Chapters 1989

Chapter 21

‘I think our Muriel is still out,’ John yawns, sleepy peering at talking heads on TV screen, ‘let’s have another tea.’

Yeah, Muriel... As a kitten she was quite adorable. Ben was right about genes - she has grown into a good mouser. Well, I must admit that since we do not have our own rats to fight with anymore, I’m not particularly interested in ones she so proudly brings home, but that’s my problem. I wanted a mouser and I got one.

But that’s about all to say something good about her. She is wild, her manners are ugly and style unbearable. If we would let her, she probably would spend her whole life in the bins around returning home only to demonstrate how dirty she has managed to get herself this time. If you have seen a shiny cat obsessively cleaning its fur, I can assure you that’s not our Muriel. She is dirty and proud of it, and ready fight to the last drop of blood (mine, of course) to stay that way.

‘Did you find out what’s that paint is about?’

For past week Muriel returns home with fur dyed bright yellow. I mean, bright, like a lemon, yellow. It doesn’t comes out (we tried), and when it starts to fade out, Muriel gets a new layer of it. ‘No idea, John, no idea. But that’s cute to have a cat who’s lower half is in such a colour. No point asking neighbors about “haven’t you seen that tricolour Persian mix of ours”, it’s enough just ask about the yellow cat and everybody knows exactly what you mean. And she is a pyromaniac as well!’

‘A pyromaniac? Don’t be silly!’

‘John, did you see the kitchen curtains?’

‘There are no any, I noticed. I wondered what you did with them.’

‘Swept in the bin.’

‘Why? Nothing was wrong with them, they were quite bearable.’

‘Yes, John, they were nice, with emphasis on where, you know, the past tense.’

‘What happened? She shredded them?’

‘Worse. She burned. See...’

It was like that. I put a kettle on the gas cooker and went to collect some washing, and when I returned there were a lot of smoke and black flakes drifting around in the kitchen, and no curtains. Only Muriel, happily sitting on the stove, warming herself up. The smell of burning fur led me to investigate the subject (I mean, the cat) closer and the evidence was there – her tail was still stinking and most of her fur – gone.

‘Can you believe this?’

‘We must stick a label on her - “Inflammable, keep away from fire”!’

 It’s nearly ten o’clock when we hear the knock on the door. At this time of night our friends never knock, they just slide in as we keep doors unlocked not to disturb our neighbours. For our big surprise it’s our minister Gailitis. This is the first time he has decided to visit us.

‘We sorted it all out. Except toilets!’ he, rather concerned,  announces from the doorstep.

Which chair? With Muriel sleeping on this, it will be too hairy already for a black suit. With a red face I quickly remove the freshly dyed and still very smelly leathers from the other chair and push away the heap of cigarettes I happily spilled on the table few hours earlier after my lucky shopping trip. Not exactly the nicest environment at the best of the times but for the vicar’s visit... Oh, well…

 ‘I counted the seats. We can easy accommodate over a thousand people. The speakers and microphones are all in place. The only problem is toilets. They are outside.’ 

It’s Gailitis at his best. Not messing around. Right into important things. So far he had been a very valuable addition to the movement, indeed. And now he might become even more important.

The National Independence Movement is going for its first congress and finding the suitable venue had been a nightmare for the past month. All approached clubs and community centres had refused strictly from the beginning or had agreed but refused later. Our last chance is the centre in Ogre, a town twenty minutes outside the city. But there is a big but. There is still no guarantee that the delegates will be allowed into the centre. At least the local police had leaked information that they had been put on red alert. If such is the plan, the quiet contra plan had been prepared by us. To preserve information this plan had been not widely spread even among the Council members.

‘And if they will besiege us, we’ll lock ourselves in. Trust me, by trying to break into the church they will create such an international scandal that it will be impossible to ignore even by Moscow!’ Gailitis is very firm, very determent. He sounds a bit like a little boy getting ready for the first school trip. ‘Only the toilets...’

Of course, the church has a toilet block. The only problem – it’s outside, about fifty steps away from the back door. In case of siege the back door will be locked and blocked so leaving the building for a pee will be impossible.

‘Maybe some buckets in the cellar?’

‘Yes, that’s an option!’ pastor scratches his head. ‘Not a pleasant one but I presume nobody will complain. I’ll hurry then before ladies go home. I’m sure they will have some buckets spare. They are stacking the kitchen already, especially water, because it can be cut off from outside as well.’

‘Electricity?’

‘A generator for speakers, that’s all we need; already arranged. Light is not so important. Candles will do. We shall keep heating on for tonight so in the morning, if they cut us off from everything, it will be warm for a day or so with all the people inside.‘

It is February, a cold one, so heating is important. Our churches may be deadly cold in winter time like this.

‘Anyway, let’s hope that we’ll be able to hold it in Ogre.’

‘But if not, we are ready.’

We shake hands and Gailitis hurriedly disappear back in the dark night.

Yes, indeed, we are ready. All these past months the battles over the words and phrases at the council meetings had come to the halt and documents for the first Congress prepared. “The political, national, economic and cultural crisis in Latvia is a direct result of the August 5, 1940 annexation, and that it is not possible to ward off the crisis without the renewal of the sovereign democratic Republic of Latvia.” Yeah, we are still digging the past, trying to get the truth being openly admitted. It is frustrating, actually. The other thing is – by some impossible reasons we are still illegal while People’s Front is accepted in every Soviet level. It is actually funny because many of our people are in the Front, many our leaders are the leaders of the Front so the difference is just formal. It even had been agreed that our candidates for elections will go on the united Front’s list.

And we are ready on another level as well. There were signs but we were not prepared to read them until the blunt US statement regarding the events in Tbilisi when Soviet troops attacked a peaceful demonstration on April the 9th, killing at least twenty and injuring hundreds. The official statement, prepared by Condoleeza Rice, was short and clear. “We regret any loss of life, but we’ll have no further comments.” Short and sweet, isn’t it?

Gorby knows now that he has hands free to do whatever he wants and we know already that independent Baltic is not even a slight possibility for him. No point to fear an international opinion – America has sent its message clear and crisp – “we don’t care”. So anything can happen, anything.

But the next morning congress starts as planned. Uninterrupted by forces. Surprisingly.

‘... Because the Republic of Latvia still exists de jure, those who will be recognised as citizens of Latvia will be those who had this citizenship until June 17, 1940, and their descendants, if they so desire...’ the voice of the speaker drift away.

The smell of coffee and buns from cafeteria right now is intruding my mind stronger than any speeches. I had a sleepless, stressful night and now I’m lulled away by this never-ending jugglery of de jure and de facto again and again, like a merry-go-round.

Yes, West in general and US in particular had long supported the abstract rights of the Baltic states to independence, but as none of us in fact exercised any independent authority on the ground meant that nobody could, under international law, actually provide any challenge to Soviet control over us. It is a hopeless circle. De jure card is very useful when some dirt needs to be rubbed in Soviet nose but that’s all that’s worth. An old napkin. At least the buns in cafeteria are real.

‘Fancy a fag?’ John leans over my shoulder, putting the cap on the lens. We quietly slide outside when the next round of applause hit the hall. Outside, the both ends of the entrance steps are covered in dirty old snow. The gray clouds are passing above our heads.

‘I wish I had a Kalashnikov,’ a man I had seen before, probably at the council meetings, grunts, lighting a cigarette. ‘Bah-bah, and done, whatever happens after that. This waffling drives me nuts!’

‘You are not alone,’ John smiles, passing me a cigarette. ‘But you know...’

‘Yes, sure, I agree, but some action, a real action would be so much easier.’

‘Then it would be Yugoslavia, people.’

‘Yeah, we must stay calm.’ Maybe this is the hardest way... to stay calm whatever happens, but it’s the only way.

‘Do you think, we have a chance after all?’ man drops his cigarette and stamp it in the dirty snow. ‘I mean, with independence.’

 ‘Who knows? A year ago I would say a strong no, but now... Chilly, isn’t it?’ I shudder and flick the cigarette towards the dirty snow. ‘Let’s go back and try to make some sense.’

Buns and coffee do the job and after the break I feel perkier and more optimistic. By law, the occupation doesn’t put an end to the existence of the state. So... Oh, I wish I had a degree on international law! Or any law degree because all this is really doing my head in. How I can make such an important decisions based on no knowledge at all?

‘... based on the principles of the 1922 Republic of Latvia Constitution.’ The current speaker finishes and is greeted by wave of applauses. This feels like a school where we are learning the new words and terms. Only the feeling that we have no right to lean back and fail the test is frightening, but we can’t carry on endlessly singing at meetings – it is time to start doing something real.

Well, of course, this is real. Must be. We are making our “to do” list by ourselves. At least for me seems that the constitutional way of independence renewal is the right one whatever that means. I raise my hand to vote finally for the proposed program.

‘Fu, it’s over for today.’ John lifts the heavy camera bag on the empty seat beside him in the train. ‘My shoulder is gone.’

The electric train runs towards the city in darkness. The buzz of the congress is gone and we sink in our seats in silence.

‘You know,’ John suddenly announces. ‘The newly elected council looked quite normal to me. Even you.’

‘What a shame. Maybe we are not such extremists then.’ My head feels so heavy and tummy rumbles. ‘The buns there were exceptional!’

 

‘Remember, we have no sex in Soviet Union?’

It’s an old joke. Actually, the winged phrase came from one of these perestroika style Soviet live telebridges when “simple” Soviet people talked with equally simple representatives of America. I can’t remember what exactly American side asked but the response was a cracker. ‘We have no sex in Soviet Union!’ a middle aged woman shouted out embarrassed, red as a beetroot.

‘Now we have!’

‘Yes, and your point is?’ John looks a bit worried. ‘Ah, I see, about the last night...’

‘Nope! Wrong idea!’ I shake my head grinning. Last night was no different from many, many other night before, but I do not want to go there so I triumphantly shout out the news. ‘I got it!’

‘The magazine? Did you? The one?’

‘Yup!’

‘Show me!’

I truly enjoy that begging undertone in John’s voice. ‘If you will be a good boy...’ I try to tease but Carl ruins my plan simply passing the sensational magazine to dad.

‘Let him see, mum.’ Carl winks. ‘If we are lucky, we might get another baby then!’

This entire hullabaloo is over the March issue of children magazine Zilite, The Tit. For years it has been as boring as they come – few poems, few highly moral short stories with Soviet touch, some ‘Colour it!’ pages... You know the kind. But the March issue... For the first time ever, there is a comics on several pages, about a Mum and a Dad making a new baby! It’s not the usual feeble and vague mutter about the birds and bees; this is the full truth from conceiving to the birth, both included, in details.

‘Oh, so terrible!’ John giggles, flipping the pages. Hell, yes! In Soviet space even this bit of the truth is scary. ‘Here it comes!’ He laughs out loud when the phone rings. ‘If it’s Nana,’ with a funny snort he dives under the desk, ‘I’m not here!’

Of course, it is Nana.

 ‘That’s disquieting!’ she is boiling in rage. ‘Dirty perverts! How they can tell children such things!’

‘Ouch, which things exactly?’ I try to sound surprised. Let’s see if Nana will be able to pronounce the dirty sex word.

‘You know what I’m talking about!’ No, she is not.

‘No idea, Nana, not a slightest idea!’

‘About the magazine!’

‘Which one?’

‘The dirty one! It’s a pornography!’

‘Really? That’s interesting! Where did you get one? Does Grump is getting into the porn?’ I mock happily, enjoying the sufferings of our prudish Nana. I just keep receiver away from my ear to save my hearing. John leans closer to follow our joyful conversation.

‘I burned it!’

‘It’s a bit harsh don’t you think? Poor Grump!’

‘You are as bad as they are!’ Nana finally notices that I’m not really supportive on this one and cuts the call.

