Chapters 1987

Part one - 1987

Chapter 1

‘I need to pee!’

‘Great!’ I definitely can’t let Carl back in the house by himself. He has a quite serious predilection for destruction. I can’t leave my spot here either, not right now. ‘Well, do it, then.’ I bend down and unzip his trousers. ‘Nobody will see you.’

Here we stand together on the derelict concrete steps of the porch – my husband John and I and both our boys. After the rain the air is still misty, and full of the last lilac scent drifting over the puddles which cover the countless potholes on our neglected suburban blind alley.

‘Soon?’ Carl, who will be four this autumn, jumps up and down pulling on dad’s arm. He’s the hyperactive one while Rob, our youngest, is a much calmer child.

‘Yes,’ I nod, ‘they called about an hour ago. They’re at the club, they’re leaving soon.’ Oh, I’m nearly as impatient as boys are. We spent all morning killing time together by sorting out the toys for the big event. The boys agreed that all the small ones or with tiny parts must be packed in the box and put away for a few months. We don’t want any accidents.

‘How big is he?’ Carl stretches his arms. ‘This?’

I have no idea. I really have no idea how big a five-weeks-old Saint Bernard puppy is.

I always wanted a dog. Especially a St. Bernard. I was about eight when I saw one for the first time and since then it has been my dream. I could never convince my parents to have one. My mum would have liked a dog, but father was implacable. Later, when I was a teen, he explained to me that he simply couldn’t tolerate any dog nearby. That he was frightened of them and always would be. I understood. My father was arrested by KGB when he was still in college and sent to one of the prison camps in Siberia where he was supposed to dig coal for the next twenty-five years or die. And there he saw some of his close friends being torn apart by guard dogs. It left a few wounds that never healed so, yes, I understood. So when my children started to ask for a dog (and that was the first thing they started to ask for) I was determined. They would get the best dog in the world!

It wasn’t easy. In the Soviet universe Saint Bernards are still a rarity, not the usual lot like collies, German Shepherds or poodles. But now, after almost two years on the club’s waiting list, we are finally there. Waiting for our puppy to arrive.

‘What car did you said they have?’ John points to the end of the street where the dark green Lada is turning in. Our street is tiny, and few people have cars here. ‘It must be them,’ he says.

We watch the car approaching slowly, trying to avoid the biggest potholes. Finally it stops right at our feet, splashing some water on our shoes. I step back to the grass.

‘Hello!’ The elderly lady calls, climbing out of the car. ‘Here he is, your boy!’

She opens the back door and lifts out something fluffy. ‘Carefully!’ she tells me. ‘One hand under the chest, other must always support the bum! Like with a baby.’ She puts the puppy into my arms. He is cream colour, almost white, and looks more like a newborn seal than a pup.

I savour the moment in full. This is just perfect! I mean the whole thing! My life. A husband. Two children (so far, of course. We have bigger plans!). And a dream puppy. How could life get any better?

‘A cup of tea?’ I offer with a trembling voice, unwillingly dragging my face out of the fluffy bundle.

‘No, we must rush, two more to deliver.’ The breeder points to the back of the car. She passes me some papers. ‘This is the club card, this is for the pedigree, and you must sign on this one... and this one as well... And this is the current feeding schedule.’

While holding tight the puppy with one hand I fetch the envelope with money, sign the papers and scan the typewriter sheet with instructions.

 ‘Mum, can I hold him?’ Carl pulls my arm. ‘Mu-u-m!’

 ‘What’s his name?’ John quietly chuckles.

I look into the papers. Keg Kennel de Salto. Yes, he definitely looks like a keg.

‘And seems that this keg has a lot of beer to offer!’ says my husband, carefully lifting the puppy out of the puddle he just created and places him in the dry spot next to Rob.

‘Ke-yy!’ Rob gently slides his hand through the fluff and then lies on the grass, putting thin arms around the puppy’s neck. ‘Ke-yyy!’ Yes, Rob has speech problems.  He talks a lot but we can’t understand most of it.

‘Let’s go in! Dinner time!’

About an hour later when boys are tucked into bed and Keggy is settled on his new blanket I can finally relax. The window to the garden is wide open and the fragrance of the first lilies drift around the room.

This is the nicest time of the day, the adult time, when I sit with John at our large desk, sipping evening tea, sharing thoughts and plans. We both are still quite young. John is twenty-eight, I’m twenty-five. Well, John’s real name is Janis, but everybody, even his mother, calls him John. And his nick for me is Mo. We both are quite merry artists. We have everything we want – each other, our children, enough money and enough freedom – especially freedom – is a big deal in our Soviet reality, but we manage to stay the lucky outsiders.

‘Hiya!’ A tousled dark head peaks in through the window. Gunnar! I must admit, I’m not ecstatic to see him right now. It’s past 10 pm already and the day was tiring enough. But - noblesse oblige - I drag myself to the kitchen to put the kettle on and heat up some food, leaving John to deal with the guest. There are still two pork chops left and plenty of boiled potato to roast.

When I return, they both are really excited.

‘Will they go for it?’

‘Definitely! Despite the fucking Tour de France he managed to set up.’ Gunnar is bouncing on his chair with all eagerness of his eighteen years.

This is a group of suicidal oddballs we had been hearing rumours for a while now, the dissident group Helsinki, named after a civil rights conference in Finland. One must be utterly mad to step out and openly poke into the Soviet eye even if there are some weird changes going on – perestroika and glasnost. The Tour de France is the genius idea of our city mayor to block access to the Freedom Monument – the aim of tomorrow’s demonstration.

‘Two years ago we got Gorbachev,’ John chuckles, eyes sparkling. ‘Last year – Chernobyl. What’s the next disaster?’

‘Well, Gorbachev’s perestroika!’ Gunnar tosses back his curls. ‘All these attempts to vitalize the dead whale called Soviets seems like a bigger disaster than the nuclear accident!’

The door bursts open, letting in Charlie and Vil, Charlie’s little brother. Goodbye my early night!

‘Hi, folks! Having a great time, I see. Without us?’ Charlie is in his usual ‘I’m a bad boy’ mode which is only a well-polished performance. Charlie’s beard is always perfectly trimmed and his jeans have immaculate straight creases.

A minute later the door opens again and Raul drags in a shy young man. ‘This is my new friend Ulan, from Uzbekistan. Please, honour and love him!’

Charlie is the striving artist, mostly marine paintings. Raul, his best friend, is a very talented graphic artist with one little problem – he is a druggie. Vil... Vil is Vil, Charlie’s little brother. Who is Ulan I have no idea.

Ulan shakes hands, and smiling diligently hands me a box of sweets and a melon. Such melons grow only in Uzbekistan – huge, sweet and so aromatic that my mouth waters just thinking about it.

‘Tea or coffee?’ I ask suspecting that Ulan, being from Uzbekistan, might prefer tea, but I’m wrong.

‘Coffee, please, if you can.’

‘Sorry,’ Charlie tries to apologise. ‘We just walked past, and you know how these two are....’ He nods at Raul and Vil. ‘Complete brats!’.

‘C’mon! Remember Brezhnev’s era!

 Raul is already into politics, gesturing like a madman. ‘At the end it did get as vibrant and progressive as the Egyptian pyramids!’

‘Then we got that era of posh state funerals when everyone managed to vanish before even noticing the current state of economy...’ John smirks over his beer bottle. Without beer he would probably manage as much as “yes” or “no” or will simply grunt under his breath. John is not a public speaker without a beer even when among friends.

Charlie pulls out a chair and collapses in it. ‘And now – our disastrous Misha.’

‘Misha?’ Confused, Ulan draws his eyebrows. ‘You mean Mikhail Gorbachev? You are so lucky, you can despise them while we.... We hate them!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘See, when they took over here, you had it all already – hospitals and schools, machinery and... just everything. Before the war you were like any Western country, right?’

We nod. Ulan has done his homework.

‘We, on other hand, with all our ancient culture, we were stuck somewhere in medieval times... So we are obliged to be grateful to the Soviets for many things. Reason to hate, isn’t it?’

‘Probably,’ I say. Who I am to judge. Hate is such a strong word. Do I have strong feelings for the Soviets? Nope. He is right. There is a mixture of amusement and derision, sorrow and mocking, but no hatred.

‘What’s going at your end then?’

‘About the same as here. “Nationalistic separation tendencies” as they say. It’s complicated.’

‘Yeah, I presume things are different everywhere.’

There are no more pork chops left. I put some potatoes on and make an omelette with some wild mushrooms out of the jar. It’s not like a party when you invite someone and then try your best with food... This is just our usual ‘drop-in’ routine and nobody expects a grand meal. The melon will be a hit anyway.

‘Stop mocking Gorbachev! He tries his best.’ I lay out the dishes. The talk is getting deeper, helped by more beer.

‘He has charmed you, hasn’t he?’ Raul teases, raising his bottle. ‘Admit that!’

‘Well, he’s the first of all the communist party mummies whose wife is fit to be seen in public', isn’t he? And she looks not one iota less than Nancy Reagan. Actually, they both look quite similar. How’s that for a change?’ It’s so much fun, all this mocking.

‘You think Misha’s wife will save the whole country? He needs radical reforms to save us from the Comparty’s senile bureaucracy!’

‘Don’t be silly!’ John slams his fist on the desk. ‘Socialism and communism look good on paper only. It’s so much against human nature that it can’t succeed!’

‘Welcome, my friend, to the show which never ends...’ Raul raises his arms, flapping them like wings. ‘Get on with it!’

‘We’re the unlucky ones to witness it dragging on its last legs!’ John reaches for a sweet in the box. ‘Listen to this... Brezhnev had brows, Misha has rows, If it all grows...’ Through the laughter John solemnly recites one of his cheeky verses.

 ‘Yeah, they lost the plot long ago,‘ Ulan nods knowingly, sipping coffee. ‘Maybe Gorby will succeed, who knows. His perestroika looks promising.‘

‘And what’s good about it? Every institution is so confused right now! They just juggle, trying to keep every decision in the air like a hot potato hoping it will cool off before it’s dished out. I can’t get even my studio lease agreement signed!’ Charlie is seriously annoyed.

Tomorrow’s demonstration is a prime example of the general confusion. A few years ago all dissidents would be neatly tucked in cells right after the first attempt to form any formal group, and their names would float around the gossip grapevines instead of being debated by officials in front of the media to allow or to ban this anti-Soviet demonstration.

With all the banter, Keggy wakes up, climbs out of his bed and before I manage to fetch him, makes an impressive puddle in the middle of the room.

‘What a cutie!’ Gunnar forgets about politics and food, and bends down. It takes quite a time of silly baby talk, a bowl of mince meat and another puddle until our minds can go back on track.

‘So, what have you decided about cycling?’ Charlie leans forward in his chair.

The current city mayor is into the economic side of perestroika, but at the same time a dedicated supporter of the old school communists – quite a schizophrenic combination. So instead of making a decision to allow the demonstration or to ban it, he organised a sport event for cyclists through the city and around the monument, thus denying access for “traffic safety”.

‘Are you coming?’ Gunnar waves with a gherkin, turning to John.

‘If I have time, I’ll pop out for a moment, but I doubt it.’ John plays undecided.

‘Don’t be such a wuss!’ Vil sounds as excited as Gunnar. ‘It’ll be fun!’

‘You know, kids and the new pup... I really do not know...’ I join in the cool game. Of course, we will be there tomorrow. That goes without saying... especially without saying it to Gunnar. We must be a bit careful. See, he’s gay. Don’t get me wrong, we are not homophobic. Gunnar is a great guy, but you learn certain skills to survive in the Soviet system. One of them – keeping your mouth shut even among the best friends, just in case. We do suspect that some from our circle are reporting to the KGB, and Gunnar might be one of them, simply because he is gay.

There are not many who would volunteer to become KGB informers. Thus different hooks – like better career options or permission for a trip abroad – are used to get people involved. It’s nothing extraordinary; it’s simply the way KGB can keep an eye on the population with limited resources. Gay people are an easy target because the Soviet Criminal Code awards serious imprisonment for gays. Since his mother died, Gunnar is a guardian of his younger sister and brother, so for him there is no choice. We really feel sorry for him but we have no choice either.

