget to get her a toothbrush!’

  

Chapter 18

The morning consciousness hits me with angry screaming which is piercing my eardrums. It’s Carl followed by Rob right away. ‘What’s going on?’ I quickly remove blanked at least from my head so I can assess the size of the drama.

‘He is stupid!’

‘Who?’

‘Rob! He thinks that red tights are okay!’

‘What?’ Maybe I’m not fully awake yet.

‘No one wears these with a purple dress!’

Purple dress... A dress? Dress!!!! Yessss! I’m not only having a dress, I’m having a daughter!

‘Good morning everybody!’ I put on a “perfect mummy” smile and sit up in bed - as I hope - in a cheerful, optimistic manner. ‘What’s all this about?’

Julia is sitting on her bed with a distant smile. She looks completely at ease with the fight around. ‘He wants red tights with the purple dress,‘ she carefully points at Rob, ‘while he,‘ she points at Carl, ‘wants blue tights with it.’

‘Oh, I see! Does it need to be the purple dress? How about the red one? It looks like it will be quite a warm day.’

‘Purple!’ now two red faces gaze at me in united disgust. ‘Common, Mo! It’s our sister, after all!’ Carl has a strong opinion and this time seems that Rob is with him.

The dress is not worth an argument. I can buy another one tomorrow. ‘Well, then I would suggest the white tights. Can we all agree on that? I also have white ribbons.’

White ribbons do the trick. Julia patiently sits and savours the admiring looks of boys while I carefully brush her soft, blonde hair. ‘Now you two! Sister is ready. Are you?’

After the breakfast I let the lot out in the garden. They need time getting to know each other and I need time to think things over.

I never imagined that adding a child would change so much. Big things like adoption itself are the easy ones while all the small things start to creep up on me right now. The drawer for her things. The shelf space in wardrobe. The chair and the space at the table... I need arrange it all somehow to fit her in as soon as possible. We must make Julia feel at ease. Equal... Talking about that I must give a ring to my mother. We need another child’s mug. Carl’s has lorries, Rob’s has a cat on it. These are their special mugs which my mother is very good at providing – finding these in shops are simply impossible.

To tell or not to tell... I hesitate, holding the receiver in my hand. That’s the question. I truly do not want to tell anything to anybody until after the court case. Saves a lot of talking and worries to everybody involved. But on the other hand I can trust my mother. She is not like Nana. I stare out of the window watching children. Seems like Carl has finished telling all about apple trees and now they have moved into flowerbeds. Well, it will take some time if they’ll include nettles as well.

‘Mum? Hi! Guess what? We need a new child’s mug.’

‘Ouch, Carl broke his again?’

I like how well my mum knows her grandchildren. There is never a thought that Rob might have damaged something, it’s always Carl.

‘Nope. Carl’s ta-ta is still alive. We need a new one.’

‘What for?’

‘Well, remember we were talking that with our genetic mixture grandchildren are out of the question? That’s changed. Now I will have grandchildren one day.’

My mother is a brainy one, able to add two plus two in milliseconds. ‘Really? You did it?’

‘Yep.’

‘When? How? How old? A boy or a girl? Just wait a minute, I will close the office door!’

And then mother is back to hear the whole yesterday’s saga. ‘Wow, that’s something. Congratulations.’

I know my mother. I can hear that congratulations part is not exactly full hearted. She is not narrow minded nor judgemental but I can well imagine that she is shocked. Well, like everybody, we had heard hundreds of horrible adoption stories. What I like is she will not crash it all on me. She keeps her opinions and worries by herself. ‘Did father know?’

‘Nope, and I would like to ask you to keep the secret for a week or so when she is truly ours. I will let you know officially only then. But you are very welcome tonight for just a peek of a big possibility if you know what I mean.’

‘Sure, I will be there right after the office! Sevenish?’ I can hear that mother wants to drop everything and jump in a taxi right now.

‘That’s fine.’

I put the receiver down and stare at the wall for a moment. A list. I need to start with a list.

‘Mu- u-m!’ the scream from the garden is so scary that to save the time I jump out of the window right into the garden.

‘What’s?’

Nobody looks hurt but Julia is crying and boys look scared.

‘It’s not us, mum! Honestly, we did nothing! We did exactly what you told us to do!’ Carl looks worried about this unexpected outburst.