‘Tell me, dad, why Nana is so weird? She already tried convincing me that she did find you in the cabbage. Can’t she remember or what?’

This is a hard one. We look at each other, trying to find the right answer.

‘Ah, might be,’ after some thoughts Carl nods. ‘It was so long ago that she might forget. You are awfully old, dad, indeed.’

But sadly Nana is not alone. Uproar continues for weeks with heated public discussions over the boundaries between the birds and bees thingy and the porn.

Few weeks later there is another uproar in Soviet media. It’s clear that our congress hasn’t gone unnoticed. The few mere documents we adopted at the congress had been announced unconstitutional and ourselves – the bunch for extremists. The Communist Party and the Supreme Council are demanding to review the documents and we obediently grab the opportunity – we call for an extraordinary congress just few months after the first one. This time the venue is not a problem – we proudly gather at the National Theatre where Latvian Republic was proclaimed in the first place back in 1918 and every speech is aired on radio and TV.

Of course, the review doesn’t go exactly as communists demanded for, but that’s not exactly our fault, isn’t it? Sorry, guys, a democracy is a democracy! Of course, if you still play that perestroika game...

The months between the two congresses had been full of change in the general mode. Before the congress it was a public discussion on TV between Einars from the movement and the ideological secretary of the communists, and guess who won? We won.

Yes, the secretary had a charming smile and very nice haircut and he was surprisingly young for an ideological secretary of the Communist party. Yes, Einars was even younger and very bright and bounced back every argument the secretary had. But that was not the point. The main thing was that such a discussion was aired on TV! That our bleak, communist TV was airing a discussion on pros and cons of restoring the independent state of Latvia! Giving a full voice of the leader of the bunch for extremists! For people who were still ready to slide under the bed to listen voices it was the last evidence needed to finally realise that times are changing.

The second thing – the Estonian idea to register the citizens was getting more popular and taken at our extraordinary congress. The Independence Movement – us - will participate and support while People’s Front has decided not to, mostly because of, as it seems, the personal ambitions on both sides. At the same time members of the People’s Front started to get impatient with the elusive attitude of the Front’s leaders regarding independence.

And the third thing – a little, neat victory for the movement which went quite unnoticed at the beginning. The Lutheran Synod has elected a new Archbishop. Guess, who? Of course. our Gailitis. It was not a simple thing, this little victory. There was Rebirth group and there was the ‘old guard’ and to find the compromise candidate between these two wasn’t an easy thing. My godfather also was one of the candidates at some stage but we both knew already that he stands no chance.

‘Why not Gailitis?’ I was sipping coffee in godfather’s spacey kitchen. ‘It’s quite chilly today, isn’t it?’

‘What do you mean?’

I knew my godfather. I know which buttons to press. ‘Very, very sensible. Not a hothead at all. Economical, practical. And he speaks fairly good English. It’s a bonus too.’

Godfather sits silent for a while. Yes, that candidate had been mentioned, but... ‘But he is in that movement of yours.’

‘So what? First of all, his advices to movement always had a valid point, sensible, he really knows the things. And secondly, everybody now is in a movement, one or another.’ Godfather thoughtfully nods. He knows that he is a bit behind the things but at least locally People’s Front is very popular and nobody is pointing fingers at them. So Front or Movement... all the same, nearly. We talk and talk and talk and at the end I know that I have won – ‘old guard’ will vote for him.

The official inauguration ceremony will be held later in autumn so right now it goes without a big fuss but anyway – the movement has the support of Archbishop and that’s a serious thing, especially for the West. At least we do hope so.

He is greeted with the round of applauses when he enters the tribune of the Congress. From backstage Gailitis seems a bit weird today. Clumsy walk, and after an opening sentence he decides to read his speech from the paper which he is holding high, nearly covering his face. It’s not our usual Gailitis who is a very confident speaker. Also his voice sounds a bit muffled. What’s going on, I wonder from the depths of backstage.

‘Was it very visible?’ after his speech, back in the backstage, Gailitis asks concerned.

‘What?’

‘Oh, that’s good then,’ he carefully touches his cheek. ‘The whole family tried to cover it up this morning.’

Yes, after he had pointed to it I notice thick layer of make-up on his face.

‘What happened?’

‘Oh, yesterday I was robbed and beaten up a bit on the way!’ he tries to smile but it comes out a bit twisted.

‘Where?’

‘Oh, right after I left the office, in the centre of city, half past four in the afternoon.’

That’s weird. When I think about it for a moment, it seems even weirder. Afternoon right before the rush hour is not the usual time for a violent robbery, especially in the centre of the city. Besides stout Gailitis in his cheap jacket doesn’t look at all like a potential target for a robbery. It can’t be a coincidence. ‘Do you think what I’m thinking?’

‘Most likely,’ Gailitis makes another attempt to produce a smile. ‘But now they know that they must come up with something much stronger than few broken ribs to stop me!’

The extraordinary congress brings also another sensation. The newly elected representative of Latvian Soviet Republic at the Supreme Council of Soviet Union, Dr Vilen Tolpeznikov, joins the movement. He already created a sensation in Moscow, making an official request for investigation over the bloodbath in Tbilisi where Soviet forces had attacked the peaceful demonstration on April the 9th, leaving many dead and hundreds injured. The rumours talk about some neuroparalytic gas being used there.

So all in all we have had moved up quite a lot in past few months. It is a bit of a cold shower when Tiananmen Square in Beijing erupts in blood when troops with assault rifles and tanks attack unarmed civilians.

‘But it’s China, right?’ Charlie points, leaning back in chair. ‘Since Gorby started his ‘I’m a good boy!’ tango with the West he tries to keep a civilized face. I wouldn’t’ worry much.’

‘Right. So beating up archbishops on the corners you would call a civilized method? Or pouring sarin over your own citizens like in Tbilisi?’ Charlie’s casual approach can be really irritating. ‘You do realize how serious this is getting, don’t you?’

‘For them it probably is.’ John sighs. ‘I wonder what soviets would do if not that attempt to keep their face!’

The uncertainty of 1987 has long gone – we all feel like extremists now and are proud of it. The wheel of the history right now is turning so fast here that everybody must run in full force to keep up with it. No time to stop and think things over. Sometimes it really feels like whole country is happily and completely stoned. Flying high.

‘As far as we are united we’ll show them!’ Vil announces, opening another bottle of beer. ‘Cheers to us!’

John angrily looks at Vil and shakes his head in disbelief. ‘Yeah, it’s always “us” and “them”! No need to think much.Right.’ 

 Chapter 22

Today is my turn collect signatures. I stand at the park at Freedom Monument with a heap of papers and a pen along with Vita. What we are signing for today? Oh, yes, it’s for supporting the Citizen Committees. It was decided at our extraordinary congress. We do support People’s Front on their chosen electoral way but Citizen Committees is another option. Every little bit helps.

Not many people simply walk past. Majority stop, ask questions, read the heather of the sheets and then sign.

‘Where you are at?’

‘Some three hundred and... sixty seven, or so,’ Vita checks the last page. ‘You?’

‘About the same. You think we will collect enough? ‘

‘Sure.’

‘Hi!’ it’s Gunnar, keen to kill some time with us before his evening shift at the theatre. It is like festival here, around the monument. Seems like everybody is gathering here daily just for the sake of it. Years of pretending to ignore this part of the city are gone.

Many bring flowers. The bottom of the monument is covered in them. Last summer when heaps of flowers started to get messy and municipality threatened to take them all away, a group of pensioners decided to take care of it, picking the wilting ones away and arranging the fresh ones daily.

‘Every little bit helps, indeed.‘ Gunnar giggles watching newlywed bride solemnly laying her bouquet at the monument.

‘Stop being nasty! It’s nice.’ Vita disagrees.

We watch groom with a big effort lifting the bride up for the photo. Actually bride is quite tiny so problem must be with the groom. He is already in a merry mode and not quite steady on his feet.

‘Agree, it’s funny!’

Yes, it is, in a way. The newlyweds are Russians. And they do not look like they actually know what they are doing right at this monument. Soviet weddings have a tradition to lay flowers at some monument. You know, to kill some time after registration and before banquet. Usually they lay flowers at the war one, for the relatives who went through the war or nearest monument of Lenin. ‘

‘This couple seems decided to abandon Lenin who stands lonely just few blocks away for this one. Because it seems much more popular?’

‘Because of the bridges!’ Vita, as usual, has a very practical approach.

It’s another tradition – to walk over seven bridges. Or even better – to carry the bride over them. There is the love padlock fashion as well to be taken into account. For these purposes the monument is a perfect place. Several bridges one after another over the City Canal and the rails of them already full with padlocks left by previous couples.

Seems that groom suddenly had lost his feet. With a loud cascade of Russian swear words he drops the bride in hands of his best mate.

‘Hello! What’s this signing is for?’ The group of tourists has joined our giggling bunch. ‘Can we sign as well?’

I understood the questions asked in English, of course. I had been learning English since the day one at school. I had been attending courses after the school. I had been reading and listening songs....But!

I can’t answer!

The words are forming in my head, I know them all... But as I open the mouth, nothing comes out. Like a goldfish out of the tank. Or a granny when oxygen mask is removed. I gulp air in silence, slowly turning red. Shit!

They repeat the questions in German and then somebody tries French (at least I suspect that it’s French). Shit! Shit! Shit!

Right now I can run the school topics like tell them all about my room and the nearest route to train station but explaining the idea of Citizen Committee? I can’t do it... I must. Seconds are ticking away in silence. I recollect myself and try again.

‘A- a... E... You see... it’s about the citizenship.’

‘Anti-Soviet?’ seems that they feel for my sufferings and go right into the core of the thing, sharp and short.

‘Yes.’

‘Where we can sign?’ They tell me that they are from Hungary and very happy to be here and that they want to support us as much as they can. Fine. Nice. But still...

‘No, you can’t sign. We are collecting signatures from people who were citizens of Latvia up to 1940 and their descendants.‘ Was “descendants” the right word for it? Oh, shit! ‘Sorry!’

Shit and once more – shit! As soon as I will open my doors I must refresh my English tonight. I must prepare myself some simple answers on such topics like this one. I can’t face that embarrassment again.

Later, when we collect children at Nana’s, I share my embarrassment with John.

‘I would try to sing something for a replay at the best,‘ John giggles in his mug. ‘Mine is quite rusty as well.’

Grump enters the kitchen, silently fills his mug from the pot and sits at the table. ‘How it’s going? Will you?’

‘Seems like.’

‘Good. It’s about the time to show them where the crabs are laying for the winter.’

‘Shut up, you!’ Nana, as usual, is very nice to Grump. Honestly, I can’t understand their marriage. Especially Nana who hates men in general and her husband in particular. And they still managed to make two children! Wonders of this world!

Grump knows better than respond to Nana. He never takes her seriously. Actually it seems than Grump doesn’t take seriously anything. He just sits there for a while, grinning in his mug.

 ‘When it will all start?’ He suddenly asks, thoughtful.

‘What? Citizen Committees? Soon. But I suspect that it will be not a legal way anyway. It’s supported by us but declined by People’s Front.’

‘Good.‘ Nana with some unexpected venom throws sandwich plate on the table. ‘At least nobody will shoot me then!’

‘Mother!’ John’s face turns puce very fast. Grump blinks at Nana in surprise. Usually senseless bubbling Nana is mad about ... what? And then it finally gets to us. The citizenship. Indeed, Nana has no chance according to the proposed plans.

‘Absolutely nobody will be shooting anybody! Mother, it doesn’t matter, you are Latvian anyway.’

Nana is Latvian, indeed. Her only problem – born in Soviet Russia. Her parents, evacuees of WWI never returned to Latvia between the wars and thus never got the citizenship. Thus she’ll be not entitled to it as well.