‘Listen, I just heard another bloody good joke.’ Raul announces. ‘You must tell it to somebody with weaker nerves over the phone. You start like that: ‘One tourist walks over the hill and notices a red city under the red sky in the distance. He walks into the city, and everything is red – the streets, the walls, the humans.... everything!’

‘So far sounds promising!’ John puts down his beer. ‘And?’

‘Tourist walks into a cafe and orders a coffee. A red waiter serves red coffee in a red cup. He drinks it and waves for the bill.” Then,’ Raul is sniggering quietly, ‘you tell it slowly, in a dramatic voice now, building for the grand finale. The waiter brings the bill. But this waiter is green! ‘Why you are green?’ asks the tourist surprised.” Raul leans forward. ‘Now keep a pause... Let the person at the other end of the line dread for the worst...at least for a while, and then scream the answer for the waiter: “Because I’m from a different joke!” Raul leans back in the chair and bursts out laughing.

It’s way past midnight when this lot finally leaves. Even Fitzy, our cat, had slipped in through open window and settled in Carl’s bed.

‘Tomorrow, whatever will happen at the monument, definitely will make history.’ John mumbles, counting the film rolls. In the past few years John has become addicted to photography and never leaves home without a camera.

After some thought John takes his beloved Kiev out of the camera bag and replaces it with an old FED. ‘If there are clashes with the police, I won’t risk my best camera. The FED will have to do. Know why?’

‘Okay, why?’

‘This camera is named after the founder and the first boss of KGB, Felix Edmundovich Dzerzhinsky.’

I nod. Irony has always been John’s strong point. I collect empty bottles in the bin and carry dishes to the kitchen. ‘I’ll take the boys to Nana. And the pup. So if we won’t meet at the monument, you fetch us there.’

Suddenly Carl raises his head from the pillow. ‘By the way,’ his sleepy voice drifts across the room, ‘since we got that dog now, it’s time to start thinking about a horse. You know, if we can clear all the junk out of the garage, he’ll have plenty of space there...’

Chapter 2 

The next morning is quite overwhelming with the new baby on the board, new feeding schedule and never-ending puddles. Keggy may be the cutest thing in the world, but clearly needs some potty training to come.

My boys are quite ready for the puppy, I think proudly, watching them carefully patting fluffy head. Of course, I must crash some of their dreams right from the beginning like, no, puppy can’t jump through the window; no, he can’t pull the cart yet and no, humans can’t eat breakfast from puppy’s bowl – but all in all they are ready. Even white rat Albert, our other pet, finds a positive side of the new arrival – he starts to enjoy looking for the leftovers in Keggy’s bowl when been let out of cage for his ‘daily walk’ around the room.

The breakfast takes me back into reality – after Keggy is done with his morning bowl, fridge is empty. Neither meat nor cottage cheese, and only two eggs left – shopping time!

It is not clear if Soviet economy is still struggling trying to overcome the damages of WWII or starting to loose in the struggle with the spiralling cold war, but one is clear – the great victory of the communism seems far, far away. We are still at the stage of “advancing socialism” which means that shopping is quite an adventurous journey through the empty shop shelves.

One day you might return with load off eggs or some beef, the other – string of toilet paper rolls or bag of coffee, or – with nothing. If there is something, queues at the shops are enormous and people have learned to grab the place in the queue first and ask for what the queue is for later. Simple logic – if there is a queue, there must be something.

Sometimes optimistic people form long queues just in expectation for a delivery van to arrive in hope that something more desirable than salt will be put out on shelves. Actually even the word “shopping” itself has disappeared from daily conversations – now it’s all about “bartering” – one way or another.

‘Where did I leave the leash yesterday?’ Gosh! This will be some problem – pup is way too small to walk on leash right now. But do I have a choice? I can’t leave him at home alone. And not only because I do not have diving equipment, but mostly because I have a cunning plan!

To survive, a kind of a secondary economy had been created over the years behind the government’s nose. The survival instinct is stronger than any politics – if we can’t buy a damn thing, we WILL find ways to get what we need. Everybody learns to make so called “friendships of influence”. If you are not a vegan, the butcher was your most tempting friend. If you had a car, keeping the car mechanic happy was much more important than your mother-in-law, and even more - every mother-in-law fully accepted that. You still have some teeth? Then become the best friend of the dentist! Only then you had a hope to have a roast for your Christmas party, the car not stuck in garage for months waiting for a missing spare part to be produced in vast future somewhere far out in Siberia and your teeth attended to before the denture is the only option left if you can find one.

Of course, butchers are no fools so they expect some reward in turn for their friendship. There is always much more money floating around than goods, so simply offering some extra money is never good enough. If you are a car mechanic, you make an equal friendship with the butcher, but, for example, the hairdresser has less to offer – maybe an unseen bottle of some shampoo from the coveted West or fitting your wife in the last minute for a hairdo on New Year’s Eve. As a result of this economy, if there was an Opera premiere completely sold out or our ice-hockey team had an important game, you knew without a doubt that the best seats were filled with butchers and car mechanics, or their best friends.

This parallel economy works quite well – despite empty shops, fridges of the nation are relatively full. Even I had some ‘contacts’ but as artists we are at the complete bottom end of this food-chain so I needed to find a creative solution to meet the family’s meat consumption needs that has doubled overnight. Keggy might be just a pup but he definitely knows how to eat.

What choices I have? Walking to the shop with unpredictably leaky puppy in one hand and pushing the buggy with another while trying to keep my three year old Carl under control will be complicated enough so only two nearest shops is an option right now. In first one the lady in the meat section always makes a fuss over my boys, but I have no idea whether she likes dogs or not.

In the other shop the butcher is a big, mean guy, without even a hint of a smile on his flat face. But... I once saw him walking a dog – huge black Russian terrier, looking as mean as his owner. Maybe there’s an opportunity, to pull the strings of the dog owner’s heart. One can always check.

The shop is deserted. Just as I hoped for. Sadly the meat counter looks just as deserted. All I can see on the shelves is muddy sunflower oil. Well, there's lard. Wrapped up packages on one end of the counter and a big lump to make cuts from. I ask for a cut. Perhaps while he's working I might have an opening.

‘Hello!’ I try out my best cheerful voice.

The unwelcoming grin at butcher’s face doesn’t need further explanations. I humbly ask for that damn lard lifting the puppy from one arm to another. And the miracle happens - butcher spots Keggy. The change of his facial expression tells me I have hit the jackpot!

‘Hey! What we have here? Such a cute baby! How old is he? Two months?’ Butcher forgets about lard, runs out of the stand and is slobbering all over Keggy. I patiently feed him with all the information he is interested right now – yes, it’s a St. Bernard, pedigree, just five weeks old, we live nearby and of course, I had seen his wonderful dog. I even manage to ask about his dog’s show achievements and then few deliberately stupid questions about its feeding regime like how much pork he gives to his dog.

‘No, you can’t feed this fella with pork at all,’ butcher screams out in horror, ‘It’s no good for the dogs, especially for large breeds like ours!’

Gottcha! Now we are talking about our breeds! In few minutes, even without asking, he offers to supply my baby with minced beef on regular basic so he can keep an eye on puppy’s development. He disappears in the door behind the counter and I hear the unsteady roar of the mincing machine. Few moments later the butcher is back and, cautiously looking around, with some conspiracy passes me a package of something, wrapped in several layers of the butter-paper. ‘Three twenty, please; it will keep him happy until the next delivery on Thursday. Come over about the same time, if you can! I’ll keep something especially for him!’ Butcher carefully rubs under Keggy’s chin, putting money in the counter. ‘What a pleasure to have such an addition to our neighbourhood!’

I thank him, pay and ask his opinion about the nearest vets available while tucking my package in the stroller’s back pocket. Another ten minutes later I make an escape with excuse that puppy’s getting restless and puddle on the shop’s floor would not be welcomed.

At home I check out the score. Beef is perfect – until Thursday there will be plenty  – and not only for Keggy!  While pup, exhausted, collapses in his bed, Carl appears with an urgent question.

‘Mum, show me how to bang the nail at the end of the stick!’

In one hand he holds a ten inch nail, in other a wooden bar, dismantled from his bed.

‘Well, just take the hammer and bang the nail in. Easy! Have you lost your hammer?’

‘No, mum, you don’t understand! That way the sharp end will be IN; I need it sticking OUT!’ My three year old impatiently stumps his foot.

‘And may I ask why you need the sharp end out?’

‘Why? Mum, you are silly! You said that there might be clashes with police! I need something!’

‘What are you talking about! We are taking Keggy to Nana’s today!’

‘Yeah, sure, you just do not want to take me to that demonstration, mother!’ Carl is deeply upset. ‘I heard about it all last night! I’m stronger than Rob and I can help!’

‘You’ll never use it against anybody! Now put the nail back in the box and get ready. Quick! Politics are no fun, trust me!’

Today is June the 14th, the day of great deportation to Siberia. On this night in 1941 Soviet forces stacked thousands of innocent people in the cattle trucks without even a formal accusation. The whole families, young and old, or babies, were sent away from the newly created Soviet border, to keep the area safer for the approaching war with Nazi. Or at least that was the excuse for it.

Soviets mostly picked up on intellectuals – teachers, doctors, the army and police officers. The threat, ones that might try to oppose the new rule. Many died on their way without proper food and water, and were buried along the railway line on their way to Siberia. John’s grandmother, who’s only crime was being a rather successful farmer, was among these who perished on the way and we have no idea where her grave might be. We couldn’t even try to look for it. Many died later in Siberia, when they were kicked out in frozen tundra in as little as summer dresses without any tools or food.

There was second big deportation right after the war, along with well rolling Soviet court system, sentencing people for whatever the crime was needed. My father was one of these – his crime was as big as publishing school’s newspaper. Twenty-five years prison sentence.

There had been different estimations but we believe that overall a quarter of our nation were axed by Soviet repressions one way or another. On Soviet official history such date or event was never mentioned, it was only remembered silently by those who survived and their families.

Freedom Monument, where today’s demonstration is planned, also has a special place in our hearts. It was built to honour country’s independence from Russian Empire we managed to get on November 18, 1918 and these, who fought for it. It was built on whole nation’s donations in thirties and miraculously survived Soviet era.

Thus even the mere idea of laying flowers at this monument is a very brave poking with both fingers in Soviet eyes. The question of the day is – will they really let it happen? I don’t think so, even with all this new perestroika. But anyway, something will be happening there and I must see it. I suspect that I‘ll be not the only nosy one there.

‘Carl, do not rush, Keggy’s legs are much shorter than yours.’ I push Rob in his buggy through the park, enjoying the nice afternoon while Carl tugs on Keggy’s leash. ‘Don’t pull!’

At the beginning of perestroika the last hope to see communism or developed socialism has left even the most devoted communists so perestroika bought some hope for them. But some changes were in the air already before that. It is impossible to define the beginning of the changes, but for me it was the latest years of the Brezhnev era when I noticed that more and more anti-Soviet jokes started to float around. Of course, there still was the joke about Brezhnev’s meeting with Nixon who announces that he likes to collect the jokes about him and now he has three volumes already full. “Me too, me too,” responds Brezhnev, “I have five prison camps full of them!”, but at least it was a joke. The overwhelming fear of Stalin’s era has gone into ridicule. Now we are laughing even about the fear itself. Of course, the KGB “boys in grey” are still floating around and newspapers are still full of Soviet crap, but the changes are a foot.

John’s parents live in a posh apartment block in the centre of city between two parks, built in 1930’s with only one minor disadvantage – no lift. So I need to carry Rob, puppy and buggy right up to the third floor. Impossible, right?

‘Oh, such a cutie!’ Nana is right all over the puppy when I finally open the doors, quite breathless. ‘What’s his name? Can he eat some meatballs for lunch? What time it needs to be walked?’

Nana has been my saviour each and every time when I need a baby sitter. Nana is always at home, always available, and always keen to look after them. After all she is a retired primary school teacher. “Do you understand,” I remember her worried voice few years ago, “that Carl is eighteen months old now and still can’t recite a simplest poem? John knew at least ten by then!” Worrying, isn’t it? Well, I must admit that now, at nearly four, Carl still hates poems and hasn’t learned even a single one. But on the other hand, he does at least half of primary school math, just for fun. So I’m not particularly worried.