‘What’s happened?’

‘I’m not anybody’s Julia,’ the little girl screams in full voice, angry tears running all over her face, leaving lighter stripes on the already greyish, dusty surface. ‘You, you.... morons! I’m Kate!’

Last night we explained boys that sister is used to name Julia, not Kate, so it would be nice if they would call her in both names for a while. It seemed the right plan for the transition period but Julia has decided otherwise.

‘Ceasefire, anybody! Do you like name Kate better than Julia then?’ I ask, squatting down.

 Girl nods through sobs. Well, that’s easy then!

‘Good, so do I. Then from now you will be Kate only. Officially!’ I spread my arms for a hug. ‘Happy? Come on, everybody, let’s make peace!’

Boys join in. Relieved. We all...

‘Ouch!’ I jump up when Keggy’s slobbery muzzle joins in as well, right at the back of my neck. I feel his cold and sticky slobber slowly running down my back.

‘That’s sorted out then. Can you play nicely, without any further battles, at least for a cup of coffee? And then we all go to shops, Kate needs a toothbrush!’ And before that I must call John about the name change. And change my sticky blouse. And I might get a chance to finish my morning coffee if I’m really lucky.

 

‘Hi, folks!’ Roland slides in the room with two large bags, followed by Vita’s Hedgehog. ‘Here we are! I have a special present for you! Freshly printed Auseklis. From Sweden!’

Auseklis, the Morning Star is a bit of a sensational thing. The dissident magazine, mostly Helsinki groups voice. It is a complete samizdat, printed somewhere between the night shifts while bosses are out of the way - illegal and hot. Now some copies had been printed outside – in Sweden.

‘Great! Thank you! What you two are up to?’

‘Oh, it’s not good to make revolution on an empty stomach! Something brewing?’ Roland crashes on the nearest chair.

‘Beetroot soup will do?’ I offer.

‘Sure! Anything!’

Roland and Hedgehog opens their bags and lift out big glass jars full of money. ‘We just collected some donations, you know… A little business venture…’

‘This jar,’ Hedgehog brushes his ponytail off the shoulder, ‘is for the Greens.’ They both are greenies, of course. The crumpled roubles in the three litre jars look somehow surreal. ‘While this is for the Nationals.’

I presume he means the National Independence Movement.

‘And these,’ Roland happily pats jars in the other bag, ‘is our share, little investment for next business venture.’

Roland has turned into some kind of a businessman. Being directly linked with numerous printing houses, he had managed to set up a little factory at home, producing small red-white-red fabric strips which people have started wear as badges showing their support to the idea of the independence. He offers them at meetings for a donation. And he does the same with the magazine.

‘You will not believe this - the red colour now is nearly impossible to get. Soviet economy is running out of red colour!’ He happily brags, shaking notes out on the table. ‘Can I have your iron, please?’

We sit in silence for a while until Roland sets up his money ironing spot.

‘Don’t burn them!’ Hedgehog steps in, ‘take the heat lower.’

‘You can’t with this iron. It’s my wool one,’ John still bewildered, explains. ‘You simply must work very fast on notes.’

‘Oy, it stinks!’ I jump when the smell of hot notes hit my nostrils.

‘Yes, my girl, money stinks! What had you been doing when they told you so at school? The whole capitalism stinks because of the money,’ Ronald smirks. ‘Ach, ach, another little crumpled rouble here!’ He blows a kiss to a lonely note fallen on the floor.

‘Well, now you can open that window,’ Roland points, starting stack the notes in neat heaps.

‘So, this will do for petrol, this will be for paint... material... so...’ he picks up quite a large heap and folds it in half. ‘This will do for you, John. By the way, I met a fellow from Cinematographic Union and he offered some 35 mm rolls if it’s any use for you.’

‘Yes, some rolls would do nice. I am running out.’

Finding a film roll in shops already was a mission impossible for months now but now John had reached the point when museum’s orders from warehouse were returned blank. Well, the quality of cinema rolls is not as good as for photography but at this point anything would do.

‘Yeah, great, thank you!’ John takes the still warm wad with two fingers and slowly checks it from all the sides. I can see that Roland’s rational approach to the whole thing makes him uncomfortable. Me too. Yes, it would be better to stay absolutely clean, funding every step by ourselves, but... I know, John needs more film rolls. And with Kate now, our stash “for rainy day” have had shrieked so significant that we simply must accept Roland’s offer.