‘Am I?’ Nana is seriously upset. ‘All my life I had been an outcast! As a child in Russia I was called the damned fascist because of being Latvian! And when we arrived here, I always was that Russian bitch, even for my cousins. And now again I’m not good enough!’

I hadn’t seen Nana so upset. Ever. This doesn’t feel right. “Do not worry; you are not the only one. I’m sure there will be exceptions and special amendments if we shall reach the stage of real citizenship. You know, it’s still a big IF.’

‘I do not want any exceptions. I want participate. Now.‘ She stamps the foot down.

‘You know,’ I suddenly have a brilliant idea. ‘You have a perfect Russian, right?’

Nana actually has a degree in Russian and had spent her whole life teaching the language. She looks at me with some suspicion. ‘Yes? So what?’

‘You can help me translate some of our documents in proper Russian, explain what’s what. Because you know that mine is not only rusty, it’s crap.’

‘Would it help?’ Nana is suspicious about my offer.

‘Definitely. I mean it. You know, I can speak but I’m hopeless at written Russian.’

John nods agreeably. Even Grump seems to feel relieved. ‘See? It will be much more important than just to leave your signature. Or sow some rye.’

‘You and your rye!’ Nana turns on the heel and slams the kitchen door behind her.

Next morning is Saturday and nothing, nothing is planned for the weekend. At least so far. We have a late breakfast and then John takes Keggy for a walk to the nearest newsagent. When they return dog joins the children in the garden while we lazy sip our coffees and screen the news.

‘They predict a hot summer,’ John makes a wry face, folding the newspaper.

‘Who? Weather people or politicians? It’s already in full swing, just look outside.’

We stand together at the window facing the garden. Window is wide open and the curtains slowly wave at summer breeze. The little voices in the garden sound excited and very businesslike.

‘What are they doing today?’

‘The same as yesterday, of course. Citizen Committees.’

‘What? I want to see that,’ John burst out giggling.

‘It’s not bad, you know. Better than Yvonne’s daughter with her juice.’ Her five year old smartass is famous for smashing TV with the three litre tomato juice jar because “I can’t stand their lies!” while watching Interfront congress on TV . The Interfront is our recently established opposition – they are against us, and against even perestroika – radical wing of Communist party and their supporters.

‘Come on!’ we follow each other into the garden. There, at the old wooden apple box is sitting Carl with a sheet of paper in front of him. On the branch above his head is hanging a red-white-red flag, made out of sheet of paper.

We politely knock at the nearest apple tree.

‘Hallo!’

‘Yes, you may enter. Do you want to register?’

‘Yes,’ John politely nods. ‘Can you please explain me all this?’

‘It’s very simple. You must ... ‘ Carl seriously looks all over us, ‘... have parents or grandparents who are our citizens. Do you have any?’

‘Yes, I do. My dad is citizen of Latvia.’ John seriously answers.

‘Don’t be daft, dad! We are children and we are playing here, right?’

‘What do you mean? I thought this is Citizen Committee point.’

‘Yes, dad, it is but it’s ours! Do you not recognize the difference between the game and the reality?’

John looks a bit dumbfounded. ‘And where is the difference?’ he finally asks.

‘The real ones are for Latvian citizen ship but this is for our.’

‘And what ‘ours’ mean?’ John is really intrigued now.

‘Kate! Bring him here!’ Carl orders very businesslike. Kate obediently does what she’s told and appears, struggling with the neighbouring ginger cat in her hands.

‘Dad, look. Keggy is ours, he belongs. So we did register him and will register all his children if he will have them. But he...’ Carl accusatory points his finger at the struggling cat in Kate’s arms ‘... is not our cat. He is an intruder, the occupant of our garden, sneaking in to steal Fitzy’s independence, well.. okay, let’s be honest, all he is steeling is Fitzy’s food. He can’t be registered just because he has sneaked into our garden. Got it?’

‘I see. And what do you do with the intruders?’ John, choking with laughter, curiously asks.

‘Oh, dad, it’s elementary. Peaceful resistance.’ Carl nods at Kate, letting her to release the cat. ‘If he’ll go for a nap there again, under our blackcurrant bushes, we shall call for a demonstration. We tried it, it works. He went back in his garden after a while.’

John tries to imagine the peaceful demonstration, marching around the bush. ‘Poor cat. He probably needed just a nap.’

‘Yeah, we actually are planning the voting on issuing him a special citizenship. After all, he is doing nothing wrong here. But first of all we must establish some order here. Rob, will you bring out our Albert for registration? And then we shall have office lunch break. Mum, can we eat lunch out here?’

‘Well, when we were children, we played red Indians and pirates, you know. Why you don’t like to play them? You still have your bows and arrows.

‘Mum, be real! Can you imagine the mess if we shall start issue citizenship to red Indians! What Americans will say then?’

We silently recede, deep in thoughts. ‘We can’t carry on like this,’ John finally announces when we are back in our room. ‘Can you take them to ... ,” he tries to find something totally childlike and politically free. ‘Like puppet theatre, for example?’

‘Oh, yes, that’s perfect! Simple, old puppet theatre. Something classical.’ I grab the yesterday’s newspaper and screen the ads on the back page. ‘How about “Three little pigs”? They have one tomorrow at noon.’

‘That will do perfect! I saw that thing as a child. It will get their heads out of this unhealthy politicised environment.’

No, actually it wouldn’t, I am thinking the next day after the curtain is up and puppets are rushing back and forth across the scene.

The three little pigs, according to play, now are allegories of the three Baltic states, trying to peacefully build their own little houses. And the big bad wolf – what a surprise – now is the big bad Soviet wolf, trying to destroy their little, independent houses.

 The seats are filled with three to five years old who are carefully watching the play in absolute silence. Usual murmur, mixture of demands for a potty breaks and ruffle of sweet wrappings, is gone.

At the end of the play, only when all three start act united, they are able to chase the wolf away, restore their independent houses and start living “happily after”.

‘It was a bad idea, John.’ I report later at night. ‘On the way back in tram they were singing the national anthem.’

 ‘Who ate the sugar again?’ I scream in despair looking at the empty sugar bowl in the middle of the table. ‘Who?’

The three little faces are gazing at me very innocently.

‘Carl, you?’

‘No, I was sleeping like everyone!’ he points to the fact that we all sleep in the other room. Cats do not sneak in the sugar bowl, at least not ours, I know that. So it’s...

‘Keggy, where is your conscience?’ I angrily scream, pushing the empty bowl in dog’s nose. Keggy loves sweets, we know that. We also have learned that he is highly allergic to them. ‘You will look like a baboon again with that bare bum! And worse – we shall have no jam this winter!’

Sugar is finally off the shelves now like washing powder, cigarettes and many, many other things. We live on coupons now for the biggest “deficit” goods. There are coupons on sugar, washing powder and soaps, on alcohol and tobacco... A unit per person. With three little children we have enough tobacco coupons to keep us both going but sugar and soap are the hard call. When I can, I try to swap the alcohol coupons for sugar or soap ones, but I’m not always lucky.

‘That’s it, I quit, cold turkey!’ dad angrily announced last week. He has been smoking nearly all his life but decided to give up after cigarettes disappeared from the shelves. ‘I will not bend my back any further,’ he angrily declares, ‘it has become ridiculous!’

Well, you can look at cigarettes as a political matter. Or washing powder.

‘Shame, we can’t give up on washing.’

‘Yeah, detect the opposition by the smell!’ father produces a sourly smile.

Jokes aside, the Soviet economy is sinking in the whirlpool even faster than before. Shopping now is a hard, full time job. With three children, especially Rob walking with such difficulties, screening the shops is unrealistic. So one morning I realize that fridge is empty, John at work and I have no other options but to leave children at home alone.

‘Now, folks. Listen carefully. If you want a dinner tonight and I know you want, you must behave yourself like responsible adults. I must go to shops, and you must stay at home alone. Can we do that?’

‘Sure, mum. Of course.’

‘We are responsible!’

‘Do not worry; I will look after the boys!’ Kate takes the thing seriously.

‘Well, then,’ I look around with trembling heart. ‘Behave! I will be back soon!’

On the way out I knock at the neighbour’s door. ‘I must do some shopping and children will be alone. Can you keep an ear on them, please?’

I know she will do. But still... It’s not an easy thing to do but there is no choice. I rush as fast as I can. Bread and macaroni in the bakery. In our corner shop I’m lucky to stumble upon some Finnish margarine. A kilo for the customer. That’s much better than pale crappy butter which has been unseen for a while now. On the way out I meet a woman from the house opposite us, and she informs me that she just bought eggs in the local supermarket. Thank you! Off you go!

I rush to there and indeed, eggs are still there! I grab thirty, then some black pudding and cheap meat jelly. For me, that jelly’s not actually suitable for human consumption but will do for Keggy. Everybody buys it for dogs. No cheese... Well, at least there is some crappy melted one. What else? I grab what’s available trying build mentally some desperate menu.

Some frozen fish... Two tins of beef stew. With some potatoes it will do for two meals. Cream. Salad and dill I have at garden. On the way back I can peek in the commercial cafe – they sometimes have some salami for sale, five times dearer than in the shops but at least they might have some. And for breakfast we can have porridge. At least there is no shortage of oatmeal. Saved for the next few days!

I quickly run upstairs to check the supermarket’s top floor. Seems like this is my lucky day. Or... yes, this is the end of the month. I spot bright yellow t-shirts in the children’s cloth department. I grab six of them without hesitation.

At the far end of the floor I spot the gift sets of bed linen. Usually these sets are the worst lot but these seem bearable. Cotton with linen, white with pale blue flowers.

‘Three of those, please!’

‘Only two in one hands,’ the grumpy shop assistant grumble over the shoulder, keeping her head in the newspaper.

‘But I have three children!’

‘Prove it!’

Annoyed I fish out my “large family” ID card. With a big sigh she puts the newspaper aside and suspiciously checks the card from both sides.

‘And I have a disabled child as well!’ I drop Rob’s disability card on the counter. Shop assistant takes it and repeat checkout.

 ‘They look genuine.’ She finally announces, annoyed. ‘With these you can have even four.’

‘Yes, now I definitely will take four, indeed.‘ I collect my valuable documents and reach for my purse.

When I’m back on street, I carry three large bags now. What else? I look around to find the queue from the back of the supermarket where the liqueur shop had been opened. I still have all five of this month’s alcohol coupons and no hope to swap them for something more useful. Well, if there is vodka, mum at least will be able to swap it for some washing powder at her office.

I find the end of queue and take my place. It will be an hour or so but at the end I might get some washing done which theoretically cheers me up.

At the beginning queue moves slowly. John likes an occasional beer and that stuff is still around in abundance. There is no need to waste coupons on wine also. Only spirits, especially vodka. Soon now, I think watching the shop doors slowly getting closer and closer.

‘I’ll fucking show you how to sneak in!’ suddenly a hatred scream comes from the door. I see an elderly lady raising both hands for a blow. A man, visibly unsteady already, with a persistence of a drunken, tries to push through the doors despite screams and punches. Few more men have spotted the mess at the door and try their luck. One of them brushes me away roughly.

‘You bastard!’ I’m starting to wind up. How dare he! My children are home alone, and I still stand in the queue while these thirsty scumbags have nothing to do and still they try to jump the queue. Wilting daisies!

‘Hush, woman!’ the man turns and pushes me back for the second time. ‘Bloody fascist!’

That’s it. I carefully put my bags down, swing my leg and kick the man right at the back of his knee. With full force. The blow was not expected and he collapses, on the way down trying to grab somebody’s sleeve. I swing my leg for the second blow aiming at his tight, and this time man finally sinks on his knees.

‘Get him, get!‘ voices from the crowd cheerfully shout and the lady in front of me start swinging her handbag, pointing at the fallen man’s head. I carefully move back to my bags. Not losing my position in the queue is more important.