‘Right,’ after the mandatory cup of tea I cut Nana’s current monologue, ‘I must go. Right now.’

Nana’s verbal abilities are inexhaustible and if not cut abruptly, she will carry nonstop about yesterday’s newspaper, yoga, sunspots, cooking, Mayan calendar... You name it. The only problem – she makes such a mess of it all (except cooking) that after ten minutes all you want is to plug up your ears and scream in despair.

‘Yes, I must go,’ I repeat when Nana finally stops for a moment. ‘Sorry, no walkies for the pup, but hopefully there will be just few puddles until I’ll be back.’

Cycling tournament at the bottom of Freedom Monument looks a complete mess but cheering crowds are all around. Only few look like real sport fans; the rest are impatiently circling around the park with happy but somehow shy smiles like they can’t believe themselves for being so silly, hoping to whiteness the impossible to happen.

So far perestroika has been a lot of talk only, but this one might be the first proof that something is changing for real. Or not. It depends. The density of the police in uniforms and “boys in gray” is very high so it looks more likely towards the ‘not’ bit, but they also look somehow confused and somehow concerned. What they are waiting for? A command from Moscow hasn’t arrived yet?

And then suddenly, half past six, the crowd parts like Red Sea for Moses. And there they come. Just a few people. Six? Seven? Some very young, some with gray hair already, but all very concentrated, very brave, beyond sanity. The susurration of whispers that few of the group members already had been detained today flows through the shocked crowd.

Eva at the front is wearing the national Latvian costume. The roses they carry... they are impersonation of our red-white-red national flag, banned since Soviets took over. We are so desperate that we watch The Sound of Music again and again just to see that huge Austrian flag baron fon Trapp hangs out to honour our own, very similar looking flag. Now I am witnessing something much better than a Hollywood story – I’m seeing something that my parents never dreamed to see.

Crowd is getting emotional, shy tears are creeping up, blurring the sight. The brave slowly approach the monument and solemnly lay the flowers under the words engraved at the bottom of the monument – for Freedom and Fatherland. People burst into applause when both youngsters at the front take out and unroll a long poster “For the victims of 14th June”.

After all my dim and hopeless twenty-five years under Soviet rule I feel high, really high – I have seen a miracle. It seems like people around me do have similar feelings. Suddenly the inert crowd changes as one unit, tuned on the same wave. We have seen the miracle. One after another new and new people step out of the crowd and lay flowers at the bottom of the monument. More flowers. More people...

How many are here? Thousands. Two? Three? I have no idea. Crowd is overwhelming. It is incredible. Fantastic!

Suddenly somebody taps on my shoulder. It’s John, putting his camera down. ‘Look there!’

Oh, shit! There with absolute innocence all over her face, comes Nana, pushing Rob with one hand and holding Carl with other. Thanks God, at least puppy has been left at home.

‘I just wanted to see what all this is about,’ says Nana, ‘so I did.”

Yes, okay, but ... ‘Nana, if something happened? With two small children? Why do you think we left them at home?’

‘With me? Nothing will happen with me!’ Nana bangs on her chest, ‘Who would dare upset the survivor of the siege of Leningrad!?!’

I look at her lapel. Indeed, she has attached a bunch of her war medals there.

‘It took me some time to dig them out.’ She giggles. ‘I didn’t find them all anyway, but these’ll do. Do not mess with heroic grandmother who is taking her two precious grandchildren to watch the cycling tournament!’ Nana snorts with contempt. ‘At least I can speak proper Russian! Not like these... mongrels!’ She refers to the fact that her Russian, spoken in Leningrad over fifty years ago, is top-notch in comparison with the usual Soviet usage of Russian language.

Despite Nana’s confidence I’m furious and so is John. Nana herself has poorly legs thanks to the same siege of Leningrad when a beam from a collapsing house crashed on her feet and they didn’t heal right. Soviet wartime medicine during the Second World War was quite simple for civilians then – heal yourself or die. If authorities would take an action now, there would be no escape with a buggy in this crowd.

‘Promise, you’ll not do it again, wouldn’t you?’ John exclaims in a very stern voice.

Rob is sitting in his buggy, happily clapping hands, and then with passionate anger points with his little finger out towards the nearest police uniform. ‘ ’o-ok, the-s a chekist!’ he screams, ‘And ano-e’ un!’

 The only word he manages to pronounce clearly, of course, is “chekist”. So tonight, instead of a chapter from Vinnie the Pooh they will have lecture about the difference between ordinary police and chekists, the infamous KGB “boys in gray”. If they have started to use this word, I need take care so they at least use it right. And not in public.

  

Chapter 3 

The next day I can’t stop myself checking out on the Freedom Monument again. The monument is still covered in flowers. The police haven’t removed them. Even more - new people, still quite shy and precarious, are approaching with flowers. The miracle continues. Oh, right... 

‘Hi!’ Of course, Gunnar is here with few of his mates from the theatre where Gunnar does something with lights. According to him, the police finally whisked away last crowd way after the midnight.

‘Can you believe this? It’s like a crazy festival!’

No, of course, I can’t believe it. Park is full of people, strolling around and they all look somehow... statelier than just few days ago?

We sit on the bench in the park and watch people approaching the monument, one after another while Keggy entertains himself in the lawn. Carl keeps pushing Rob around and they both are busy spotting chekists. According to their happy screams, there are plenty.

‘Like they had suddenly found their inner dignity? Decided to give up on pretending?’ Gunnar watches as two elderly ladies rush past, carrying impressive bouquets.

 ‘Exactly. Life of a schizophrenic is hard, you know. Tiring.’

All these years had been tiring, indeed. You go to kindergarten, then to school and lately to your workplace, saying the expected right Soviet words day by day, then return back home, close your door and only then think what you really want to think and be who you really are. If you still can remember who you are in the first place. Seemed that many just gave up, accepting the right phrases as their own and Soviet way of thinking as the right one to keep the personal integrity. Many others drowned themselves in a bottle. But majority just kept balancing between the Devil and the deep blue sea. Until yesterday.

It feels silly just to sit and watch, but I simply can’t go back home. After another cigarette I wave goodbye to Gunnar and decide with whom I want to share the moment. ‘Boys, let’s go to visit grandpa!’

My mother is still full time at her lab, but father will be at home. He always is, making art. Boys are happy. It’s a rare treat because my parents live at the other end of the city so it’s a long trip, especially with Rob still in the buggy, but I’ll cope. Nothing is too hard for me today.

‘You must behave, right?’ My parents, who have been great parents, are quite a failure as grandparents. John’s Nana, even if she is lacking on intellectual level, is nice and firm at the same time while my parents are spoiling their precious grandchildren senseless.

When the first rush of mutual excitement arriving at grandpa’s is over and boys have been safely placed in the kitchen with a raspberry cake, I settle down in the studio where the walls are covered with overcrowded bookshelves. The sun shines in at the large studio window. It’s a beautiful afternoon. Blue and breezy when everything seems washed clean.

‘Come on, let’s have some coffee and you can tell me what’s going on.’

‘I presume that you will tell me.’

 ‘I sense something fishy here,’ father says after I have reported on yesterday’s developments. ‘It really reminds me the period right after the war. KGB was setting up one resistance group after another to weed out the anti-soviet elements fast.’

‘Do you really suspect that behind all this is KGB?’

‘Economy might be crap and so is Army but KGB is as sharp as before. These things do not change. Do you really believe that they would not be able to stop Helsinki group demonstrate yesterday if they wanted to?’

This is a tricky question. We both know that they were able to, of course. The Hungarian bloodbath happened before my time, but I clearly remember the summer of 1968, sitting in the beach with my father and listening the small radio, bringing the news about Soviet tanks putting to the end The Prague Spring, while my little cousin enthusiastically built a sandcastle on the shoreline. I remember the contrast of the sunny day, the pink flowers on her ruched swimsuit, and the freezing fear, delivered by radio. Some people, walking past, spotted our faces and stopped to listen our radio. Then more people joined, and soon it was a very silent group of strangers in trunks standing around us. They stood and listened and then left - silenced. It felt like all the warmth of the day was sucked out just in a moment.

‘Yeah, I agree but the question then is – why they didn’t stop it yesterday? We can’t just write it off because of the confusion... Stop!’ I scream and jump up spotting Carl rushing in and excitedly diving into the father’s latest acquisition – the first edition of Latvian Bible which lies in the middle of the dining table. ‘Don’t touch it with dirty hands!’

‘Let him look. I’m glad he is interested,’ father opens the thick, partly disjointed book without a cover. ‘It will need some serious restoration anyway.’

‘No! He is old enough to show some respect, you know. He will ruin the book with his little ruthless fingers right now and twenty years later he’ll condemn you for letting him do it today.’

‘Who cares,’ father produces a wary smile, ’I’ll be not here to take the bashing anyway.’ Father gently strokes the yellow, fragile paper and then looks at disappointed Carl. ‘In fact, I think I have a better option for you today,’ he says. ‘I got something, keeping birthdays in mind, but I can give it right now.’ Father takes two large wrapped boxes from the shelf, ‘Can you fetch Rob, please?’

I send Carl to bathroom and go to get Rob from the kitchen. He looks quite happy, halfway covered in cream and rhubarb bits. When both - children and kitchen - are in the presentable state again, we return in the studio.

Father gives boys a box each. ‘Hope, you will enjoy it,’ he sounds quite unsure. ‘There was a big queue at the shop for these, and I bought two.’

‘You were out?’ I’m deeply impressed because my father is definitely an agoraphobic. Since he has retired he leaves house basically for funerals only and it’s always my mum who does all the outings. Picture of him, strolling through the overcrowded shops for “just in case” is somehow shocking.

‘Oh, there was some meeting for the Artist Union to discuss some stuff last week,’ Father dreamily looks through the window, ‘about the candidates from our section for the elections and such.’

The wind of changes! My father had attended - voluntary - an official meeting! That’s some news!

‘And?’

‘On the way back I just decided to look into the “Children’s World”; I hadn’t been in that mall for years. Everybody was buying these so did I. Are they any good?’

The excited murmur from the corner proves itself that purchase is good, very good. I lift the lid, already thrown on the floor in the middle of the studio. Lego! Standard size Lego cubes, produced in East Germany.

‘Dad! You are genius! Plus the really lucky one! To leave house once a year and find such a treasure!’

Soviet toy shops are very like our grocery shops. There are certain basic items always available, and the rest is your luck. Among the available are quite scary plastic dolls with overoptimistic smile, few poorly made plastic Kalashnikov replicas, few trucks and some rubber balls. The soft toys on shelves (if there are any at all) usually are rather ugly.

The best toys for me were the different modification of the metal construction game sets like Meccano. You were able to buy even small electric engines, run by batteries for more advanced things. I loved them as a child, and now these sets kept my boys busy. Of course, the amount of nuts and bolts appearing in places where you last expected was annoying addition to the process. But Lego, even if it is East German made replica! That is something special!

‘Really? I’m glad. Fancy a piece of cake? This one of Mum’s seems rather nice.’

After the cake is finished and boys are back to Lego, father continues. ‘I know, we all feel overexcited and very impatient right now, but please, be careful! I really do not want you to run into trouble.’

‘Well, you ended up in coal with Polar bears in Gulag... why do you think I can’t stand the same destiny?’ I know, it’s a silly answer, I have boys to rise, but if dad thinks that I’ll be hibernating under the duvet now, he is very mistaken.

‘My gut feeling says - stay away from Helsinki group! Seriously! Sure, there might be some genuine people, ready to burn all bridges, but, trust me, half of them must be KGB agents. Not informers, I mean full agents, pushing others into hell.’

Maybe father has some point. ‘You know, some of them seem too weird for my taste, to be honest. So no, I haven’t considered joining them.’

‘I do not know what all this is about, I can’t put my finger on it, but something is going on in a big way. I can understand the Poland with its Solidarity going out of hand. But all this, bursting out now, in all three Baltic states simultaneously? Remember, just two month ago they kicked Kazakhs right in the guts, instantly. Think about that! There must be one conductor, leading this new orchestra, and I suspect, that it’s seated in Moscow.’