‘That’s great. Who wants some cake? You must be starving.’ I chime in, pouring out fresh coffee.

 Chapter 19

‘I’ll take children to Zoo today. Kate hasn’t been there... I think.’ I inform John at the breakfast time.

This “I think” about Kate... I don’t know about her so much! I’m assuming, of course. A thing here, a thing there but it feels like putting a puzzle together blindfolded. ‘This might be the last nice week.’

Autumn is here already. Children are collecting chestnuts and acorns, and on rainy days there are piles of different animals walking around the dining room table. ‘It hasn’t been our last matchbox, has it?’ I sigh picking up few scattered matches from table. The rest had been turned into legs and necks of their acorn farm.

‘Mum, look, there is a mouse!’ they all three scream excitedly an hour later when we stand at the cage of huge, glaring ara in Zoo.

‘Look at that parrot! Isn’t he fascinating?’ I try to divert their attention into the right flow. This is ara cage after all, we are not in the Rodent House.

‘Yeah, mum... Look, she stole a carrot!’ It’s hopeless. They have different priorities.

‘Hello everybody!’ We peek into back doors of Aquarium. It is closed for general public with all the renovation but a coffee with Yvonne would be nice. It would do good for Rob to have some rest as well before we walk to tigers.

‘Come in!’ Yvonne’s sleeves are up to armpits. ‘Here, look with your artistic eye and tell me if this one looks good?’ She is planting one of the display aquariums. ‘Next week we’ll be opening finally!’

There is always a big difference between the visitors’ side and the other, Yvonne’s. Nice long corridors with well light aquariums for walls are the facade. The backstage is filled with hundreds of different tanks with rough filters loudly bubbling away.

‘I know, you told, and I even have a little present for you!’ I pull out of my handbag a jar. ‘Nice job, by the way. Only a bit too deserted for my liking, I prefer cosy jungles.’

‘Gosh, that’s posh!‘ Yvonne lifts the jar against the light. ‘Oh, you just look at these Anubias Nana! And this one looks like Ludwigia Pilosa! Is it?’

‘Common! I have no idea! Mine just needed weeding. I think the current light is a bit too strong, they are growing like mad.’

‘Look at this one! Hygrophila Brown! It must be, like, what - five years old?’ Yvonne carefully drags out of the jar some brownish leaves.

‘More like ten. I remember these in my first aquarium.’

‘Come here, I will show you something special!‘ Yvonne drags us to the far end to the large aquarium. ‘Just look at this!’

Aquarium is empty, filled only with slightly muddy water. No plants or rocks and no fish either. ‘And?’

‘We estimate that there are at least three hundred of them!’ Yvonne solemnly announces.

‘Exactly three hundred of WHAT?’

‘Look, look, here is one!’ She points at little white flake near the front glass. ‘Puffer fish babies, you know, the bubbling ones, Tetraodons! From Southeast Asia.’ Yvonne points to one of the display aquariums.

Oh, I remember these. When you take them out of the water, they make a funny bubbly noise and blow themselves up to a size of a tennis ball.

I bend closer and after I’m told what to look for I finally spot a tiny little fish swarming around. ‘Cool!’

‘I’ll show you!’ Yvonne finds some solid rubber glows and lift out one of the adult puffers. Boo-boo-boo! Under the wide opened eyes of my children the cute looking fish turns into a spiky tennis ball in just few seconds.

‘I wonder why Disney hadn’t made a cartoon about these; he looks so cute and funny! Much more character than the famous clown fish.’

‘Don’t touch him!’ Yvonne warns when Rob leans closer. ‘We were told that puffer toxin is like hundred times more potent than cyanide!’

Children step back. You must to show some respect to so much poison.

‘We hadn’t much hope, with all the complexity, but then suddenly we got all these! All three hundreds! My little darlings!’ Yvonne is totally overwhelmed.

‘Good for you!’ I like the fish but really can’t share her excitement. ‘What’s so special about them? Or it’s just your twisted personal preference? Like your darling piranhas?’

‘It’s estuarine fish and damn hard to breed in captivity because they require weird brackish water! Last week we had visitors from one Scandinavian Zoo and they all went bonkers! So funny!’