‘I will show you! You will be walking on your knees back from where you come!’ an elderly woman shouts, hitting the drunken man again and again. Suddenly the policeman arrives. He quickly assesses the situation. ‘Was he standing here?’ he asks.

‘No!’ chorus of annoyed voices replies united from the queue.

Without further questions policeman drags the drunken man out and puts him in the car. Then he returns and stands in the doorway. Peace is restored. Queue moves much faster now under the watchful eye of the police and soon I’m in the shop. Five coupons. Vodka, of course. No, I will get four vodkas and one bottle of the coffee liqueur, just in case. Yes. That will be right.

When I finally push my way out of the shop, my bags are getting uncontrollable. I need a taxi.

‘Where?’ the taxi driver looks at me with outrage. ‘It’s just the other end of this street!’

‘Bags... children are home alone,’ I mumble. ‘A fiver?’

Price is a convincing factor, putting our discussion to the end.

House is still there. So far so good, I think, dragging bags out of the car.

‘Everything okay?’ I ask, opening the doors. Seems like it. All three are sitting around the table and drawing. Even Carl. It looks a bit suspicious, but I have no strength to investigate further right now.

I take my jacket off, hang it and slowly sort out shopping bags. I’m turning into such a hoarder! Actually the whole country now is hoarding like mad. Like infamous coffee grinders. How many you need? I have two but just because I also have an old one where you turn the handle by hand, but my parents...

I grab the phone. ‘Hi, mum! How many coffee grinders do you have at home?’

’Why? Do you need some?’

‘No, mum, just thinking. Statistically.’

‘Well, we have... six, I presume, and the one which we are using right now.’

‘So seven. Thanks, mum! By the way, I got four bottles of vodka. If you can find possibility to swap them for washing powder or sugar, it would be very nice. I’ll call you later at home.’

Seven. Add mine two, becomes nine electric coffee grinders for two families which makes on average 4.5 coffee grinders per family, I calculate, stacking the vodka bottles away in the wardrobe. It’s like these linen I got today. Do I really need them? Nope. I got them because they were there! That’s a bit twisted, isn’t it? No economy will survive that. If we still have some. Which I doubt.

‘Get your nose out of there!’ I slap on Keggy’s bum. ‘And you too! Careful, there are eggs!’

‘Were,’ Carl smirks. ‘We shall be eating omelette all week.’

Oh, well. ‘Something else?’

‘It’s all over the cottage cheese.’

‘Do we still have sultanas?’ I peek into Rob’s nut shelf. ‘Yes! Which means we shall be making a cake tonight!’

Later at night when everybody is long asleep, I gaze in darkness with horror. I hit a man today. Kicked. In the fight at the booze shop. Me! You can’t sink lower than that, do you?

I can’t tell it to John. Or my mum. Or anybody. I will carry this shame to the end of my days. Is it the current life? Or I had it in me, just hidden behind the thin glaze of drilled in manners? Where’s my self-esteem gone? 

 Chapter  23

‘John, which shoes?’

‘Blue ones! It will be a long day.’

I’m packing John for the day out. He will be running around, snapping moments. I will join later with children. Today is the day.

It was clear that we must to do something impressive for the 50th anniversary of that damn Molotov-Ribbentrop signing or simply the "Black Ribbon Day". They signed it fifty years ago and we are still choking on it. Quite ironic.

Mass meetings and demonstrations with half a million participants will make no news on Western media anymore. They had seen it all already. This time we need a real show.

The plans about the chain started to circulate around the end of July and less than two weeks ago it was announced officially by all three Baltic countries. From our part the responsibility for the action has taken by People’s Front with its 200, 000 registered members. We will be joining hands, creating a live chain - not only in Riga and Latvia but from one end of Baltic to another, all three Baltic States together. One live chain holding hands. A bit of an ambitious plan, isn’t it?

‘John, did you take the radio?’

‘Yes, done!’

People had been out and about since early hours already. The coordinators have agreement with radio that they will help with information so it’s vital to have a portable radio with you.

‘Whatever happens, babes, we shall meet at your parents.’ John quickly gives a peck on my cheek and rushes out.

It is sunny, even hot day which ticks away especially slowly even for me.

‘Mum, can we have ice-cream? See, there!’

‘I need that flag. Officially! Mu-um!’

‘I want a pee!’

People are selling big and small flags, badges and ice-cream on every corner, and I’m in my lavish mode. Streets are full of peoples looking very alike – happy, excited face and a small radio pressed to the ear. For a Wednesday such activity it’s not bad at all. While Estonians, lucky pushers, have a public holiday today it is a normal working day here. Or not. It actually depends on where you work. Some companies have announced the event illegal and anti-Soviet and strongly forbade even looking at it while others have provided free busses to their employees who wanted participate. It looks a bit like circus, all these little power games, but it’s so-o good to have them! They are a luxury which we hadn’t seen for half a century. They nearly create an illusion of democracy.

Red-white-red flags and black ribbons. All the choirs and folklore groups are out on the streets, filling the waiting hours with dancing and singing. Girls in traditional costumes with wreaths of wild flowers and nervous People’s Front coordinators, all dashing around... Yeah, we truly enjoy celebrations of our mourning days...

‘Where will you stand?’ I ask Vita. She is also wearing a national costume; Hedgehog carries a huge Latvian flag. The black ribbon is tied around his head. It blends in with his long dark hair.

’Our section is down the road to Lithuania. You?’

I point toward children. ‘I would like go down A2, somewhere in country, but we shall stay here even if there will be no space for us directly in the chain. John, as usual, will try to be everywhere.’

Riga will be full, of course, but there had been worries for the past few days that in some sectors will be difficult to cover for the continuity. Thus the busses. But seems it’s been sorted out now. I look at my wrist. Another hour to kill. ‘How about a cake instead of ice-cream? Anybody interested?’ I look at the cafe door with longing. Rob must be dog tired already.

‘There will be no space,’ Vita realistically points. ‘Come to our buss, we have plenty of stuff with us.’

‘Here, take the flag,’ Hedgehog offers it to Carl. ‘I will take Rob. In this crowd...’

Carl proudly lifts the flag up but it’s too heavy for him. I grab for the handle in the middle. ‘Kate, you can carry this corner of the cloth so it’s not getting dirty.’

We move through the narrow streets of Old Town towards the river where their buss is parked.

‘John!’ suddenly Hedgehog shouts over the crowded street.

‘Hi!‘ After a moment John appears breathless. ‘Fantastic bedlam today, isn’t it?’

‘Join in!’ Vita ties a black ribbon around John’s wrist. ‘We are going towards Lithuanian border and then back by the same buss.’

‘I don’t know, actually...’ John quickly changes the lenses on the camera.

‘City is full of photographers already. Nothing will be missed here.’

‘Okay, let’s go then!’

The buss is already full but we are squeezed in friendly.

‘Attention! Watch out!’ Hedgehog shouts, manoeuvring the long flagpole through the buss door.

‘A coffee?’ A big, plump woman in front of us draws out a flask.

‘Here comes the cake!’ A man passes around a board with a huge pretzel, already cut in pieces.

 About a half of people in the buss are wearing national costumes. ‘It’s my choir.’ Vita happily explains. ‘We have another buss there, but that’s fully packed already.’

‘And this is not?’ I watch the happy group on the back seat, climbing up on the lap of each other. We, as outsiders, are offered the full double seat. Posh. John takes the seat at the window, with Kate on his lap, then Carl squeezes in and finally me with Rob. Tight but we shall survive.

‘Want some more?’ Vita offers pretzel and little ham pies.

‘Let’s go then!’ the driver jumps in, slamming door. ‘All in?’

‘YESSSSSS!’ the buss roars back and instantly the chorus starts the folksong about the fast running river and frightened horse, refusing to cross it. Then comes the next song and the next...

It’s great. Cheerful. Fantastic. The road is full with people already. Endless queues of cars and busses, parked on the edges. Many are decorated with flags and flowers. People gather in small groups around the ones with radios. After a while driver stops and consults with the coordinators about the parking but seems that our buss is sent further and further towards the border.

‘That’s it.’ Driver finally slams on breaks. ‘Otherwise I will not have enough fuel to go back. There is an empty patch for you!’

We burst out on road, still singing. Girls rush into the hay field to pick some wild flowers while elderly stay closer to the buss, sharing out more drinks and pies. The flag boys carefully drag out the poles and unroll the flags. A big, happy and as it feels, an endless, picnic party.

‘You will be right here?’ John asks, adjusting the strap of the camera bag.

‘Just go, we will be fine!’ I laugh. My dear husband has itchy fingers already. ‘It’s still plenty of time.’

It’s right after 6 when coordinators start pushing people around for the chain. We hold hands and practice some sidewalking until we reach the next group. Then somebody shouts that now there is the gap on the other side and we walk back a bit, starting to stretch out hands. Tight, but will do.

‘Here you go!’ some girls are rushing back from the field. ‘That’s for you!’ one of them quickly press a wreath on Kate’s head.

‘Thank you!’

I adjust a wreath a bit so the flowers are not completely covering Kate’s face. ‘You look awesome!’ Kate is beaming.

 ‘It’s time!’ somebody with a little radio on the shoulder shouts and we rush back in line, reaching for each other’s hand.

 ‘It’s chilling to think that people are standing like this through all three countries, isn’t it?’ Vita whispers. I nod. It is, indeed. All these people hand in hand...

So we stand. The car drives slowly past with a cameraman hanging outside the window. Car is followed by a TV buss with more cameramen hanging out and then another media buss...

‘Hope this will have some media coverage. My hands are starting to hurt already.’ If you never tried to stand still for 15 minutes with stretched out hands, try it. It’s not actually a fun. It hurts at the end.

‘Soon, mum?’ Carl’s left hand is high up holding hand of Hedgehog. His right hand hold’s Kate’s tightly.

‘Hold on, just hold on!’ I whisper. ‘You can’t let it go!’

And then it’s over finally. The man with a radio makes a happy dance. ‘We did it!’ he screams, pressing radio at his ear. We burst in applause, mostly to get life back in our stiff arms. ’We did it!’

The piercing phone interrupts my sacred morning drift between the sleep and awakening. With blurry eyes I try to focus on the alarm clock, reaching or the phone.

‘Hello! Do you still have Angelica?’

‘What?’ Only Yvonne can call so early in the morning with such kind of an urgent inquiry.

‘Yes, she is doing fine.’

‘I wonder if you would agree to lend her.’

‘What for?’

‘See, we are kicking an exhibition together, Alexander and I, and some guy from Belarus with some really cool stuff will be joining, but we still have some cages empty in the big hall.’

I see. Since we had been allowed to start little private enterprises in the spirit of perestroika, a lot of people try to do something, and salaries at the state Zoo never had been great. ‘Just wait a moment, I will grab my coffee mug.’ I put the receiver on the pillow, search for the slippers and wander out in the kitchen.

After discussing in details all about Angelika’s feeding schedule, the commercial side of the exhibition, latest announcement of People’s Front and different apple cake recipes, we have an agreement - Roland can collect Angelika who will be well cared during the exhibition and then returned. All I need to do – to prepare a clean pillow case and card board box.

Two days later Yvonne calls again. ‘Angelica is a monster!’

‘What? What do you mean? She has always been such a sweetheart.’

‘Well, she is definitely not anymore, whatever you mean with that “sweetheart”. She is a vicious monster, attacking everybody who goes close to her cage. This morning I tried to offer her a nice, fresh, and very alive frog and she nearly snapped my finger off!’

‘Are you serious? Our Angelika?’

‘Sorry. Trust me, she needs go back home or she will die from stress. Listen, I have an idea. Why you don’t take children and come here for an afternoon, and then later Roland can drive you lot back home?’