Indeed, it’s a bit crazy to imagine that Moscow has signed the self-destruction plan, isn’t it? If so, there must be some serious backlash coming, and pretty soon. ‘Let me enjoy the momentum, dad! It will change, sure... one way or another! Soon.’

As far as we know, there is a battle between supporters of perestroika and the old guard on the top of the Communist party right now. Even the economic reforms of perestroika are strangled down in the regions despite orders from Moscow, and here is no different. With so called glasnosts, the political liberalisation, things are even worse, because nobody actually knows where it all will go, and outcome is impossible to predict.

‘But hey, aren’t we lucky? You know dad, the yesterday is still here, it hasn’t gone! If you could see all the faces today!’

‘I see yours, and that troubles me enough.’

I understand why dad is worried. He had been trying to shake off the dust of the coal all his life. It didn’t clear after Stalin’s death, it wasn’t washed away with his amnesty and release. The political prisoner is a badge that Soviets do not let take off. It cursed father during the studies, it cursed him at each job, and it cursed him each time when he tried to travel. It is still here, now. I can see his point.

‘I know, dad, I do understand it all, but still... I am glad I had been there yesterday! It was well worth it.’

‘Just think about them,’ father nods towards the boys.

I do. I really do. Right now I think seriously how I will get all the scattered Lego cubes back in the boxes, boxes in the back of the stroller, and then all the entourage in the taxi.

‘I do, dad. My only problem - more I think, more impatient I get. Just imagine – wouldn’t it be great them growing up in a free country?’

Back at home John has good news to share while I mop the enormous puddle in the middle of the room, provided by the pup.

‘Charlie is leaving his job. Offered to me, if I fancy.’

‘What’s that? Whatever, anything probably would be better than that sinkhole of yours.’

‘Well, its ill paid, all these posters for the builder’s union club, but you can’t underestimate the time factor.’

That’s true. None of this Soviet nine to five slavery even if the salary is minuscule. ‘Charlie has the freedom take out-of-office hours as well, I have noticed, especially lately, but what exactly the job entitles?’

‘Painting mannequins. Mostly spraying. Easy. The salary is the pleasing factor – like five times more than mine now. What do you think?’

‘Five times more? With a butcher as our new best friend and your new salary Keggy will thrive!’

‘Aren’t we lucky?’ John reaches out and grabs me in a bear hug. ‘I feel like it’s perfect time for a little celebration!’ he whispers, nuzzling my neck.

We are lucky, indeed. In more ways than one as boys are tight asleep and don’t wake up. 

Chapter 4

(This one is a very clumsy one, as I tried to explain what a Soviet shared communal flat is, so if you can cut all the boring really short, it would be great )

Summer slowly takes over the political euphoria. The garden is in full bloom and the first strawberries are ready. Boys spend long hours in the garden and Keggy, who is growing literally by hours, has become the inseparable partner in all their games.

Our house is quite a funny one, some epitome of the Soviet era. It had been built in 1920’s in the outskirts of the city for a GP practice. The ground floor was designed as office for two doctors with adjoined flat while upstairs were few small flats to let with separate entrance.

Right after the revolution the Soviets had an idea about levelling up the living conditions as the idea that somebody can have more than one room to live in while many still were living in barracks was revolting. Of course, there were plans to build new, great flats for everybody in the bright future, but until then Soviets created a new meaning for a communal flat.

Our apartment was one of those - five rooms, divided by a long corridor. One room is still inhabited by the original owner – the former paediatrician. Now she is way over 90, nearly blind and barely walking around with a stick, but still bossy and full of rage. Next room is occupied by a Russian family in early 50’s – he is an alcoholic, working in the factory; she’s a nurse. The next to them lives a nice retired lady, former math teacher, and then - us. We are the posh ones, having two rooms.

In the kitchen we all have two devices to share - an old wooden cooker, lit only in winter, and a four ring gas cooker with bottle gas. The nurse has peculiar shifts and cooks when she is able to, so most of the time during the day it is paediatrician, math teacher and me, fighting for space.

Today is my lucky day - nurse has a day shift and math teacher has gone to visit her daughter, so I can have gas cooker all by myself until the lunch time. Right day for the jam!

After the breakfast I let the boys out in the garden with Keggy, Carl’s tricycle and the rest of their usual toys – big wooden lorry, hammer and plenty of nails. We had started to build a greenhouse just few weeks ago so there are plenty of different boards around and boys are into building in a big way. I, in turn, have a large basket of strawberries waiting for me. The window is wide open so I can hear the excited voices discussing construction problems. It will keep them busy until the lunch, I relax and start to clean the strawberries.

Well, our house doesn’t sound like a castle, but we were very lucky to be there. We already were on the Soviet property ladder!

According to Soviets building our own house was out of the question. All the apartment houses belong to the state and apartments are allocated accordingly by two queues – at your workplace (if there is one) or at the local municipality. Big factories have quite fast moving queues (workers are the ruling class!) while municipal ones are basically hopeless. In reality it means that young families are living with their parents for decades waiting on the municipal apartment list, while we are by our own already and definitely fitting for the improvement of the living conditions.

To get here was quite complicated game of chess with Soviet bureaucracy. The room was originally inhabited by my grandfather who divorced my grandmother right before the war and my mother had not seen him since then. One day he knocked at our door - no, he wasn’t looking for his long lost daughter and even less he was interested to meet his former wife. He simply wanted a deal. His second marriage failed long time ago as well as the first one, and his other daughter refused to see him at all so he was completely lonely now and as he informed us, terminally ill. According to the doctors, the first TV sets were to be blamed for his leukaemia. He hadn’t much time left and he wanted his daughter to bury him when the time will come. For that he has his room to offer.

Mum agreed so on paper I moved into his room while he moved in with his daughter in our apartment. It was a big pile of papers shifted around but in practice nobody moved until he went to his last trip to the hospital. And after the funeral I moved into my own room! Later, when Carl was born already, one of neighbours moved out so we got another room.

The house is old and desperately needs serious renovation, but it has its benefits as well – huge garden. When the house was new and thriving, there was a fountain in the middle of it, but now the concrete dolphin has been demolished and tap was adjusted for the watering pipes to be attached. But the garden itself still had some magic with huge blue spruce trees, inhabited by family of squirrels, and an old larch, the house of a crow couple, the beautiful lilac hedges – such a peaceful space rarely to be found in the city. My grandfather was quite an advanced gardener, planting and pruning, so now I had huge yellow plums, different apples, rows of blackcurrants and beds with beautiful irises, and my children had their own safe wonderland to kill dragoons or whatever they were playing at the moment just few bus stops from the city centre. And of course – the strawberries.

I look through the window. Carl is up in the plum tree, pulling the rope with an old tablecloth tied at the end while Keggy is pulling the other end. Good, seems they are busy enough.

I weight the strawberries, pour them into the large saucepan and add sugar. Now it’s time to wash the jars.

I was born in the year when Gagarin made his first space trip. I was too small to notice Khrushchev’s Thaw as it was too short, leaving behind just few great comedies for us and few more anecdotes about Soviets in the West. But one thing Khrushchev did for me – he put the Soviet pride aside and decided to fill the bread shortage by shopping for the wheat abroad. When I was a baby, white bread disappeared from the shops. Crop failure, then another failure and that was it. The small amounts of white bread were allocated for kindergartens and schools only. My father as a teacher sometimes got few little loafs to take home. Khrushchev’s shopping abroad put at least bread shortage to the end.

Then Brezhnev made another important decision – to shop for meat abroad. It was not usual, of course, but by accident you were able to run into nice piece of New Zealand’s lamb or Argentinean beef. If you were lucky. If not, there were only empty shelves gazing at you on the way home, offering tins of canned fish and bags of pearl barley. To feed the family my grandmother, chief accountant at the time, took an early retirement and started her never-ending daily shopping journeys while my parents were at work.

Now, twenty years later, the situation is about the same – still empty shelves. I stir the peacefully bubbling jam and arrange the clean jars on the table.

‘Mum, ‘ink!’ Rob walks in with Keggy, looking for something to drink. Ouch, it’s nearly the lunch time already. ‘Carl!’ I shout in the window, ‘Come in you too! Time to eat!’

Rob washes his dirty hands while I pour some diluted strawberry juice in his mug. ‘Carl! In! Now!’ I lean out of the window. No response.

Angry I march out in the garden and lift the flopping corner of the cloth. Carl is not there. I look up. He is not in the tree either. ‘Carl!’ I look behind the stacked boards... behind the blackcurrant row... He is not there either. As well as his little green tricycle.

‘Ca-arl!’

He knows that sneaking out on the street even if the gate is open, is one of the biggest no-nos. Our street is not a dangerous one – we live at the end of the blind alley, and it is in such a poor condition that even bravest taxi drivers in a hurry do not risk driving faster than 10 km per hour so no reason to panic. But still...

There is no reason to panic!

I run out on the street but there is no sign of the little tricycle. I cross the street in hope that Carl has sneaked into neighbour’s who have a daughter Carl’s age. Nobody there.

I run back to Rob. There is no point to ask him where and when Carl has left. I try to stay calm. Carl must be around somewhere here, must be. He can’t go far on his little tricycle. Math teacher is not at home. Ask the paediatrician to look after Rob while I go and look for the bugger? No way, she is too old and nearly blind. What to do? What to do?!?

The phone in the hall rings.

I grab the receiver with not much hope. As we are sharing the kitchen, the phone also is some kind of a communal property so this might be a call to anybody here. ‘Hallo?’

‘District police here. Do you have a son, Carl? He says he is three.’

‘Ye- s-s....That’s correct.’ My heart sinks in the depths of the horror. Police... Has he been hit by a car?

‘Would you be able to come to police now?’

‘What happened? Where is he?’

‘Nothing, mother, do not worry. He is here, at the police office. We just needed to detain him,’ the voice on the other end of the line cheerfully announces and hangs on.

What? Well, I know, Carl can do a lot but anyway – to be arrested? What a three year’s old can do to be arrested? I grab Rob and lock him in the stroller. Ouch, strawberries are still bubbling on the gas!

With trembling hands I push Rob to the tram stop, looking for the taxi, but as usual, none at the sight when really needed. Good job the police station is not far away.

‘Where is he?’ I rush up the stairs, carrying Rob.

‘Who?’ the officer on duty at the entrance looks perplexed.

‘The three years old!’ There can’t be many of these locked away here, aren’t they?

‘Oh, him!’ officer makes a funny noise, ‘He is in room 315. And you have another one as well?’ He shakes head, looking at Rob in disbelief. ‘Gosh!’

I run up the stairs, along the long corridor looking for the number, knock on the door and grab the handle. The door is locked. No panic! No, no panic!

I recheck the number plate on the door while rattling the handle frantically until finally hear the key turning from inside. The door flings open. Behind it stands quite young woman in police uniform with exhausted, somehow desperate expression in her face. ‘Are you the mother?’

Over her shoulder I look inside. Room is rather smallish. Usual sand coloured walls, dusty window and an old, huge metal safe in the corner. In the middle of the room is a desk; around it circles Carl on his tricycle, humming; on each lap he is grabbing a sweet from the bowl on the desk.  He is alive! That’s all that counts. I nod breathlessly. ‘I think so.’

In fact, Carl is very alive and very angry. He jumps of the tricycle and runs to me waving both hands. ‘Mum, they arrested me!’ There is no horror in his voice. It sounds more like he is very proud about himself and the whole situation. ‘THEY arrested me! For nothing!’

‘Being arrested is not a reason to brag about! Especially for nothing.’ I look quizzically at the police officer. ‘What has he done?’

‘Actually nothing,’ she smiles, ‘basically he is right.’

‘See, mum! I told you!’ Carl is full of himself.

‘Well, you see, he was alone on the tram and we decided that he might be lost so we...’ police lady tries to explain.

‘I told you, I was not lost, I was on my way to Nana! I know what I’m doing!’ Carl is furious, ‘Why you just do not listen?!’

Gradually I manage to get the police side of the story. Child was spotted by the tram driver and as he was noticeably alone, driver stopped at the police station and passed the lost child to the police officer.