‘Scandinavians going bonkers? Probably. If you provide enough vodka...’

‘No, about these! They asked million questions about the water salinity, filters and even lunar phases! And guess what? We have no idea about it all!’

‘So how did you manage?’ I’m intrigued now.

‘Rain-water! Simple rain-water from the barrel outside, you know, we keep one under the pipe.’

‘Doesn’t sound like a very scientific approach.’

‘Exactly! So we just kept silent and smiled! Scandinavians left very annoyed about us being so secretive.’

‘Why don’t keep things simple and just blame KGB? You can always blame KGB. Like... restrictions on data release?’ I offer.

‘Mum, look at these!’ Carl has found a large, shallow aquarium in the corner. Instead of fish it’s full of sand and tortoises, sunbathing under the heating lamp.

‘These are huge!’ Much bigger than ones I remember seeing in pet shops. ‘What are they?’

‘Ah, nothing exciting, just a poachers load. Officials always dump them on us. These are from Central Asia; probably from Turkmenistan or such. Want one?’

‘Yvonne!’ I roll my eyes in hope that she will catch the message quickly but it’s too late already. The children have heard the offer.

‘Yes, mum! Say yes!’

‘Please!’

‘Pe-e-se!’ I can say NO to Carl easily, I can even try to reason with Kate, but Rob’s eyes do the trick. A tortoise... They are harmless, very easy pets to keep, right?

‘Well, I suppose...’

‘Kids, just feel free to pick one yourself! Want a coffee?’

‘Sure! Trying atone for a tortoise?’

‘Actually, yes. Sit here!’ Yvonne removes few plastic pipe rolls from the nearest chair and pushes away contents of the table. ‘Here is the ashtray, and coffee will be ready in a minute!’

 ‘Hey, don’t go there!’ Yvonne shouts over her shoulder when Carl opens the next door. ‘It’s too messy and wild there right now!’

‘What? You keep you drunken builders captive there?’ The renovation of the Aquarium house had been Yvonne’s horror story for past five years or so. The wonders that a drunken builder can create...

‘Worse! There is a raven.’

‘A raven? What’s raven doing with the Aquarium? To keep fish amused?’

‘No, worse. Us.’ Yvonne sighs, shovelling some dried krill in the water. ‘They hadn’t space in quarantine so they kept him here last night. All that mess! My colleague, Anita, had spent all morning fighting with him, trying to mop up... Not to worry, the vet said she will put him down later today.’

‘Mum!’ Kate is pulling my sleeve. Shit! They heard the last part of conversation. I know already what will be coming next. Shit!

‘Really, mum, he looks so nice!’ Carl chimes in. ‘Doesn’t look evil at all! He looks... posh!’

Raven, who right now is very busy, seriously rummaging through the rubbish bin contents he has scattered all around the lab, doesn’t look posh at all. But also not so evil either, to be honest.

‘What’s so bad about him?’

‘Look at that beak! He pecks! Look!’ Yvonne pulls up jeans leg and shows a small bruise. ‘If you are not careful he will peck your eyes out!’

‘Mum!’ Now Rob pulls my hand, looking at me with so pleading, sad eyes that I’m surrounding without a battle.

Carl’s mechanic, but Rob... He dots on wildlife. If not his legs he would be roaming meadows and forests, looking for birds or spiders but now he can only go as far as Zoo with tarmac paths and animals on display. One more at home... Not a big deal now when we have all that space.

‘Listen, Yvonne, how about if we keep him for a while if there is no space for him here?’

‘Yessss!’ trio of victorious screams sounds really cheerful.

‘Oh, that’s great!’ Yvonne starts rattling. ‘Fun-tastic! Loggers found him, he can’t fly, see, something wrong with a wing. No, no, it’s not broken, it’s like, twisted? I can’t remember exactly what our vet said... Yeah. Something like that. He can’t be released back, you see. He will never fly.’

‘Does he eat by himself?’ feeding pleasures of Jane are still live in my memory.

‘Sure, look at him! But he is young,’ Yvonne adds. ‘He might get used to captivity.’

There is no point now to try to convince my darling offsprings to go and look at the tiger, lion, or the elephants. We have a raven. Oh, yes, and a tortoise, of course.