Exhibition is a great success. If our Zoo is very serious with all the international agreements, safety rules and captivity breeding programmes, providing very limited entertainment for a homo vulgaris, this exhibition is very opposite. It is offering everything Zoo detests – there are parrots to feed and very domesticated raccoon with several tricks for the general public. Somebody walks around with a python, offering everybody to take a picture with a snake and so on. ‘Where is the freak show? Bearded woman and such?’ I mutter over Yvonne’s shoulder, assessing the atmosphere in the exhibition hall. 

Yvonne introduces Alexander. ‘His specialty is reptiles and spiders. He has a great collection of them.’ We shake hands and I realise, that there is a freak show, indeed.

‘You know, he was bitten by a scorpion,’ Yvonne whispers in my ear. ‘Guess, what happened?’

I look back at Alexander, carefully wrapping a python on the shoulder of a big, bossy bloke. ‘Nothing, I presume?’

‘Wrong! Poor scorpion died! Alcohol poisoning!’ Yvonne giggles. ‘Andrew is not much better, but well worth it! Look at them!’

She points at the guy, surrounded by the largest crowd. He is in about late twenties, holding a few months old baby. ‘Andrew!’

Gay turns around and I see that he is holding not a human baby but a monkey. A chimpanzee. That is something! Our Zoo has no primates and this is the first one I see in person.

 ‘Hello! This is our Regina!’ little creature in his hands, dressed in a pink cardigan and pampers, leans forward and offers to me her hand for a kiss.

‘Wow! That’s a neat trick! How did you manage to teach her that?’

‘Well, no, actually it’s not a trick.’ Andrew smiles. ‘It’s natural in chimpanzee society. That way she just shows her submission.‘

‘Hey, hey! So all the hand kissing gallantry of Victorian era is nothing more than a simple act of natural submission, coming from the depths of the evolution chain?’

‘Exactly,’ Andrew grins.

‘I know some feminists who would strangle you for such revelations.’

‘It’s not my fault,’ Andrew puts Regina into my arms. ‘Can you hold her for a second? I desperately need a fag!’ he waves and disappears towards the staff exit.

I feel as fascinated as my children. Regina has long rough, dark, neatly parted hair, long arms with narrow palms and long fingers. Ears are big and nose flat in comparison with a human baby, but her dark brown eyes... They are definitely the eyes of a human being. It feels weird like border between a human and an animal had suddenly vanished, leaving this cute, puzzled creature in my arms.

‘Where did you get her from?’ I ask when Andrew returns.

‘In Moscow. I was just looking around the Bird Market, when this black bloke offered her. She was just two months old then and didn’t look very promising. How he did smuggle her in the plane, I have no idea, but it mustn’t been the best trip. So I paid for her only five thousand bucks, really.’

‘Cheap? Sorry, I have no clue about discount prices on the monkeys.’

‘For a baby – yes. It’s Africa, after all, everything is cheap. And brutally illegal, of course. The bloke said that her mother was served at his departure party when he left for the university. It might be not truth, of course, but that’s how the reality is, despite all the CITES lists and other crap which looks great on paper only.’

‘Poor baby!’ I feel sorry for this little orphan, whatever she is - a human or an animal. At least now I can understand where Darwin got his evolution theory from.

‘Yeah! She is still so small now, at nine months, that I do suspect that she might be a bonobo, the smaller variety of Congo chimpanzees. The bloke at least told that he himself was from Congo. If it will work out like that, I will be in a shit.’

‘Why is that?’

‘There are only few thousands, maybe even hundreds of them left now, if that. Nobody really knows. Bonobos are very rare and very valuable. It’s not so much about money; it’s about gene pool. Finding her a right partner later will be a serious responsibility. And right now she had started to cough in this draught.’

‘Oh, I see. She has cold feet as well as hands. Why didn’t you get her some socks?’

‘She hates them. She takes them off faster than I can pull them back!’ Andrew lifts baby higher and bites right in her shoulder. ’You, naughty girl!’

‘Have you considered a baby sleepsuit? You know, these footed one-piece things.’

‘That’s an idea.’

The new group of visitors appears and we drift apart. Carl wants to see the raccoon “washing” his dinner and then some of Alexander’s “fluffy” spiders while Rob sticks with Yvonne, who carries around a ferret. Kate sticks with me, still mesmerized by the baby monkey.

Chapter  24

‘Fancy going to Germany?’ after the movement’s council meeting Ainars pulls my sleeve. ‘West Germany, I mean. The first group went in September, now is our turn. We had been invited by voices. The whole council.’

‘Oh, I see!’ it’s a tempting offer. Abroad! To the West! An ultimate dream of a Soviet citizen. ‘Why not? When?’

‘In two weeks.’

‘When? ‘ I ask in disbelief. ‘So fast? You think they will let us go?’

For a Soviet citizen the visa to get in the Western country never seems a problem. The problem is to get a permission to get out of this country.

‘The list had been approved. You are on. Will you be able to on such a short notice?’

‘Really? I suppose.’

The following week is filled with a crazy rush. Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Then the ticket office. And finally everything is done. I am a proud holder of a special Soviet passport, issued only for those allowed to travel outside the country. It’s valid for five years. With West German visa in it. For a month. And an open return ticket to Bonn.

Children will stay with Nana. John will take care of pets. My bags are filled with presents. Some sweets. Pottery. Books. Linen tablecloth. A wooden rocking horse for the family in Munich. Then there are the official copies of our latest adopted documents. And some not so official documents. Some drafts for a review. I have no illusions. We are invited by voices which mean three serious letters – CIA.

And finally, some days later I manage to get the real ticket. I have a date now. It will mean only ten short days in there before visa expires but whatever! I’m going!

 ‘Can you come for a coffee before you leave?’ says mum over the phone. ‘Dad wants to see you!’

What’s that about? I sigh. ‘Mum, I will return, don’t you worry! But sure, I’ll pop in tonight’

‘Now,’ dad says in quiet voice when he sits me down in the kitchen, leaving the tap running loudly in the sink. ‘How much money you have?’

‘Two hundred and fifty. DM.’

‘That’s not enough.’

‘I know, but do I have a choice?’ Soviet currency management is very strong. Two hundred and fifty is the ceiling. ‘I will survive.’

‘Listen,’ father leans closer to me, nearly whispering. ‘Take these two books with you.’

‘These?’ One is a large silly Latvian nature album, the other is smaller. I peek in. The collection of our folk songs. ‘Why?’

‘Here...’ father points at the front cover of the album, silently forming words with his lips ‘I put in some dollars. Here..’ he taps his finger at the back of the folk song book, ‘... are Deutschemarks. It will give you some space.’

‘Dad, I will be back! I’m not running away!’

‘Whatever. It’s my birthday present. Be careful!’

Finally the last hugs to children, a kiss for John and I’m in the train. I arrange my bed in the compartment and push the bags under it. I have few books, few apples and three packages of my favourite crisps to kill the time.

After few hours of reading and looking outside through the rain at the autumn forests, I’m getting interested what the restaurant will be offering.

‘Which way is the restaurant carriage? Is it open?’ I ask when the train attendant walks past the next time.

‘A restaurant?’ she looks at me surprised. ‘This train has none. Not enough carriages on Berlin line now with all the officer families going back. You can order tea if you want.’

Great! Soviets again managed to upset me! Because the whole Soviet Army contingent is leaving East Germany, I must starve now for three long days!

I lie back on the bunk bed and read some more. Train runs in the dark, then stops and then runs again. After Minsk train is nearly empty. I notice an elderly man, nervously chainsmoking in the corridor, and a couple, heads together whispering something each time I walk past to toilet. But according to the attendant’s tea schedule, most of the compartments are empty.

When I’m ready for the tenth cigarette of the night, suddenly there is the knock on the door. Two men in uniforms nearly jump in the compartment. Border control.

‘Ваш паспорт?’ The voice is crisp and commanding. I pass my passport in silence to one officer while another leans down checking space under the beds. I can hear the voices and banging where border guards are checking outside of the train.

The man in uniform quickly flicks through my passport, look at me, comparing the picture and then pass it back to me. ‘Спасибо.’ And off they go. I can hear the next knock few doors away. That’s all?

But after few minutes the train stops again. ‘Икра? Водка?’ The head peeks in the compartment door. Oh, the customs. This voice is neither crisp nor commanding. It sounds completely overtired. I can hear resentment in it.

‘No,’ I shake my head. Only heap of anti-Soviet documents, I silently add in my mind. The head in door quickly looks around, notices the wooden rocking horse peeking out from under the bed and laughs disdainfully, slamming the door shut.

That’s it. I carefully listen how the voices outside die out, then there are two loud bangs of the metal hitting metal, some heavy jolts and few minutes later we cross the border of the Soviet empire. That’s it, I’m OUT!

It’s dark outside so I can’t see anything except few lights then and there so I must wait until tomorrow. I close the book and walk outside for the well deserved cigarette. The nervous man is standing there again, flicking ashes through the slightly opened top of the window.

‘Берлин?’ he quietly asks.

I nod, lighting my cigarette.

‘Наш или западный?’

‘Западный.’

The smoking man looks out of the window, dragging heavily on cigarette. ‘Повезло вам.’

 I nod again.

Well, we may be out but I still do not fancy talking to this stranger. The whole thing already feels too much like an old Soviet spy film for my liking. I nod one more time, flick the cigarette out in the darkness and return back in my compartment. I’m starving.

Finally I drag my bags out on the pavement in station. Here it is – Berlin! Probably the drizzle makes everything look so gray and dim, I think, moving towards the crossing tunnel, because I can’t see anything really thrilling.

Suddenly I’m in the tunnel. Egg yellow walls and some brownish red stripes. The line is crossed. Finally I’m in the West. And there is the first sign of it – a sweet machine. Flick the coin in and press the button. One DM. I carefully slide the coin in and press the number 3 – chocolate with hazelnuts. Machine flicks for few seconds and then I hear the thud below. At least something to eat!

The next train is a surprise. Yes, there are comfortable velvet seats with neat little ashtrays in the armrests, but that’s all I can say. My entire childhood granny was feeding me with stories about how neat and tidy the Germans are. No, they are not! At least not in this train! It’s littered beyond believable. Empty cans of soft drinks are rolling around; the crumpled newspapers float between torn wrapping papers. A girl walks past my compartment wearing no shoes, only white socks. How they do wash them after such a walk? I sink in my seat and carefully break the first bit of chocolate. It’s nice. It fills my screaming tummy with a warm feeling. I’m in the West!

The trip to Bonn is not really long but when I finally find the street of my destination its dark already. Peteris, the person who had formally invited me, opens the door. ‘You are late!’

‘I know, I’m sorry, I probably walked past your house several times. It is a bit confusing here.’

‘Oh, I know. People usually miss our house. Come in. Your room is upstairs.’ He finally opens the door wide enough to let me in. For the past hour or so my suitcases have tripled their weight, I can swear on it, and the rocking horse has left a large, nasty blister on my neck, but I obediently drag my suitcases upstairs.

The room is simple but nice. It will be great to stretch out fully after the rocky bunk bed in the train.

‘You would probably like something to eat,’ Peteris says when I return back downstairs with the heap of papers from the council and some pottery from me.

‘Oh, I’m starving! They had no restaurant carriage at all.’ I sniff in the promising scent of coffee drifting somewhere from the depth of the house. After a while Peteris’ wife appears with a mug and a plate. There is coffee in the mug, indeed but its weak and without sugar. I look around. No sugar on sight at all. Sure they do not have sugar shortage here as well?

The only thing on the plate in front of me is a half of a peach alike fruit.

‘It’s nectarine.’ Peteris nods towards my plate.

Probably something really special, I think, carefully cutting off my first bite. We do not have these at home at all. Well... It’s quite sour and hard, probably not ripe. I look at Peteris. Is it some kind of a joke?

Peteris is sitting in the armchair and looking at me intentionally. It feels uncomfortable. He looks serene, a bit like a Father Christmas from the card, with white beard and sweet smile. Only his eyes... They are cold. Very cold.