‘He was kicking and baiting, and screaming so terribly all the way to the police station,’ police lady giggles apologetically, ‘that officer, who carried him and the tricycle got some angry comments from the passersby’s already about police brutality and all that. And since he has been here, he already had tried to escape twice, good job the officer on the duty at the entrance spotted him creeping behind the desk there...’ she explains while I try to keep Carl still, tugging his hand. ‘See, by law we can’t lock away small children, so I had no choice other than lock us both here so I can at least work on same paperwork. Good job he knew your phone number so we were able to trace you so quickly. You have a very clever boy here. Just keep an eye on him better the next time.’

‘There will be no next time, I can assure you,’ I grab Carl’s arm with an iron grip. ‘Can we leave now or I need to sign any papers?’

‘Just go!’ officer looks at her watch, ‘I needed to be at the orphanage an hour ago.”

On the way home I learn Carl’s version. ‘See, I needed to go to Nana,’ he starts.

‘Why?’

‘I forgot my screwdriver there.’

Well, the screwdriver we’ll discuss later. ‘But you knew that you can’t play out on the street, do you?’

‘Of course! But mum, I was not playing! I went to Nana!’

‘If you are so clever, how do you go to Nana?’

‘Simple. I need to get the 5th line tram and go out on the next stop after the river. It’s exactly what I was planning to do before they grabbed me. Do you think I can’t recognise the number 5?’

He does, I must admit. ‘How you get the tricycle into the tram? The steps are very steep.’

‘That was easy. I just asked one lady to help me.’

What a moron, I think to myself. Who on earth would help a child to get into the tram alone?

‘And what’s our phone number?’ I know, I hadn’t been teaching him that one yet. Carls recites the numbers. Correctly. He knows, indeed. But still, nobody can travel alone at three.

‘Can you promise me that you will never ever do it again?’

‘What exactly? Never to be arrested again? Be real mum, I can’t promise you that!’ 

  Chapter 5 

August comes with new load of heated political discussions. The air is filled with hope – we like to feel Soviet Ogre getting weaker. The big question is – is this the initial idea of glasnost? Nobody knows.

‘It seems like we are losing the plot. Completely.’ John thoughtfully informs Keggy after the morning news on radio. Economy is noticeably collapsing right in front of our eyes despite Gorby’s attempts while radio tries assuring us that everything is better than ever. ‘How’s your plan for the day? ‘He finally asks, putting the empty coffee mug aside. ‘After some draining jobs, of course.’ John adds, carefully stepping around the newest, still warm puddle in the middle of the room and reaching for his large shoulder bag. ‘Something exciting? Hey, it’s summer after all! Sorry that I must work today.’

On the sunny days, when John is free, we take boys to beach. Sometimes I take them to the mum’s cottage half an hour outside the city. Sometimes it’s even better when our friends take us there by car.

 ‘Have you forgotten? Roland’s coming.’ I check on my wrist. ’Soon.’

‘Oh, that’s big. May I wish you some luck?’

‘Better wish it to Roland. He will need a lot of it. I’ll do the driving!’

The idea about buying a car ourselves has crossed our mind several times but it always seemed too much hassle to deal with. I do not drive as well as John. We both have reasons. Mine is very simple – I’m short-sighted up to the level when passing the medical test for driving licence would be impossible. John’s case is a bit more complicated. He is clinically depressed as well as a psychopath, according to Soviet army registers. All our friends have one mental illness or another diagnosed. This is part of the Soviet survival game.

Soviets had quite simple rules about the duty. After the high school there were only two ways for boys – university or regular army for two or three years. Before it was bad enough already. Bullying and accidents had lead to too many zinc coffins shipped home, but since the beginning of the Afghan war, joining Soviet army was like playing Russian roulette, and made about us much sense as that. No, we were not proud pacifists, far from it, but helping Soviets to occupy another country – well, it was definitely too much to ask for. So everybody who was able to, tried to escape. Real disabilities, like stomach ulcer, were tricky to play with, but mental ones needed just a bit of an effort to perform right.

The doctors in the army hospitals were not idiots, sure; they knew what’s going on but most of them were only very pleased to help. All you needed to do is spent a month in hospital, avoid company of other patients as much as possible, maybe occasionally take out the Bible and read a bit, and when going for a electrode test, let your mind jump as many paths as possible at once so the apparatus can register the unstable impulses, and you were out with a white list in your hands. Soviets really tried to avoid mentally unstable, it was bad enough with the normal crowd already.

 Of course, there was a price for your freedom – when registered as mentally disabled, it didn’t let you pass the driving test or join the hunting club, but that was a small pay for being alive.

There were ways out of it as well, but it was still a risk. We started to discuss the purchase of a car at the beginning of the last year as with two small children and past the twenty seventh year mark, John seemed to be out of the army sight. We were wrong. On the 29th of April last year he was called in urgently and informed that he had been appointed as a photographer to the army newspaper Red Star and is given two days to prepare. Really? Just three days after Chernobyl went off Army suddenly needed a mentally unstable amateur photographer without any army training? Yeah, sure! Over my dead body! We had heard enough about Hiroshima and Nagasaki to take any risk.

Next morning I went right to the recruitment office. ‘Oh, he is so excited to become a professional photographer!’ I started my performance. ‘Thank you! It will be also great to get him off my neck with his moods and paroxysms, and all the drinking, you know. The only thing – I need a nursery for my boys instantly. I’m stay at home mother, and without his salary... I already am looking for a job now thus boys need to go to nursery as from tomorrow.’

My bluff was based on the fact that there was impossible to find a space in a nursery. Army offices, of course, had their nurseries and would be able to squeeze mine in, but we were Latvians while army ones all had only Russian speaking children and staff. Latvian ones belonged to municipality, and army had no direct link with local municipalities. To find a suitable place would take army weeks if not months. The other clue was to mention that he is quirky without an emphasis on that, letting it slip out accidentally to the ears which were trained to listen. Whatever was the winning one, it worked. Next morning John got a phone call, informing that he is off and can return to his job.

After that we decided that it’s safer for John to stay on the mental list and I started to consider my possibilities. There was a way to bribe the driving licence commission doctors, we all knew that. But can I really drive? Only one of our friends had a car, and he promised to show me how so I can decide.

John gives me a hug and a quick peck. ‘Good luck, you lot!’

‘Off we go!’ I tuck in Rob at the back seat in Roland’s Lada and finally push in Keggy. Around the cottage there are plenty of little gravel roads without any traffic for my first driving lesson while my mum looks after the boys and Keggy.

‘Sit in front!’ Roland opens the passenger door for me. ‘Start learning!’

‘Is he a good teacher?’ I turn back to Yvonne, Roland’s wife who has been tucked in at the back of the car along with boys.

‘As I still don’t drive...’ Yvonne winks and burst out laughing.

‘How on earth you can steer while switching gears and playing with gas and brake pedals, all at once?’ I ask curiously after Roland has parked the car right outside mum’s cottage.

‘You’ll find out!’

After the first hour my back is soaked wet. So is Roland’s. At the end of the second hour I started to feel a tad bit more optimistic that I would be able to manage it after all. I start to feel a bit more confident, increasing the speed up to ravishing 20 km/h and sitting straight back in the seat. ‘Roland, you know, it’s not so bad...’

‘Stop!’ Suddenly Yvonne, who has been giggling at the back all the way, shouts in my ear and I hit the brakes in full. She has spotted a huge snake on the road.

‘I simply can’t let you hurt a snake, especially a nice grass snake like that!’

I agree. It’s a bad omen. In old days people even left a bowl of milk in barns for grass snakes. Do grass snakes really drink milk?

We jump out. The snake is definitely alive, but not moving as we approach. Laying flat on the road is not the usual behaviour of a grass snake, especially in the middle of the summer when there are plenty of much safer sunny spots around.

‘If we’ll leave it here, the next car will smash it, definitely,’ Roland scratched his head, ‘Yvonne, your ideas?’

Yvonne is the expert. She works in Zoo. Not exactly with snakes, her part is the aquarium house, but still the wisest one among us. She suggests the simplest solution. ‘Just lift it off the road.’

We do as we are told. Roland finds a long stick in the bushes and carefully hooks the snake on it. Snake is not showing any objections about hanging in air. When we carefully put it down in the grass few metres away from road, instead of performing a hurried escape, it just lies where placed.

‘Something is wrong with it, definitely! Quarantine at Zoo is full and they will not take an ordinary grass snake in. Maybe you can keep it safe... just for few days?’

Why not? I have an old, currently unoccupied aquarium at home; it will be a bit small for this specimen but for few days – why not? We wrap the snake in the blanket and, while I hold the bundle, Roland drives us back. We stop at the local shop and beg for an empty box. Back in cottage mother donates a large glass jar and we spent the next hour in the ditch frog hunting. With all the fun jumping in mud after frogs my driving lesson luckily is completely forgotten. Only Carl seems disappointed. He had had put his hopes on the car.

It’ll take just few minutes to create a nice room for the snake - a handful of a turfy forest soil, some moss, bunch of dried leaves and few rotten branches. It’ll take a bit longer to convince John thou. A tad bit. After the second thought or so he’ll agree that poor snake needs a caring eye to keep it on the safer side. If you know how to approach, it’s easy with John. Just play slow.

‘Hi! We are back!’

John is sitting at his desk, cutting dyed leather in little squares for our next art project. ‘How was your driving then?’

If you toss a snake at him and ask to fetch the aquarium from the top shelf, it will be a firm ‘no’. End of story. But if you start slowly...

‘Hopeless!’ I airily wave the question away, ‘some people aren’t made for that! I nearly hit a snake on the road!’

John digests this information probably drawing mental pictures of me breezing through the secluded compound like impersonation of Michael Schumacher. ‘Horrible! Hope it’s okay!’

‘Snake? No, it wasn’t. We think it’s ill or something.’

‘Poor creature! It might die now.’

‘Yes, we thought the same so we took it back home, here, in this box.’ I push Carl upfront. With a beaming smile Carl steps forward and proudly passes the cardboard box to dad.

Now John is in, fully. ‘Poor mite!’ he carefully lifts the lethargic snake out. ‘It really doesn’t look well! Where we can keep her?’

After the plan is explained, John fetches aquarium and finds a suitable size sheet of cardboard for the lid. He even offers one of his studio lamps for heating so poor snake wouldn’t be cold. Finally we put in a shallow bowl with water and throw in five smaller frogs from the jar.

Boys are excited. Rob silently stands, nose pressed to the aquarium’s glass while Carl is jumping around and tossing one question after another at us. ‘What’s it name? Is it a boy or a girl?’

I have no idea. I’m happy enough to know that it is the non-venomous grass snake – because of the characteristic yellow “collar” behind the head. It is way over 4 feet in length and quite fat. ‘Most likely a girl. Grass snake girls are bigger than boys.’

‘Let’s call her Angelica because she’s so beautiful!’ Carl offers, ‘You know, like that girl from the film.’

We sigh. Carl is a big fan of Michèle Mercier, from Angelica series.

‘When she’ll eat the frogs?’

Snake lies still in the aquarium and slowly blinks its eyes. John explains that poor snake doesn’t feel well and probably is very scared of us, so can’t be disturbed now. We say good night to Angelica and cover the front of the aquarium with another sheet of cardboard. 

‘Can you take them tomorrow to Nana?’ John asks over the dinner. ‘I have finished a lot today and would do with your help.’

John’s new job with dummies is great. It took about a week to work out the best combination of colours for the natural looking skin, and the consistence of the spray, but now it goes quite fast for John. To make things even faster, I joined in for the fiddly finishing jobs. He sprays the bodies and eye shadows, and then it’s my turn to glue the eyelashes, paint shoes and the rest of the face with a brush. Thus John is done with the weekly job load in three days and we have much more time for everything else.

Job is a mandatory – being jobless is a crime in Soviet empire. There is not such a thing as unemployment. The dark side of the moon is that you can’t work too much either even if you want to. Anything extra is illegal – extra work, extra money, and extra needs. We joke that we pretend to be working and the government pretends to pay us. So if you can skip that ‘nine to five’ part we can have plenty of time to be ourselves, to live our parallel lives.