‘We’ll name him Plop!’ Carl announces happily when poor tortoise has slipped out of Rob’s hands for the second time and with a thud landed on the floorboards.

Will you arrange a taxi?’ I look at Yvonne pleadingly. ‘And two boxes as well.’ I add with a big sight. 

  

Chapter 20

 

‘You know, the People’s Front foundation meeting was indeed impressive but I still have that feeling that something is going too smooth there. You know...’ I plate the breakfast in front of John and lift Rob up on the chair. Carl is already hogging his fried eggs, helping with a piece of brown bread. ‘Don’t feed that bird from the table!’

‘Yes, Carl, no begging when we eat, that’s the rule. Does raven has a name?’

Our new addition has settled in nicely. For the first night I kept him in the cage while Keggy and Fitzy, and even Muriel quickly learned that he prefers quite solitary life style. Since I let him out loose he settled under the dining room table. I can’t say that I’m exactly thrilled about that but he seems comfortable there. Now we only must remember not to shift legs fast – then he snaps.

‘Joachim.’ Carl informs his father between two gobbets.

‘Mum, he is starving!’ Kate giggles, ‘He is pecking on my shoe laces!’

‘We can’t give in on racketeering! He has his own food in the bowl!’ Last night I prepared a bowl of roughly grated vegetables with bits of raw fish in it. ‘It’s under the table.’

‘No, he hasn’t! The bowl is empty! Keggy ate it all!’ Kate is better informed than me. ‘Keggy is like Carl! Eats everything!’ Kate carries on giggling, trying to push the bird aside.

‘Listen, speaking about People’s Front...’

John looks at me and winks. ‘Wait a minute. I have an offer for today. Let’s go and take the children with us, nothing dangerous, I promise.’

‘John?’

‘It’s a surprise.’

‘Common! Too many surprises are not good for one’s health.’

‘Then I’m dead already,’ John laughs. Sure, who wouldn’t? Interesting what’s worse - to return home full with dreams about a peaceful evening, happily take your shoes off in the dimly lit hall and then feel how strong nails of an unexpected tortoise dig right into your toes or being greeted with a piercing screams of a huge bird, dancing around in the dining room? Poor John, I feel for you. But still... ‘John?’

‘Well, then, we are going to Castle. To the tower. The Holy Spirit one.’

‘Really?’ The Castle is one of the oldest buildings in town, dating probably even as far as 13th century. Some parts are open to public but the tower of Holy Spirit has been locked for ages. ‘What for?’

‘It’s a museum building, right? So there is a little gathering planned there today. Nothing really exciting but I presume children will enjoy the adventure.’

‘Not only them, me too.’

November is always the cold month so I wrap all three up properly. It will be windy on the top of the tower and it’s already freezing cold.

At the back entrance several people are waiting. Some from Greens, some from Independence movement. Some I do not know, probably People’s Front. We are waiting and shivering in damp cold.

‘Let’s start then,’ somebody unlocks the heavy door, ‘Valters has arrived.’

Valters is a famous actor. He is even more famous as one of still alive fighters for Latvia’s independence back in 1918. He is old and very fragile now but his spirit is fantastic. What’s he doing here?

We waddle through the endless corridors and then struggle up the narrow stairs in the tower. The whole thing feels weird, nothing like exclusive sightseeing tour. More like we are members of some conspiracy group on the mission. I look quizzically at John but the bastard teasingly smiles enjoying my confusion.

‘Here we are!’ The last door opens and we climb out on the top of the tower. There is nothing except few fallen leaves and a rusty flagpole in the middle. It is windy and cold but the view is fantastic.

‘Look, mum, river!’ Carl ecstatically leans over the wall.

One of the young boys opens his jacket and takes out neatly folded red-white-red flag and passes it to Valters. Something very special is going on, like sacral religious ceremony.

We are in the Tower of Holy Spirit. In the Castle... which was the residence of our Presidents during that short period of our independence between the wars. So now the flag of independence will be raised over the President’s Palace! Today! It’s November 11th, our hero day when we remember all who had fallen for our independence. It feels... sacral.

‘Well, I’m the past’s link to present. And you are the present link to future! Let’s do it together!’ Valters says when flag is attached to the wire and I suddenly realize that its Carl he is speaking to.