‘It’s not healthy eating much so late at night.’ Explains Peteris’ tight lipped wife, stiffly positioning herself on the edge of the sofa, covered by crocheted blanket. Oh, well, at least I have some of that chocolate bar left in my handbag, I think, slowly finishing the fruit on the plate.

Wrong!

When I finally return back in my room upstairs, there are no more chocolate left there. Instead of my chocolate, there sits a thin Great Dane, licking the last bits of chocolate out of the wrapping paper, scattered all across the carpeted floor.

“Hi, mate! Have you had the other half of that nectarine for your supper?’ I rub the dog’s ear for a while, then finally close the room’s door and open my bag. What’s the point? I think, opening the best chocolate box from home to kill my hunger. They do not need such a present, they are dieting. Poor dog.

The next morning is even worse. Muesli for breakfast. I have no problems eating rough and it’s probably healthy, but... The milk, richly poured over the mere handful of flakes, is awful. It’s not white, it’s pale blue and nearly translucent.

‘Skimmed,’ Peteris wife explains. ‘Low cholesterol, good for your heart.’

Whatever, it’s sour! I push the flakes around in the bowl, considering different ways to inform the hostess that milk is totally off.

No, I can’t do that. I fish out of the milk the last bit of flake and push the bowl a bit on the side.

‘Is there anything for me to do for today? Any meetings and such?’

‘No, no, you can do whatever you like. City centre is not far away here and I think the celebrations have already started. You can enjoy the day out. Only be back at seven for the dinner.’

I dash upstairs, grab my handbag and run outside. Huh! Health freaks or miserliness, I wonder, walking briskly towards the centre. They both seem so weird! Double faced like their house. The design of the house itself is great – simple and stylish, but inside it’s cramped with mismatching relicts of the past. I do not mind the clutter but it looks there like it’s only a decoration, a smoke screen for intruders like me. The furniture is kind of a good design – simple, strong lines in plain pastel colours. But the crocheted blankets kill the whole spirit of the design. Or like their dog – beautiful Great Dane, definitely starved and with no manners of a loved dog.

Maybe the spirit of Bonn has ruined them, I wonder, walking down the wide street, crammed with boring concrete blocks, richly decorated with aluminium stripes and mirror glass. Even the shop windows look bare and boring.

I approach the park. It looks sterile – wide paved alleys, large patches of lawn with few young trees standing in sad, boring groups. There is no smell of composting leaves or wilting grass. Only fumes from the traffic rushing past.

 And then finally I spot something nice. A food van. Giuseppe something, says the logo on the side of the van. It sells freshly roasted chicken and some hot drinks. And it’s cheap!

I find an empty bench and gulp down half of the hot greasy chicken in few minutes. Then I lit the first cigarette of the day, savouring the coffee which is strong and sweet. Heaven!

Finally contented I look at the map and start my walk down to the river. It would be nice to participate in something like this. 2000th anniversary of Bonn! It must be something special.

I can feel autumn in the air already but it’s still warm. City looks neat. Tidy. And like... Asleep? This is supposed to be the capital of Germany since Berlin is divided? Leisurely I peek in some shops. Yes. They are full with stuff. No empty shelf space left. But on the other hand – nothing really excites me. I expected to see myself going mad at the sight of the first full shop, I had heard too many of these stories about reaction of a Soviet citizen going abroad. But no. I read the labels, screen prices, but nothing screams at me. Weird.

The next window is of a small jewellery shop. I look in without a real interest. I’m picky, very picky about the jewellery. At home shops were full of silver and gold, but it all was looking... cheap. Not the price tags but design. For years I hadn’t seen anything I would like to wear myself. Now... I open my mouth in awe, leaning closer. These necklaces are fantastic! It’s filigree work and the design which captures the eye - stunning. Something like that I would like to wear. Not for daily use, of course, but one of these would be perfect for a gala at Opera or something, with a simple evening dress. Yes.

I look at the price tags. They are made out of white plastic strips, a single number engraved on each one so it takes me some time to put the numbers together right. The cheapest one cost... 275 thousands! I laugh. I can’t see many Germans rushing to buy these! Nor myself at this matter. I look at the necklaces for the last time and walk away somehow relieved.

The first glimpse of the river looks promising. Roofs of large white tents, music from the speakers, little streams of people slowly trickling towards the field...

I keep my eyes open. I want to see this. You do not celebrate the 2000th anniversary every day so it might be very special. I walk down towards the first tent. It sells balloons. Nice, colourful ones with printed Disney characters on them but still... just balloons. Nothing exciting.

I move further. The next tent is something like a representation of some federal land, full of booklets about water maintenance and garbage disposal. Yeah, really exciting. The girl in the tent offers everybody a pin of artificial flowers – a red poppy and some wheat ears. I take one. Kate will enjoy it.

I move to the next tent and then to the next... They all look the same. Of course, there are some differences. In some the booklets look bluer, in other they are mostly green, in some instead of a pin I’m offered a pencil or a little German flag, but you know what I mean. They all are completely and utterly boring. Seems like other visitors have the same opinion. Without a smile or an excited banter they just cruise in and out the tents, collecting pins, pencils and little paper flags.

My nostrils detect a smell of charcoal burning. Oh, yes, the food. Better than garbage disposal booklets full of exciting diagrams. Hopefully there will be some life. I’m not hungry. I still have half of the chicken tucked in my handbag – I’m planning a completely sinful party tonight along with Mr Great Dane. But it will be interesting to see their beer tents and such. And then I will follow the main stream and hopefully will find the centre of the celebration. That’s my plan.

I follow an elderly couple who are getting slightly animated about the food. I can understand that much in German. The food venue is a half circle of tables in an enclosed meadow, with only few food tents. I stand aside, light a cigarette and watch. The standard is two grilled sausages and a shot of vodka. Seems like the most popular brand here is Vodka Gorbachev. One mark per shot. I wonder the popularity is reached because of the politics or simply because of the cheap price.

Well dressed people, mostly in moss coloured tweed, queue up, get their sausages and shots and walk away, carrying paper plates close under their noses. There are no smiles or laughter, wide gestures or excited conversations. Only stone dead serious faces and empty eyes without a sparkle in them. Even children are more businesslike instead of happy skipping around. No festivity feels at all.

I carefully place my cigarette in the ashtray on top of the garbage bin and follow the main stream. Now I hopefully will find where the actual celebration is held. But I’m wrong. After few metres the hedge opens and I find myself in the car park. Shit! I turn back, head towards the food tents and try to follow another couple. We end up back at the tents. What I’m doing wrong here? I move away from the main path and start circulating the small ones.

Finally I found a stage. It’s small and empty, but at least it indicates that there might be more. I check the sheet of paper, pinned at the stage. Tonight there is expected some senior citizen folkdance group. Yeah, okay.

An hour later I’m giving up. After a serious search I managed to find two more tents. One was filled with some environmentalist booklets and other was selling the candy floss. There is nothing more.

End of story.

I lean back on the bench and reach for another cigarette. So that’s what they call a celebration? Well, our funerals look more fun than this. I carefully check out the anniversary booklet; maybe there are other places? No. This is the venue.

Well, this is daytime, of course. Time for a retired burgher and his frau. Probably later at night the normal people will spring up. But still... I can’t see many youngsters cruising with a sausage around five tents or so for a long or getting buzz from a senior folk dance group. What I’m missing here? This is starting to do my head in.

I turn back towards the city. My excitement is gone and now I look more carefully into people’s faces. There are not many but still they all look the same to me. Like buildings – perfect mixture of concrete, glass and aluminium. Flat and bland.

Finally I have reached the first blocks of the old town. What a relief! Cosy, narrow streets and not so perfect houses. Uneven steps and different size windows... On one door I even spot a patch of paintwork starting to peel off. This is for real.

Streets are filled with tourists here. There is noisy banter all around me, smiles and cascades of laughter, and even gestures of Germans seem wider, more relaxed. This feels much better.

I order a coffee and sit outside to inhale not only smoke of my cigarette but also the live air. I suddenly feel like I had escaped some zombie’s attack. What the heck I’m doing here?

I look at my wrist, rise up, pay for my coffee and start my way back. I look at the map. If I’ll take this route I will end up right at the alley, just few minutes away from my hosts’ house. Oh, well, it will be a long evening, probably worse than yesterday.

The street takes me into residential area with neat, quite expensive looking houses. I giggle with a naughty guilt. Now probably I will see some of the famous German gnomes.

Another disappointment. There are no gnomes. There are eagles instead. Every second house or so has a silhouette of a huge flying eagle on the top front window. Oh, well! I will just keep my eyes down and that will be it. They will disappear.

Only few cars drive past on the deserted street. Not many pedestrians as well - an elderly man walking a yappy Jack Russell; a lady with neat purple perm halo around head dragging behind a pink bag on little plastic wheels, rhythmically rattling over the gaps of paving bricks. Another lady with little brush and a dustpan diligently scraping the fallen needles...

The houses on this street look quite similar. Each one has a strip for a front garden. I enjoy the miniature gardens, and this one is immaculate. A juniper shrub, two ferns each side of it and some kind of a rockery plant, probably alyssum in front on top of a piece of a hollowish sandstone. Really neat little garden, I think, slowly walking past it. Then is the gap for a driveway and then the next strip starts. A stone, alyssum, ferns, a juniper. Wait a minute? I just walked past that. I quickly look over the shoulder. Yup. I’m not in some walking standstill mystery. This is another garden. The rock is slightly different shape, the ferns are taller while juniper is smaller but the combination is the same.

Yuck! I speed up and there it is – the next garden. Hallelujah! The rock is covered with neatly trimmed ivy, and instead of juniper there is a little silver colour fir tree. The next? Ivy, ferns and juniper. The next – alyssum, ferns and the same silverfish fir tree.

I walk all the way to the end of the street wondering about the nature of human beings. At home, where plant choice is really limited, nobody would even imagine copying neighbouring gardens. The different, the better, rarer plants, special designs... These little things were every gardener’s dream and pride back at home. Here, where choice of plants definitely can’t be a problem, they produce carbon copies like... again, what, zombies?

At the end of the street there is a quite large crossroads. The whole street is laid out of neat little pavement bricks. At crossroads the pavement bricks suddenly creep on me. They look so neat and tidy, so unrealistic... The final coup de grace makes the pot plant, positioned right in the middle of the crossroads, on a little podium. Not a large box of municipal flowers, no, a smallish flowerpot with a fat, well fed geranium covered in meaty pink blossoms. That’s it. I’m done.

I reach in my handbag for the phone book. There is the phone box. ‘Rita, it’s me. I’m in Bonn now.’

‘Hi! Welcome in the Western wonderland!’ I can hear teasing undertone in Rita’s voice. Thanks’ God. Rita is ours. She had been kicked out what... only five years ago? She can’t have lost the plot completely.

‘The geranium... ‘I quickly try to explain my current state of mind, ‘dieting on sour milk and false smiles. Help!’

‘Calm down! You are not going nuts, Bonn can be like that, I mean, creeping on you. Just wait a bit. Martin is driving to North and on the way back he will collect you. Two, max three days.’

I don’t care who this Martin is but I need to get out of here.

‘No, I can‘t stay! I will spit out something unacceptable.’

‘Well, don’t do this. You know...’ I know. No, I presume that I know what she means. That it’s no good in more ways than one to upset my current host.

‘Are there any buses or trains to Munich?’

‘Yes, of course, but they are quite pricey. ‘

‘Do not worry, I have some. Can I go? Please?’

‘Sure. How about like this...’

We quickly dive into creating a polite excuse plan for my escape. ‘That’s it then, you call him tomorrow morning. Let’s make it look like an emergency!’ I laugh finally feeling better. There is an escape plan.