‘Men or women?’ I need to know to pick up the right brushes.

‘Both. Tell Nana that we, most likely, will be late tomorrow.’

John avoids talking with his mother as much as possible and leaves it to me. Not because she is evil. Not at all, even opposite – my mother-in-law is a very sweet woman. She truly was an excellent grandmother too, but now it’s changing because her ability to cope with the children’s questions is way below the desired. She turns read and gets angry even at really simple questions like way these two pigeons are jumping on each other or why her girl dog Puce is licking her own butt.

Nana is prudish and stupid beyond the believable. John doesn’t suffer fools gladly. Nor do I but somebody must do the job.

I remember one of our first meetings. It was John’s 20th birthday and room was filled with friends when his mother walked in with a plate of some snacks. Vil, who was only fourteen then, just had proudly produced a pack of condoms out of his pocket. Despite the well known fact that there was no sex in Soviet space, we knew about such a product – a square, see-through package with some rubber article in it in every pharmacy. But this was different and deserved some attention. The condoms, presented by Vil, were produced in India and it was a remarkable fact itself. Soviet relationship with India was well known but we didn’t see much of their products. It was a popular joke about Brezhnev’s visit to India with his “thank you for tea” after each banquet. Why only for tea? Well, the rest was ours anyway, replied Brezhnev.

John’s mother spotted the package and reached for it. ‘What’s that? Looks like some medications.’

We agreed in chorus.

‘Ah, made in India!’ She cheerfully announced, putting the package closer to her short-sighted eyes, ‘must be good then, probably cure the headaches very well!’

She had no clue why we all burst out laughing.

Sometime I sit and listen all the twisted theories Nana produces and just try to make any sense. I can’t really blame my mother-in-law. She had been a write-off for her parents as a child already. When she was two, she got meningitis and the doctor in the depth of Russian village in 1924 told the parents that brain damage had been inevitable. Her parents just accepted the fact and treated her like that since then. She grew up, went to university, become a teacher but still was the “challenged” one for her parents. It seems that somewhere along the line she just gave up trying.

When I was pregnant with Carl, she eagerly filled me with stories about all the dead babies she was able to remember. The most thrilling dinner time story was the one about how she, a teenage girl herself, was asked by the neighbour family to strangle their newborn baby during the siege of Leningrad in 1943, and how later that baby probably ended up becoming the family dinner. When I politely asked her to avoid these stories, at least for a while until my morning sickness passes, she was truly surprised. She really didn’t mean any harm.

I wasn’t even bothered to decide are her stories the truth or she was just making them up for fun. This one even can be a true one – she lived all through the 872 days of Leningrad Blockade, and that was a rough time, even by Soviet standards.

With my mother-in-law you was never sure about the truth and she wasn’t ashamed about that, not at all. “I know its truth because I had it all sorted out in my mind!’ had been her favourite argument over everything. She had never paid any attention to precise facts; she just kicks and twists them to suit her current idea. Maybe that’s why she had become a language teacher.

Surprisingly, she had been a perfect grandmother. She taught boys endless nursery rimes and told them all the great fairy tales; she fed and washed, played and told off, and did all the right things, especially for Rob who is still not asking many questions yet. With Carl the situation is getting a bit complicated but I have no choice. My mum is still not retired and works full time. And my father is hopeless as a babysitter. ‘Yes, sure, I will take them to Nana.’

Later, when boys are neatly packed in beds and Keggy has had his last potty break in the garden, I peak into the aquarium. Angelica still lies under the lamp and looks very calm, but she is still alive and frogs... Frogs have disappeared! 


Chapter 6 

Angelica quickly adjusts into her new environment. It takes about a week for us to learn how to keep her happy. As all grass snakes, Angelica likes to swim, but right now we can’t offer her a bigger terrarium with a suitable size swimming pool. But there is always a solution so each night after the dinner I fill the plastic tub with lukewarm water and John takes Angelica out for the bath. It seems that they both enjoy the time together. After the swimming Angelika likes to slide and curl in John’s hands and each time it becomes harder to put her back in her cage.

It brings a new problem. Keggy is not a hunting dog and seemed not even curious when we introduced him to Angelica. Fitzy, who is quite happy to return from garden with an occasional mouse in his teeth, has decided that snake is not worth the trouble, so we feel quite confident about both of them.

But there is Albert, our white lab rat we bought when Carl turned two years old. It took us some time to teach Fitzy that Albert (his full name, according to Carl, is Albert Templeton Peka) is not a dinner option and now the cat knows very well the difference between OUR rat and the wild ones which he can hunt freely.

Grass snakes survive mostly on amphibians in the wild but there are no rules against a mouse or two. Albert seems way too big to become a digestible dinner for Angelica but we can’t be sure, and there are no ways to train a snake. So when Albert is out, Angelica must stay in her cage.

 ‘Did you hear? There will be another one.’ Pointing at the radio with Angelica still in his hand, John pushes aside the dinner plate. ‘Helsinki group. On 23rd of August.’

‘Why then?’ My mind is more occupied by the steaming tea mugs in my hands. ‘Keggy, off the way!’

‘To remind about the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact. Remember Chautauqua conference in Jurmala?’

‘Oh, that one!’ Mugs are safely on the windowsill now. That pact, signed by Nazi and Soviets on August 23, 1939, allowed Soviets to occupy and incorporate Baltic States in 1940. Last year was the first time when existence of such a pact was openly mentioned in Soviet area during the Chautauqua conference between American and Soviet diplomats here, in Latvia when US ambassador made a public speech reminding of the Molotov – Ribbentrop pact and noted that US has never accepted the occupation of the Baltic States.

It might seem not a big deal – somebody said something, but for us it meant the whole. Somebody in power officially announced, and (what’s even more important) it was on our media, that Baltic States were OCCUPIED by Soviets. So far the history ended up by one strong red line – we did join voluntary.

‘That was great, indeed.’ Okay, that’s all just some kind of a verbal chess only, but for us, trying to pick any little grain of truth into the limelight, it is a very big thing.

‘This demonstration is a reminder that there is still a memory alive in the back of nation’s mind.’

‘Do they announce it on the radio now?’ I lean against the windowsill, and slowly light a cigarette. Angelica is still not well and I’m a bit concerned. I took Angelica to the vet but it was waste of time. Maybe there are vets somewhere around who have some idea about how to treat a snake, but our local vet is not among them. All we can do is keep Angelica until she is well enough. It brings another problem. It is August already, so the season of fresh frogs soon will be over. What then?

‘No, silly, on voices, of course. Both stations are shouting about the planned demonstration.’

For years we had two radio stations abroad – Voice of America and Radio Free Europe - broadcasting in Latvian. In fact, there is the third one, Vatican radio, but politically it’s just waste of time. And then, of course, was Russian service Svoboda. All are very hard to receive as Soviets use strong interference transmitters to disturb their waves, but if you try hard, you can pick them up despite the interference.

‘Cool! It might help. Much larger audience than just the cautious gossip grapevine. Finally they might be useful.’

In general, voices hadn’t been a big help. Most of their programs were so naive, so out of date. only some, explaining the Western (i.e. American) point of view on international politics or the activities of our exile community had been worth to listen; at least sometimes.

‘Common, Mo! You know jolly well that all in all these radio stations had been only a reminder that CIA is still ready to spent some money on us to rub at the Soviet nose a bit. That’s all that counts.’

‘You know, fifty years is long enough. Do you really think that Baltic States are not forgotten?’

‘Exile community is doing what they can - some demonstration in Washington, some in Berlin... as a reminder for post war Western politicians that we do still exist.’

‘And the outcome?’ To be honest, I can’t be bothered. I have more important things to worry about. Yvonne. I must call Yvonne, she might have an idea about Angelica.

‘Of course, Baltic States will never be a serious subject for the big politics and we are just a useful stick in American hands when additional political poke is needed into Soviet eye.’

‘Well, my stick, are we going then? Because right now I must call Yvonne. I have no clue what to do with our snake.’

Yvonne has no clue either but she offers to introduce me to Sylvia, the head of the Snake house in Zoo.

Next morning I pack the snake in the box and call the taxi – it’s time to go to Zoo. Sylvia introduces boys to her kingdom and then she is ready to look at Angelica. By her, there are several options. The healthy grass snake would hibernate during the winter but as Angelica is not well, she might not survive. For her the best option would be stuffing the fridge with hibernating frogs right now but that’s not an option for me. Sylvia doubts that an adult wild snake will learn to accept the dead food thus there is only one solution left - I must learn the force feeding.

Sylvia shows me how to hold Angelica and how to open her mouth, how to massage the bite down her neck and explains which fish fillets are the best.

‘I might manage that, it can’t be too bad! I had some training with these two!’ I point at children.

While I try to write down all her instructions, Carl has found a loose armadillo roaming around behind the buckets and tries to convince it to take a carrot. I feel sorry for poor armadillo but Sylvia convinces me that it will survive Carl’s attention without any harm. Rob has found another exciting object – a huge, mean looking Australian green frog and now they both fixedly stare at each other.

‘Do you like him?’ Sylvia asks.

Rob slowly nods, still unable to move his eyes away. Sylvia likes Rob’s interest and soon the frog is lifted into his hands.

‘Don’t squeeze it so hard!’ Sylvia shows Rob how to handle the frog, ‘it has nowhere to run away!’

Rob is totally fascinated. He lifts the frog close to his face, whispers something under his breath and then carefully lifts it back into the cage. He strokes the frog gently with one finger. ‘O ‘ice!’

Sylvia is impressed and decides Rob deserves something special. ‘If you like, I will show you one special snake,’ she offers, opening a cage. ‘Hold this one carefully!’ she puts a large snake into Rob’s arms. ‘It’s a cobra!’

I know, Sylvia can’t be a serial killer, I know that she is not complete nuts either, but my little boy holding a cobra...

‘This is our latest mystery,’ Sylvia laughs, watching Rob handling the snake. ‘Last month the cobra escaped, and we were desperately searching for it several days around here. Then somebody called that they saw a snake in the park, sunbathing on the tree trunk about half mile from here. It was cobra! When we captured it seemed like it had shrunk a bit, but you know, after few days in a stressful environment... And there definitely can’t be other cobras floating around our forests, right? So the red alert went off – our cobra has returned. Then last week somebody peeked in the drainage box right in front of our doorsteps, and guess? There it was – OUR cobra. Nobody knows where this one comes from.’

As soon as Sylvia puts cobra away, I am ready to leave. It is cool to hang around the backstage, but right now I prefer the safety of the other side of the bars, designed for the general public.

‘Come back to my office, I know you would enjoy a cup of coffee right now,’ Yvonne giggles. ‘You just passed Sylvia’s test with flying flags! That cobra lost the venom fangs long ago, so it was completely safe. Ace, isn’t it?’

As the day of demonstration is getting closer, the amount of friends, popping in and out our house, is increasing dramatically. There is no place for the social life in the pubs for us. We all are talkers, and pubs always have too many ears to listen. So if we want to talk freely with our friends, we do it at home, behind the closed doors. There is always a cup of tea to offer or a bottle of wine. If friends knock on the door at the dinner time, the additional plate is tossed on – not a big deal.

Somebody has laid hands on a Western printed copy of Solzhenitsyn’s Red Wheel and can lend it for couple of nights; somebody has a friend in Moscow who just has sent over some new magazines, barely looking legal according to the content. We are learning new words daily and voluntary dive into discussions about Soviet legislation.

‘A cup of tea?’ I ask Raul, marching out to the kitchen for the umpteenth’s time. Good job that tea is not a problem. There is plenty of Georgian tea in the cupboard. It has no golden shades like imported teas but at least it is available. We don’t mind, we are used to our, Soviet Georgian – rough, greyish black potion you brew in a saucepan for awhile to get some tannin taste at least.

In the kitchen while I wait for the water to boil, math teacher warns that she has spotted a rat this morning.

‘Not again,’ I moan in despair, remembering the hopeless battle last autumn.

‘What can you expect with all these grain wagons going past here?’ teacher is pragmatic. ‘The house is old and all the walls are hollow.’

‘But not poison this year, ok?’