Of course, Carl has no idea about the momentum, about how special and symbolic it is but he sees the cool winding device and a permission to use it. He doesn’t need the second invitation.

The ninety years old and my five years old both bend over the rusty handle and up it goes. At the beginning it’s limp, heavy material soaking up the dampness of the day but then wind catches it and its flying! Our red-white-red!

‘God, bless Latvia! Our dear homeland!’ our little group on the top of the tower start our national anthem. It’s not the best performance of the anthem you ever heard as nobody has a singing voice, but our hearts are fully in it. Harsh wind takes the anthem away from us and blows over the town. And when we slowly climb down the stairs back into the darkness of the tower, we take the sacred moment with us. The flag flies high over the city.  

Christmas is approaching. No more hiding behind tightly drawn curtains. The Silent Night and Jingle Bells playing on radio, decorated streets and shop windows... while on TV we watch the ruins, rows of dead bodies, hysterically crying people. The deadly earthquake has hit Armenia. There is usual Soviet havoc - not enough doctors, not enough medications, not enough tents and blankets for homeless survivors.

Gradually news came in. At least 25 thousand dead. Over 100 000 injured. Half a million homeless. No wonders Soviets can’t cope with the disaster. Nobody would. The same night the idea is born – to help. Not with these mandatory and mysterious amounts to never seen Red Cross, but organize some quick help ourselves, as soon as possible. Like doctors and medications. Food. Blankets. Warm clothes like socks and mittens, and toys.

‘Toys?’ Rob asks, pointing at the screen. ‘We too?’

‘Yes, sure, you can, indeed!’ They run to their room excited.

‘It’s terrible, John. Two thirds of doctors dead, most hospitals in ruins. Knowing the organization level Soviet bureaucracy is able to produce, I dread even thinking...’

‘I wonder how long it will take Gorby calling for some international help?’

‘Dream on! They will rather let them die than ask around... Just remember the earthquake in Tashkent!’ I shake my head in despair.

‘So, mum, we collected!’ Our children are back, dragging stuffed pillowcases behind.

‘Hey, hey! Wait a minute! So many? Are there any left?’

‘Nope!’ Carl proudly shakes head. ‘I think we collected them all.’

‘Well...’ I try to find the right words. ‘Tonight probably only five or six planes will be flying to Armenia, and I don’t think there will be much space left for toys. Doctors and medications are going first. Can you understand that?’

They nod. They had seen all the horror on TV.

‘I know you mean it well giving away all your toys, but look, Carl, this lorry is missing a tyre. And that has a broken windscreen. Would you give them as a present? Let’s say, for a birthday?’

Carl for a while stands, considering, then he finally shakes head. ‘Nope, they are not good enough for a birthday.’

‘See? Here, at home, birthday is nice and easy, with family around, and food, and warm bed at the end. They have nothing right now, in Armenia, so each present better be very, very special.’

‘Okay.’ All three, deep in thoughts leave the dining room silently.

‘You haven’t gone too hard on them, do you?’ John asks, watching serious faces disappear behind the door. ‘This is new to us all. Honestly, this is the first time people like you and me are ready to reach out for others.’

‘Nah, I haven’t. You know, these are real children out there dying from injuries and cold. It’s not some game. Ours are big enough to understand at least that.’

Finally the door opens and they return, one by one, clutching their biggest treasures in arms. I’m proud of them, really proud.

‘Great, what have you picked then?’

‘My red car,’ Carl steps out first. ‘See, even the box looks like new still.’

‘My doll,’ Kate passes me her new Barbie, her absolute pride and object of total envy.

‘And you, Rob?’

‘My ’ite, Mo.’ It’s a Teddy Bear in a cool leather jacket and pilot’s glasses.

‘Right, I think, these will be perfect.’ I happily assess their choices.

‘We are proud of you! Well done!’ John adds, patting on Carl’s shoulder.

‘And.... and....’ Carl tries to say something but his voice dies out. Faces of Rob and Kate already are wet from tears, streaming down.

‘We decided, mum....’ Carl is fighting hard not to cry.

‘...’eggy’ finally Rob manages squeeze out between the sobs.

‘What?’

‘Keggy, we will give Keggy.’ Carl finally pulls himself together. ‘He is the best we have! He is warm, and gives kisses, and can give a paw, and knows how to play hide and seek, and pulls the sledge...’