I look at watch. I have exactly seven minutes to return back home in time. Fu, now I will survive the evening, I know. I briskly walk past the new row of immaculate carbon copy gardens and avoid looking up at black eagles. I will survive. 

 Chapter   25

The next morning as a big girl I shake hands and politely smile thanking for the hospitality while Mr Great Dane sulks in the corner realising that there will be no more sinful nights with grilled chickens. At least somebody will miss me here.

Yes, the train ticket is pricey. 120 DM, like the price of a... Sony boom box. Back at home such Sony would cost me over a thousand so my escape trip will cost me like what – mother’s yearly salary? Feels a bit crazy.

And then there is Munich! Rita meets me right at the station with her big silver family van, both boys and a big hug. Her eyes are smiling and right from the beginning I feel like at home. She helps me upload the suitcases and the rocking horse is welcomed and everything feels just right.

We quickly dive in the latest political events back at home and chat all the way home through supermarkets and Rita’s shopping lists.

Later at night, Rita’s husband returns from the office with a warm, genuine smile. Yes, I can detect some tiredness because of the never-ending flow of visitors from back at home since Iron Curtain started to rust, but hey, we all are trying to do the same job here, one way or another.

‘You are on studio’s schedule for after tomorrow,‘ Rita’s husband explains me. ‘It will be full interview, if you don’t mind.’

‘Sure, but I had never done radio before, only writing. I have no clue and I’m a nervous speaker.’

‘Don’t you worry, we can have the studio for a full day, if you need.’ He assures me, ‘And after that there is montage to cut out all the mishaps and silly bits.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I relax a bit.

‘So tomorrow you can enjoy the city,’ Rita chimes in. ‘Public transport is costly, but you can take my bike.’

‘Bike? I was on one ... like fifteen years ago for the last time. I’m not good enough to ride it in a city.’

‘This is Germany,’ they both laugh in unison.

‘Pedestrians and ladies with bicycles are gods here. You will be completely safe, trust me.’ Rita assures me, feeding some puree from the jar to her youngest son.

The next morning off I go, indeed, armed with an old bike and a street map. I like the Munich instantly. From the funny bronze rhino right outside my window to museums packed with really great medieval stuff. And people! Nothing like blank faces of Bonn. This is great!

The light drizzle takes over the sun and I feel a bit tired. I slowly pedal along the streets looking for a suitable cafe. And then I spot a nun. She, like me, is riding a bicycle. A large wicket basket is tied on the bar and with one hand she holds the open umbrella over her head. The street is wide and that’s good because this old nun can’t qualify for the Tour de France – bicycle is hopelessly swinging from one side of the road to another, all over the three lines, but seems that it’s not bothering her. Nor the drivers who probably feel a bit like F1 drivers trying to predict her next movement and overtake safely. Intrigued I follow the nun for a while and finally relax about my driving skills. I’m safe here, indeed.

This is wonderful! So are my hosts but they probably do not count as they are no true Germans. The next day they take me for a trip in mountains to Garmisch-Partenkirchen, and we, like naughty children, even cross the border with Austria just for fun of it, and then it’s time to visit the radio studio.

‘Get ready,’ Rita’s husband teases me, ’now it’s getting serious! You are to enter the hostile territory, you know, the damned voices!’ We walk through the English Garden and my heart sinks in worries. It is not a wise thing to do. But on the other side – it’s the whole idea of the trip. I will have the whole country for an audience. For the movement. I can’t mess up such an opportunity. But...

There are many buts still swirling in my head when the doors open into a tiny hall and I’m faced with the security staff. My host automatically takes of his jacket and puts on the counter along with the loaf of bread he just purchased on the way here. I follow with my handbag. Luckily we do not have any bombs, backed in the bread, so security guard, after checking his visitors list, passes me an ID card. The whole atmosphere feels rather serious.

‘Why is that?’ I whisper when we are up and walk alone along the long corridor.

‘You know, we are damned voices and such,’ he whispers back with a smile and then his face turns serious. His mouth silently forms three letters. ‘C.I.A.’ Then his voice returns back to normal. ‘Believe me, sometimes it feels pretty tight here, but we haven’t had any serious accidents. So far. Knock on wood!’

‘Hi, Juri,’ his voice suddenly changes again to a false cheerfulness. ‘Here is another of our heroes!’ He pushes me towards a man who looks like a huge wardrobe dressed in three piece suit. We shake hands and exchange some polite phrases and flat jokes.

‘It was our boss,’ Rita’s husband whispers when we are in the relative safety of the studio. ‘Never cross his path, if you know what I mean.’

We start and gradually I relax. He asks the right questions and I feel confident having the right answers. I talk and talk and talk... until he finally nods and with a thumb up switches off the mike. ‘That was perfect! There will be some montage but we might stretch it into even two part piece. Great!’

I feel good. I had done it. From now there is no way back. I have talked on voices. Now I’m an official anti-Soviet element. An enemy! You know, it feels good. Really good.

‘Oh, let’s go to cantina. I will introduce you to some of my colleagues.’

We drink coffee and laugh and then we have a lunch, and more coffee and more laugh. Between this entire jocundity people ask me serious questions, and I try to respond as best as I can.

‘You know,’ my host suddenly announces, ‘it’s Oktoberfest time, right? How about if Ingrid takes you there? You, young girls will have much more fun than me.’

Ingrid is young and seems positive about the idea. Yeah, let’s have a girl’s night out, why not. My hosts probably will enjoy a peaceful evening by themselves.

‘You know,’ I say when we finally leave the scary building, ‘don’t let me drink too much, Ingrid, okay?’

‘You can’t survive Oktoberfest on a dry head!’ Ingrid giggles, putting the car into gear. I tell her about my sour experience in Bonn. ‘Oh, common! Tight asses of Bonn! We are different here! Just wait and see!’

And I see. The crowds. The buzz. The legendary Bavarian beer tents, huge like capelin hangars, filled up to the top. Hey, this really looks like some celebration. Well, different from the ones at home but never the less it’s a party!

We try the beer in the first tent along with a grilled chicken. Not a bad combination. On the podium in the middle some group is playing typical beer music – some mixture of German folksongs and cheerful versions of international hits. The people around are having fun. They sing-a-long arm in arm, and for a while one group or another jump up on the long wooden benches and sing from there. The girls in some traditional style costumes serve beer like wrestlers, carrying eight paints in each hand at once.

‘Hey! That’s really some fun!’ I scream later, fighting with fatigue, created by mixture of beer and the third round in a carousel. ‘Can we shoot some monsters now?’

We move giggling to the tents where you can throw a ball or shoot to win some silly toy.

‘Look, he looks exactly like your boss!’ I laugh pointing at huge fluffy gorilla with a black leather face.

‘Hush!’ Ingrid bends down, spilling some of her beer, ‘Hush!’ Then she dramatically looks around and with a grace of Agent 007 points to a smaller version of the same gorilla. ‘And that’s his deputy!’

We burst out in silly giggles again and then Ingrid wins some kind of a green centipede.

‘It’s not a centipede,’ I giggle, ‘it has only sixteen legs!’

‘So he is then.... ‘

We both try to work out the Latin name for him.

‘Dexa... hexa...pede... ‘I mumble. Definitely too much beer but who cares, I’m now an official bad guy!

‘ Cucumis! He looks like one! With legs!’ Ingrid offers, jumping up and down. ‘Let’s call him Cucumis!’

‘Nope, there must be this dexahexa shit there, without the L. ! I can give you an I. for it, but that’s all!’ I argue with a dead serious face. ‘Dexahexapedecucumis I.! It’s official! But at home you can call him Cumis, that’s permissible!’

‘No, you call him Cumis, okay? Take it! Your children will love him!’

‘Oh, thank you! Rocking horse one way, this green worm back... I will look like a total weirdo on the border!’

I neatly tuck Cumis I. (I. stands for Ingrid ) in my handbag, leaving his head and first pair of feet out. ‘He will enjoy some fresh air!’

We both look back at the scary toy gorilla, blow him some kisses (which he rudely doesn’t return) and then it’s time to leave.

When Ingrid starts digging in her pockets for keys I freeze in horror. ‘You had three pints of beers! You can’t drive!’

‘Common, it’s Oktoberfest! Nobody cares!’

‘But police?’

‘Ach, if they will find out that you are driving clear during the Oktoberfest, you will be taken in for drug tests! Let’s go!”

Streets are wide and empty. The city beyond the Oktoberfest is already fast asleep.

‘And by the way,’ after the safe delivery when I stumble out of the car, Ingrid scrolls down the window. ‘About that gorilla...

‘That huge fluffy one, with the leather face?’ I giggle. ‘What’s about him? You fell in love?’

‘No, I mean that human alike creature back at the radio. He is my dad.’

Shit! Shit! Shit!

At home I sneak in the kitchen and finally open the book covers. It takes some time but when it’s done I have an impressive wad in my purse.

Over a thousand marks, I happily think the next day, walking back from bank. Time for some shopping. I had it all planned out. A Sony box for my dad, and another one for John. We all will enjoy the good radio. Spices for Nana, our cooking guru, and for my mum. Rob needs some pairs of light boots. It’s a vitally important thing. Carl... A car on batteries. With a console. And for Kate... ‘

I present my list to Rita. ‘Where I can go for these? Can you mark on the map?’

‘Well,’ she carefully screens the list. ‘For radios definitely the Woolworth...’

‘But Woolworth...’

‘Trust me, no buts here! I’m the shopping expert! There will be the same radios as everywhere, only ten or even twenty percent cheaper. The car... I must admit that my boys already have bought one for yours. So you can get something else instead. Spices... it’s easy, I will take you to Asian shop, they are cheaper there, and for boots... Yes, if you need good ones then we shall go there!’

She passes the list back to me. ‘We can go right now. ‘

And so it’s done – fast and efficient.

‘Your interview is ready and approved. Well done!’ later at night Rita’s husband lays out in front of me a paper. ‘Can you sign here?’

‘What’s that for?’

‘Your royalties. For the interview.’ He passes me an envelope. Five, six... nearly seven hundred DM! That’s unexpected! They not only let you speak and then air it but also pay for that! Wo-hooo! ‘Rita!’ I jump up. ‘I will need your help again!

 ‘What for?’

‘A camera! Olympus. John has been dreaming about one for years. I know even which model he wants! See, it’s adjustable to Soviet lenses. By the way, I also need a ticket, my visa runs out in two days!’

‘There are no any!’ Rita repeats again and again, putting receiver down after another long discussion with the ticket office in Berlin. ‘I can’t help. None!’

‘It will end up badly! They will arrest me!’

‘If there will be no tickets in next few days we shall need to inform the officials but I’m sure they know the situation already. And are dead happy about the overcrowded trains!’

Today is the last day of October and according to the news on TV, situation in Berlin is getting more and more exciting. Families of Soviet Army are filling train after train.

‘Rita, it will not stop soon,’ I announce, watching the evening news. ‘I really must go. I must take a chance.’

‘Okay then, I will get the ticket to Berlin.’ Rita offers and disappears in kitchen.

‘Can I have a word with you?’ her husband quietly asks.

‘Sure. Hope I haven’t messed something up. That gorilla thing with Ingrid.... You needed to warn me.’

‘Rather opposite.’ He sits silent for a while and then quickly spits out. ‘We have a job offer for you. Here.’

‘In voices?’

‘Aha.’

‘Seriously?’

He nods and looks at me.

‘Well, I must think about it. It’s a serious decision.’

‘The salary is very good by any German standards. Good private health insurance. Housing allowance,‘ he carries on like that for a while like these things really matter.

Rob would have access to better doctors, advanced healthcare, a proper wheelchair after all if nothing better. But he would never see his grandparents again. What John would do? He probably will never find a proper job... Language... My German is very basic and John’s is even worse...

Hard, I must think really hard....