Last autumn when we were overwhelmed by rats, we called the rodent extermination team in. They allocated the poison around the house with a promise that it will work. A week later the strange smell started to float around the kitchen. At the beginning we all tried to ignore it, quietly checking pots in our pantries. As the smell grew stronger, we quietly started to check each other pots in hope to find the culprit. When the nasty stench reached rooms, we gathered together and ransacked the entire kitchen. We found the source – a big, fat and very dead rat, stacked under the nurse’s fridge. To repeat all that fun again? No way!

‘I will better get another cat as we have that second room now.’

 ‘I had bought the Soviet constitution, just to see what exactly it says about our rights to walk out.’ Charlie announces when I enter the room, balancing the tea pot.

 ‘And I read it!’

‘Did you? Unbelievable! Heroic achievement!’ John sounds quite sarcastic.

 ‘Do you think they will let us?’ Charlie thoughtfully asks, watching John lighting another cigarette.

‘Demonstrate? They did it once... And what had a chance to happen once, by theory might happen again and again!’ Raul can’t be serious. ‘Basic math, you know!’

‘My father thinks that behind it all is KGB,’ I join the discussion, pouring some tea in John’s mug, ‘so they might if that’s the plan.’

‘You and your conspiracy theories!’ Raul chuckles.

Suddenly with a thud the lights go off, only the end of John’s fag glows in the darkness.

‘Ouch! What’s happened?’

‘Do you think KGB is behind this as well?’ Raul laughs.

‘Right! I know exactly who is behind this! John, have you told him to stop playing with nails?’ I can see John’s glowing cigarette twitching in the dark. “Stop laughing, You are as bad as him!’

The sudden blackouts started as soon as we got the second room. It took as a bit of time to work out why there was always abundance of nails in there, scattered around, but now I know for certain.

‘Carl!’ I open the door and shout in the darkness. ‘I’m going to switch fuses back right now!’ Or fuse box is at the end of the corridor and when I reach Carl, I’m already boiling. ‘If you ever will put any more nails in the socket, I will kill you!’

‘Mum, but Rob enjoys the sparkles so much! You know, we worked out the new thing, it works if you spit on them as well, but the nail is more sparkly!’

‘Children can’t play with electricity, period!’ I shout, reaching carefully for both nails, neatly fitted into the holes of the socket. Carl was about two when he first discovered the trick – a nail in the each socket hole and the third nail thrown on top. Ba-bach!

‘But, mum...’

‘No buts! You were supposed to be sleeping long ago!’ I angrily tuck him back in bed. ‘One more blackout and I will confiscate all your tools, not only nails! Capish?’

‘Right.’ I march back to our fuming company. ‘Believe or not, my mum had heard a weird conversation ten years ago when a delegation from Moscow were checking on her factory. About how they will let this one go, and others as well, except few factories which must be relocated soon. She was not able to make sense out of that conversation then but now it makes a complete sense. That there is KGB planning this all.’

‘Really?’ Charlie shakes head. ‘No, folks, seriously! We are trying to escape and they are just banging loud, holding the door wide open? You must be out of your mind just to imagine that!’

I silently nod.

 ‘Wait a minute! You want to say that even by demonstrating against them we are doing exactly what they want us to?’  Charlie raises his eyebrows. ‘And they had planned it already ten years ago?’

‘Sounds like whole KGB is on Asimov’s psychohistory!’ Raul mocks, opening the next bottle of beer. ‘You know, from the Foundations.’

‘Haven’t read these, only The Gods Themselves.’ John shakes his head.

 ‘Right. You have better explanation? Because we all know that they would be able to stop us even thinking about it. IF they wanted.’ I try to protect my opinion.

The room suddenly goes silent. The idea is not very pleasant, indeed. I pass around the plate with sandwiches and lift Fitzy off the table.

‘When can a man know he is not a puppet?’ Raul is braking silence, gesturing theatrically. ‘How can a man know he is not a puppet?’

‘Still in Asimov’s mode? I prefer Richard Bach and his striving seagull, you know, Livingstone.’ Charlie winks.

‘Common, Charlie! Grow up, Livingston is for murky teenagers! What can be better than One Hundred Years of Solitude by Marquez?’ Raul is starting to wind up.

‘Not my plate of fish. For murky adults.’ I shudder. ‘I prefer easier books like... Brideshead Revisited by Waugh or The Leopard, by Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa. Do you know that it was written here?’

‘What? The Leopard?’

‘Aha.’

‘Too much whining for my like,’ Raul tosses his long hair off the face. ‘Orwell is better!’

‘Speaking of what, what we’ll do with that demonstration? Are we participating in the puppet theatre conducted by KGB? IF it’s conducted by them, ‘course.’

‘The usual question of the free will, isn’t it?’ Now John is laughing loud.

I retreat to the kitchen for another pot of coffee. The harebrained nights of cheap Georgian wine and rock music are gone, I smile to myself. All theoretical discussions about such hot topics like Napoleon’s campaigns or Pink Floyd lyrics are forgotten! Now air is buzzing in anticipation about “what if’s”, happening right now! Is it a real life or what? Well, most of the time it seems to be at least as senseless as before, but still it’s better than music, better than wine. 

Chapter 7 

Today is August 23rd, the day of the second demonstration. By now everybody had heard about the first one, have had enough time to think about it, and made a decision.

The thrill is in the air. More than anything else, it is a joy, maybe some little hope, and a big dose of bravery. After all these years of the hopeless existence we finally do feel alive. We feel that things may change. Openly we still talk vague about language protection and national identity, but in the back of our minds, still unspoken, are growing one hope – independence. It feels even better knowing that the similar demonstrations will be held today in Estonia and Lithuania.

Excitement is growing by hour. At noon we arrive at Nana. John has spent all morning, arranging his camera bag while I packed the boys. Last night we decided that this time we shall take Carl with us. He is probably now big enough to remember.

‘Today is another meeting, you know, so we have no idea when we‘ll be back, but we will be.’ John explains to Nana our plans. ‘Where is Grump?’

‘Oh, he went to the market. I wanted some apples, for the cake.’ Nana rattles the pans, quickly mixing some pastry. ‘You know, he is slow.’

Oh, yes, we know. Grump’s legendary trips to the market! Normally it takes an hour to go to market, do all the shopping and return, but Grump is known for disappearing for hours... like six or seven.

‘Probably we shall meet him there,’ John whispers, pointing at Nana. ‘Poor man needs some rest for his ears!’

‘You know, that recipe of the apple cake I tried last time, needs... Pass me the cinnamon jar, please! Ach, and by the way, the ajurvedic food... John, do you have any access to ammonium carbonate? I run out ages ago and I need it for the gingerbread. You know, I found the gran’s recipe I had lost years ago and it requires the ammonium carbonate. I hoped that with perestroika they will make it easier but seems that shops are still the same. I wonder where all the food goes! Of course, we can replace it by the baking powder but they aren’t the same then, but nothing seems the same these days anyway so no worries, with baking powder...’

‘You know what I mean?’ John whispers. ‘My head hurts already! How dad can cope with it every day I have no idea.’

We cut the lunch as short as possible. I quickly tuck Rob in bed for a nap, and we are ready to leave. Keggy will stay with Rob, keeping a company. This dog really enjoys his expanding social life. I suspect that some role here plays the large amounts of Nana’s gorgeous meatballs and her inability to resist Keggy’s pleading eyes. In past few months Keggy has grown enormously, now barely fitting under our large dining table and his appetite has followed accordingly.

‘Bye, Nana, we are leaving!’

‘Oh, that’s nice, children, have a great time. Are you off to a party?’

‘Yes, sort of,’ John spits through gritted teeth. ‘If you would listen what I just told ten minutes ago, you would know exactly what kind of a party,’ he ads when we are safely on the other side of the apartment’s door. ‘She never listens, never.’

There are plenty of people around the monument already when we arrive, as well as police. The usual lot of yellow busses are blowing diesel fumes all over people who are walking around the chains of police with flowers and talk about an earlier incident when some history teacher had lifted up the banner, calling for publications of the documents about Stalin era crimes, and was arrested instantly. Seems that this time Soviets have had made their minds up. Ish.

Helsinki group had planned to arrive at 5 pm so we have about an hour to wait now. So far Carl has been good – he obediently holds my hand and follows through the crowd past the chains of police.

Then suddenly crowd moves. Information that members of the group had been locked in the flat just across the street spreads quickly around. We can see the sheet, hanging out of the one of upstairs windows with “Helsinki group is detained here” written across. It is clear that they will not make through to the monument.

It’s nearly 5 pm already. John takes few more pictures until the roll is full, passes it to me and then lifts Carl up on his shoulders. ‘It is getting tight here.’

A tall, slim man with tangled ‘salt and pepper’ tossing proudly, starts a heated discussion with police just behind us about letting people through simply to lay down flowers. Police is not giving in. The speaker loses his temper and pushes himself into the chain. Suddenly the crowd pushes us forward and in a moment with the flow we are up the stairs of the monument along with few hundreds of other people.

Now we can see it all. The crowd around the monument is incredible. ‘My God! John, it looks like here are ten thousands, maybe even twenty thousand people!’

It feels a bit weird – we, then the chain of police, and then the rest of people. John quickly finishes another roll and passes it to me. ‘Seems like we are in trouble,’ he whispers in my ear.

‘I even know why’ I whisper back, looking up to Carl who excited waves his hands and shouts “Freedom! Freedom!”

John passes me few more rolls of films. ‘Keep these deep in your pockets, just in case.’ It would be not the first time when Soviet forces drag film rolls out of cameras.

Good job I sew deep pockets in my new dress. It’s black with white polka dots, Peter Pan collar, tight at waist and quite full skirt. It also has a long row of neat white buttons at the front. With a crowd around me I unbutton few and carefully place last rolls right into my bra.

The tall man tries to make an impromptu speech to the crowd. He speaks about all the victims of the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact – people who died in Soviet and German armies, the ones who died in prison camps and these who starved to death in Siberian tundra.

‘He’s pretty smooth, ain’t he?’

‘Very! I actually wonder if...’ But John doesn’t finishes his thought. The man calls for a minute of silence. And then he invites everybody to join in with the song, the most popular folksong we have – Blow ye winds.

In fact the words of the song are quite silly – about a man who has been promised a bride by her mother and then rejected after accused for being a reckless drunkard. Why on earth we had have picked this one as our unofficial anthem? We are not exactly short of folksongs – we have about 1, 5 millions of them. With the current demographic, fits perfect for the nation – everybody can have one on its own, but this one is not even really ours, this traditional wedding song belongs to Estonians. The only resistance is that at the end he marries his bride, without her mother’s permission – it’s about as far as our bravery goes. But even then there were cases in the past when KGB decided that so much bravery might go too far and banned the song.

Whatever the reasons are, we join in. All ten thousands sing together, and it feels great - the resistance; the song unites us, it makes us feel stronger. It would feel even better if the man, standing next to me, would finally decide step off my foot, but who cares? In our hearts we are singing our national anthem which is totally banned. Actually Soviets have done a great thing by banning our national symbols like flag and anthem – BECAUSE they are banned, we all do know and cherish them.

You need a home for your soul. Somewhere where you can hide from daily idiocy and trivia, where you can hide in your dreams. For John and me, and for many others the Independent state was that place.

Our parents and grandparents were raising us telling the stories about how much greener the grass was back then, when we were independent and it had become our dream. It’s why the idea survived - even Soviets were not able to kill a dream. As daily life turned from bad to worse, more often we escaped into our dreams seeking asylum for our souls, to restore the bits of our inner integrity and sanity.

Somebody starts the next folk song, and then another. This feels really great! I must admit that I had been kicked out even from my school’s choir as a hopeless singer. Sad, because I like to sing. Now I can do it – nobody cares about the quality of my performance. We all just sing for power. And it looks like that our power has been noticed – police and “boys in gray” are getting restless. From our top position I can see that somebody is dragged out of the crowd and tucked in a police car; then another one and another.

Suddenly police chain starts moving towards us and pushes people down the steps. John grabs Carl in a tight grip while I try to cover their backs, holding on John’s belt. It’s a tight moment because not many are keen to obey right now. Then we are back on the tarmac, through the gap in police chain.