I do not want to leave my country now. Everything happens there, right now. Life here, behind the security screens of voices... It feels so behind! So sheltered... Plus that damned geranium pot....

‘No, I will say no. Sorry. Tell the bosses thanks for the offer, I truly fell honoured but no, it’s not for me. This life here would kill me, one way or another. I’m too much of a rebel, a dissident by default.’

I can’t read his face. ‘Sorry. You had no choice while I in contrary still have some... hopefully. Let’s put it like that – keep that place for me, okay? Just for few days, in case they will not let me back in! Then I’ll grab it with both hands.’

He nods. I feel sorry. For myself. It really is a great opportunity. Chance to fly the evil empire and land on such a great job! What else you want, I ask myself again and again, twisting in bed. If not that fat geranium...

Next morning I have real tears in my eyes. It feels like I’m leaving behind true friends. But I must go. I must. The other side of the crossing in Berlin feels like a madhouse. The ticket office is closed and a crowd there looks hopeless. But... I’m sure there is a way!

‘Where is the head of this train?’ I demand, standing on the steps into engine department.

‘Somewhere there!’ the locoman with tired shoulders waves at the back of engine, not even raising his head to look at me.

I knock on the doors and burst in without an invitation. Two men and a woman, all in Soviet train company’s uniforms, are drinking some kind of tea. The smell in the compartment tells me that they are topping it up with decent amount of brandy. Three pairs of surprised eyes are gazing at me like a ghost of some kind has appeared.

‘Who is the boss of this train?’ I demand. This is not the right time for politeness.

‘Me.’ the eldest raises up. ‘So what?’

‘There is the thing. My visa ran out already yesterday and there are no tickets.’

‘Stop, woman! I can’t do anything about it.’

‘Well then. If I will need to leave this train I will go right back to the West and ask for a political asylum. I mean it! Decide! Now and here.’

The man shrinks in size by half. The horror of a political scandal! The fact that without a valid visa nobody will let me back in, somehow slips past his mind. ‘Take it easy, take it easy, I’m sure we shall find a place for you.’ I can hear a panicky note in his voice. Good!

Of course, there is a place. Not only a place, a whole compartment. While the train is really tightly packed, I lay happily in the compartment alone, listening the wheels rolling me back towards the Soviet border. Luxury! It’s 2nd November.

 Chapter  26

Andrew appears out of the blue, without a notice. It’s quite late when he knocks at our door. ‘Folks, sorry for intrusion! I’m right off the train from Moscow! Can I have some water?’ he shouts from the doorstep, pushing in a big cardboard box.

‘Cold, lukewarm or hot?’ I ask as I know that Andrew himself probably has not had drank water at all since he left the kindergarten.

‘Cold will do. Is the bath empty?’

 All three children are out of beds already – Andrew’s voice is the best alarm clock in the world. I put the kettle on the gas and open the tap in the bath.

Andrew removes the tangled hemp ropes from the box and opens the top. Children froze in anticipation. Andrew dives in the box, makes a dramatic pause and then drags out a sleepy goose and tucks it under the left arm. Then he repeats the box diving to fetch another one out of the box. ‘Ta-daa!’

 I sigh. I like roasted goose. I really do, and it’s November, St. Martins day is close when a nice, fatty roasted goose is really appreciated on our table, but I prefer buying one in the market when it’s dead already. I hate plucking, especially in the apartment when you can find unexpected feathers in the tea-caddy even six months later.

‘They will recover in the bath in no time, do not worry!’ Andrew reads my sigh wrong. ‘This pair is going to Holland next week. You don’t mind, do you? This is a very good, established breeding pair, raised in the captivity. Just few pairs of these in Europe, you know.’

We both nod peacefully. It’s not so bad then, we can bear with a pair of geese in the bath for a week. It’s just a week after all. There is only one little problem – the two cages in the corner of the dining room with dozen quails one of my friends asked to look after until she will return from the holidays. I really do hope that they will tolerate each other as well as the raven that right now lives under the table.

While I make coffee, Andrew stretches legs under the dining room table. ‘Hi, Joachim!’ He takes out of the bag a bottle of gin, then another bottle and another; and then a wee bottle of tonic. It’s obvious that there is no need for a coffee. At least for him.

‘It’s so good to be back in Europe, you know! Real Beefeater in the corner shop and no queues!’ he takes a big sip of gin out of the juice glass. ‘Now you three! I have a little present for you!’ Andrew pulls out of his bag a pillow case while children gather closer in dead silence.

‘Here he is!’ Andrew takes out the little crocodile, maybe just a foot long, ‘be gentle, it’s a baby, about 25 days since hatched. ‘

‘Wow!’

If the geese were sleepy after the trip in the dark box, the crocodile definitely is not. Maybe he dislikes the Russian train service, maybe he is a teetotaller and has objection against the company of too many gin bottles, but he definitely is not a happy bunny.

‘Always hold the tail, that’s the way!’ Andrew puts the crocodile in Carl’s hands. ‘See? One hand around his chest, another one around the tale, about in the middle and he will be calm! Just put him in a bowl or something, a puddle of lukewarm water will cheer him up.’

Now I have my bath occupied by geese and the kitchen sink by the crocodile to be cheered up.

‘See, it’s Nile crocodile, they grow up to nine meters or so but if you will not overfeed him right now, he will reach five feet in only several years. Do not worry! He should be manageable for few next years and then we shall think about it. It was a bargain in Moscow, only a dollar per centimetre. Tomorrow just fetch him some guppies from aquarium, he does not need much food.’

‘Anything else?’ I whisper in building despair.

‘No. The monkeys I left in Moscow. Sold and done!’

‘Monkeys?’

‘Yes, I just returned from Georgia.’

‘Well, there are probably monkeys in Georgia, who I am to object, but as far as I know, it’s quite a hot spot there right now. There’s some kind of like a war going on, at least news are full of it. Why you went there?’

‘Oh, see, because there is the war! Up in mountains there was a lab, they were doing some research or something and when the war started, they just pissed off and left monkeys behind. You know, some quite rare ones. So I tried to go and fetch them.’

‘Aha?’ I watch Andrew topping up his glass again.

‘It was some fun, trust me. I arrived from the Russian side, but monkeys were on the other side.’ Andrew opens the second bottle of gin. ‘So I had no choice than to go to the front commander and explain him the situation. Well, of course, I had some bottles with me so we had few toasts for the peace, friendship of nations and monkeys. Then the commander called the commander of the opposition and explained the situation. “You know, here is a man, he must go into the mountains to get the monkeys, so we should let him go through.” No problems. Next morning at eleven both sides announced the cease fire and I was escorted through the front line with best wishes. The opposition soldiers met me and lead me right to their commander. Of course, I had few bottles of vodka with me. So we had some toasts for the peace, friendship of nations and monkeys.’

‘And?

‘The rest was easy. The commander appointed to me ten soldiers to help with chase and off we went. See, they had escaped from the lab, the ones which were still alive but they were no a challange. So we picked the ones I wanted, put them in the sacks and went back. The commander was already waiting. So we had few more toasts for the monkeys, friendship of nations and the peace in the world. And then he called to the opposition commander. ‘Did our man get the monkeys?’ ‘Of course, genotsvale, of course! Yes, sure, then at eleven tomorrow!’ And that was it. The next morning a cease fire was announced and I crossed the front line with all my monkeys. Soldiers helped to carry them to the line and then the opposition platoon took them over. Few more drinks with the commander for the monkeys, friendship of nations and the peace in the world and off I went back to Moscow.’

When laughter dies down, Andrew takes another sip. ‘Now I’m planning the trip to Chechnya – there are some very endangered species of mountain goats and I have a good buyer for these. Want to join?’

It was a tempting offer, truly a tempting one. The blood of journalist was boiling. You know, going to Chechnya as a journalist was basically a mission impossible right now so going under the cover of a wildlife expedition like that would be a great opportunity. But... I have three children and there is the war. That’s one. The other, more serious problem is all these toasts for the peace, friendship of nations and probably goats. I will be not able to handle that. I simply can’t handle alcohol in any amounts. So no, I do not qualify as an animal collector. Not at all.

‘Nope. Thanks, but no, I can’t go. See, now I need to look after the crocodile.’

On 9th November the wall, dividing both Germanies, finally collapses. I watch on news the excited journalists and ecstatic crowds behind them while cutting and nailing boards for the crocodile house. I feel envious a bit – I missed such a party by one week only.

‘Pass that jar to me, please!’ Children are helping, of course. Have you had built a house for the crocodile? There are so many things to take into the account. The space, the heat, the light, ventilation, the water... I have just my two hands. And an old cupboard with sliding glass doors, few empty glass jars, the sheet of plastic and a bag of cement.

I arrange the jars, cover them with the plastic sheet and then pour all over the whole base the cement. Thus there will be a waterproof uneven surface with lower part as a pool and top corner for the colder days where our baby can sunbathe under the lamp.

‘It looks awful, mum!’ Carl is not impressed. ‘He will break his legs there!’

‘Just wait! That hole we’ll fill with soil and put some indoor plants in,’ I explain. ‘And this hole is for the aquarium heater. Osiris can’t have a cold bath. Just wait and see.’

Osiris is how children named the crocodile.

‘Look at his teeth!’ Carl lifts crocodile up in air right into my face so I can see. They are cute, indeed. Like somebody has stacked up a pile of empty ice cream cones upside down.

‘Lucky crocodiles! They do not need to wear braces!’ Kate hates wearing her braces.

‘Guys, remember, these teeth must be respected! Right now he absolutely harmless baby, but it will change in no time!’

‘Do you think so, mum?’ Carl stands in the middle of the room, holding Osiris in his palm comfortably while Kate and Rob are gently patting him. ‘He is very friendly.’

On 18th November, our Independence Day, over a half million people gather together on the Embankment for a new meeting. For independent Latvia where with usual speeches and letters to Gorbachev and Bush are adopted. It’s still only empty gestures, of course, but it feels like we are trying at least.

‘They can’t go bigger that this, these meetings?’ John laughs, taking of his jacket and assessing the new Crocodile house in our dining room. ‘We are what, nation of two point five millions? With half of them being Russian speakers! Half a million means that every third Latvian was there! Bed tied grannies and newborn babies included! Gosh, it was cold there!’

‘Do you think People’s Front exaggerates the numbers?’

‘They? Never! Quite opposite!’ John smiles, assessing the sliding doors. ‘Well done. It’s posh. He will like there. Have you listened radio?’

There had been talks that Gorby might visit the White House. Our exile community has started a postcard campaign, sending reminders to Mr Bush that US still do not recognize Baltic incorporation into USSR and that he must at least get a promise from Gorbachev not to use weapons to suppress the independence movement in Baltic.

‘Not a fat chance, of course, but at least these are his voters.’

‘I suppose. It’s Washington, not Moscow. How you did all this?’ John checks the concrete.

I can see that John is impressed with my construction. The ugly cement is covered with white sand, plants are in and Osiris seems to enjoy his new environment.

‘Even some guppies in the pool!’

‘It’s not for display, it’s his dinner. Right now it’s ample for him.’ The only thing I’m not happy with is the ugly hole on the top. ‘Ventilation system is very primitive still.’

Finally at the beginning of December Gorby and Bush meet in Malta. Jubilate, world! The Cold War is over! The media all over the World are ecstatic while we, looking at headlines, are less enthusiastic. For what price? Bush is still very silent regarding Baltic, very.

‘Seems like there is not that big difference between Washington and Moscow then. Oh, well, illusions, illusions... Pass me the platter, please.’ John sighs, lifting a fork.

Andrey Sacharow dies on the 14^th of December. We mourn. One very loud and strong voice, calling for democracy in Russia, is gone.

Christmas finally brings the first, still small, but a victory in Moscow. The Supreme Council finally votes the Ribbentrop-Molotov pact as illegal and invalids it. These are superb news.