‘It was great, wasn’t it?’ I smile with a relief.

John passes me two more film rolls. ‘Hide these!’ he whispers, tucking camera under his shirt while Carl jumps up and down on his shoulders.

I slide rolls in the depths of my bra; my pockets are full already. Police around us is “taking actions” – we hear screams and shouting, and see some with hands twisted behind the back, being pulled out. Carl is getting even more excited, changing slogans from “Latvia!” and “Freedom!” to “Kick them! Kick them!’.

‘I will shoot him!’ somebody screams right into my ear. I look up and see a young face, mad with rage. It’s not a police man. He doesn’t look like a ‘boy in gray” either. But he has a handgun and he is holding it high, right to Carl’s head.

The whole situation is grotesque - sunny afternoon, thousands of singing people around us and this one, silly handgun in the middle of it all. We burst out laughing. I recognise the face. He is one of Young Communist League leaders. I look at him one last time, still laughing, while crowd pushes us apart. ‘What an idiot!’

We gradually move outside the crowd and slide in the park. Suddenly we are surrounded by three men. One of them taps on John’s shoulder and reaches for his camera bag. John, emotionless, opens it with one hand, while with other holding on Carl’s legs. There is only an old, cheap camera Smena and few empty rolls in the bag. Man reaches for the camera, opens it and pulls the roll out. John stands in silence. It would be silly to pick up an argument.

‘These were my pictures!’ Carl shouts from the top of his voice. ‘These were mine!’

Man smirks. ‘I’m sure your daddy will take many more of you!’, he says with an evil grin, returning the destroyed film to John. Then all three quickly disappear while several old ladies around us already have started muttering about damned KGB.

Carl now is totally upset. ‘These chekist bastards! They destroyed my pictures!’ He grumbles, wrapping the damaged film in his hand. ‘All my pictures!’

We keep silent while we move in the depths of the park, away from the crowded monument. Then we burst out in a hysterical giggles. KGB just completed their mission – destroyed the film in the three year’s old camera – full of very dangerous blurry tram and car pictures Carl had been taking for the past three days! Cookie for them!

‘That’s crazy!’ John snickers, putting Carl back on his own feet, then unbuttons his shirt and carefully pulls out the camera. ‘Hope Carl hadn’t hit it too hard with his heels.’

‘It will be something to remember when he will be old,’ I try to light a cigarette with trembling hands. The adrenalin rush is over and I feel down – after all it’s my child who just had a gun held at his head.

‘Come on! That idiot would never use it! He will have enough trouble just for carrying it around today! Did you notice – police was unarmed. Somebody had enough sense to prepare for today.’ John pats on my shoulder.

‘But you must agree that this all went out of control? Police is one thing, but such ragging cowboys like him around...’

John agrees. Something has changed since June. Soviets had expected today’s gathering and prepared for it. It was not a surprise thus the chains of police and all that. But there were no reasons to go into silly fisticuffs really. Yes, some probably were drunk but since when Soviets worried about drunkards? Nobody was planning something really naughty except laying flowers at the bottom of the monument. So what went wrong and why?

It is falling into dusk while we walk through the park, thinking about today. The only conclusion we manage to reach is – we have had scared the forces somehow. Can we? Did we really?

Nobody has cancelled the glasnost. The detained Helsinki group was a normal, even nice Soviet thing in the spirit of glasnost – they were not arrested and sentenced for anti-Soviet activities as it would happen few years ago. Some of them already had been through the circles of hell in Soviet gulags for far minor things before. So glasnost is still on. That’s for sure. So what then?

Back at Nana, while Carl proudly tells Rob and Grump about his great adventures, John announces bathroom warning for the night. John is determined to develop all twenty-six rolls of films, included last four out of my bra, right tonight. He wants all the films safely done and first few sets of prints ready before we move on.

After the dinner I put the boys in John’s old bed, walk the dog and then settle down with a cup of tea, trying to keep a polite conversation with Nana while John rearranges the bathroom into the darkroom and prepares all the chemicals.

Netta, John’s younger sister breezes in. ‘Have you heard about it all?’ She screams from the doorstep, overexcited.

‘About what?’ Nana casually asks, completely ignorant about all the talks around her for past few hours. ‘Hush, boys are asleep!’

‘Yes,’ I nod, ‘a little bit.’

‘After the rehearsal bumped into Gunnar! He was just released from the police!’

‘Really?’ John shouts from the bathroom.

‘He was okay, but few others had been pulled in the nearby doorways and beaten right there by police!’ Netta releases her news. ‘Bastards!’

I am curious to find out who exactly she means by “bastards” – police or these who had been beaten up. With Netta you can never be sure. Her political views are as unstable as her non-stop changing moods, thanks to her loving mother, who spends every spare minute of her life trying to tell her dear daughter what she is supposed to think. So I just look over my mug of tea in silence, hoping to hear from Netta who are the bastards this time. But Netta already has forgotten about it all.

‘I met a guy today,’ she whispers dramatically as soon as Nana has left the kitchen.

‘Really?’ I’m not exactly surprised because Netta obviously meets a lot of menfolk every day. Despite all the attempts of Nana, there is no way to keep Netta in the complete men-free environment.

‘I decided to marry him.’

‘Poor boy!’ I wink.

‘No, I’m serious!’

‘Why? Love from the first sight?’

‘No, silly, he has a flat.’

‘Yes, that’s a really serious reason to marry one.’ I try but Netta is immune to sarcasm.

 ‘You do not understand, it’s all different for John and you. I can’t stand this shit anymore!’ she waves around. ‘You do not realise but it’s worse than KGB! She even reads my letters for me...’

I understand. Nana had tried her tricks on me as well. And she still tries sometimes.

‘Netta, the difference is because John is different. John doesn’t let her. Have you tried to stop your mother? No. You can run away as far as you want but she will still control you if you’ll let her.’

Netta hopelessly shakes her head. ‘I will bring Forkie home soon to introduce.’ Forkie? Does he has a normal name?

‘Don’t. You know what happened with all your previous boyfriends after you introduced them to Nana? They all went over the cliff straight away.’

‘Hey, they were idiots! Forkie is not.’

‘No, they were quite normal... until Nana finished the brainwashing.’

‘It is hopeless,’ John giggles when I join him in the bathroom and reveal his sister’s sudden plans. ‘Good job we shall be not here tomorrow to witness the drama!’ He puts his hands around me and in the cosy narrowness of the dark bathroom we exchange some quick kisses. Such an exercise in front of Nana would end with a horror scream.

We both stand there, still embraced, silently watching how developer brings out face after face on the wet paper. John has been working hard, and bath is full of prints, floating around.

‘Can you believe this?’ John whispers in the darkness and we both know that he is not talking about Netta’s Forkie. ‘All these people today!’

Chapter 8

Today is the day. Rob’s doctor appointment we were waiting so long for. John volunteered to take Carl with him, so it’s only Rob and me. It will be easier even if the children’s hospital is just around the corner.

Mornings are still sunny but crisp since the first frost had hit us a week ago. It wouldn’t be long now till all the leaves will be stripped from the trees. I welcome the cold as Keggy stays much cleaner after the morning walk.

 The main building, where is the office of our neurologist, is about 100 years old, with steep steps and narrow corridors which are screaming for fresh layer of paint. But at least the specialist we are supposed to see today is told to be the best in the country.

I lift Rob out of the stroller and put on his feet. Last two months Rob has not improved his walking or his speaking skills, and now I’m really starting to worry – something is going wrong with him, definitely.

We knock at the door and nurse lets us in. Office is small so Rob, holding strong on my hand, makes across it by himself. Doctor behind the desk is tall, slim and old, looks like in late seventies. I can’t make my mind up is it a good or a bad sign.

‘Hello, mother, what’s your problem?’ doctor asks, looking over the glasses when we are seated in front of him.

I pass him all our papers – latest x-rays and paediatrician’s order, blood tests and everything. He idly looks through them and asks few questions. I tell about pregnancy and easy birth, Rob’s perfect development during his first year. I tell him that Carl, who is just 11 months older, was up on his feet at 7 months, and compare it with Rob’s still unsteady hobble. I tell about initial diagnosis of congenital dysplasia... ‘So in general, doctor, our problem is that Rob can’t jump from the wardrobe. Carl started to climb up the shelves and jump down at eighteen months, but Rob still doesn’t.’ I finish with a sprightly smile.

Doctor slowly stands up, walks around the table, takes Rob’s hand and looks at it, then takes his little hammer and knocks at first the elbow, then the knee and ankle. ‘Yes, a typical frog-leg position can mislead to hip dysplasia,‘ doctor mumbles under his nose. ‘Typically abducted hips, indeed. While absent reflexes...’

He stands up and looks into my eyes. ‘See, mother, it is a Werdnig–Hoffmann here. ‘

‘Never heard of it. What exactly it is?’

‘Oh, it’s some kind of a progressive spinal muscular atrophy,’ he airily waves. ‘It’s inherited and it’s terminal,’ he quickly ads, returning back to safety behind his desk.

What? Just one look at a child and he hands out the death sentence? He must be out of his mind! ‘And what it does, this Werdnig-Hoffmann?’

‘Nerves just die gradually. He already has no reflexes in ankles and knees, later he will be not able to hold himself up and then he will die when the paralysis will reach the lungs. He will live up to six years at the most,’ doctor rolls out sentence after sentence. I stare at the silly fox, painted on the wall behind him.

‘Doctor, maybe we can switch to Russian to discuss this subject further?’ I nod towards Rob who is listening carefully to every word spoken in the office.

‘Why? He doesn’t understand anything! He will never speak, he will never walk and he will never go to school. Forget about all that.’

I’m having difficulty not to strangle this person right here in his office. ‘But he already walks and speaks, doctor, and understands everything.’ I cross my palms and hold tight. He is an old man, I tell myself, an old man, and you are not supposed to abuse old people.

‘Nonsense! Read all the recommendations; they are here, in this paper.’ Doctor shuffles the folders on the shelf and drags out one sheet of paper. ‘The main thing is to keep him as slim as possible. No bread, no potatoes, no tomatoes, mother. Forget about sugar and any other sweets. From now it will be lean meat, vegetables and then nuts and fruits.’

He finally sits down in his chair and then slowly leans forward. ´You must understand – it will go only worse. So now listen me, mother! You have another child, right? He has rights to have a normal childhood. You go home and think seriously. This one will not get better and later he will need a full time care. Will you be able manage all that? Do you need it? We can sign him into the care right now. There is a wonderful house for the terminally ill children, you know,’ doctor looks at me cheerfully, almost like with a hope in his eyes.

‘No!’ I must stay calm right now but with every second it is harder to keep myself under the control. ‘That’s out of question.’

Stay firm! Stay strong! I pinch my leg hard, holding on the polite smile. Giving up my child! Moron, I whisper under my breath.

‘Did you say something?’ doctor asks over the desk.

‘No, no, I have no more questions. Thank you, doctor!’

I take Rob’s hand and we walk out of the office. I move slowly, one foot in front of other. We can make this, we can... Everything seems blurred by rage, burning inside me. What he thinks he is? God? To give up my Rob, stick him in some care! How dare he! I can imagine exactly how wonderful that wonderful house is! I had seen some Soviet establishments already and they were for living, not moribund. No way. No way!

My eyeballs are burning in the bright light and a heavy hammer is thundering somewhere behind my temples. It feels like I can pass right now, in the middle of the street. Increasing grip until my knuckles are white, I hold tight on the handle of Rob’s buggy. I need a cigarette, right now. How dare he!

Calm down! You must think rational. Like about the diet. No potatoes! Nuts! Where he thinks I will get these damn nuts? In shops? There are only three kinds of dried fruits available sometimes – plums, apricots and raisins. Nuts I hadn’t seen in the shops all my life. There are plenty on the market, but... With trembling fingers I finally fish out a cigarette. Well, we shall need to start take earning thing more seriously to afford these prices.

‘Mum, ‘ill I die ‘oon?’ Rob suddenly asks quite clearly. He speaks. He definitely speaks. That doctor is complete nuts, indeed! Inhale! And blow. As slowly as you can. I mean, the smoke. I blow out a stream of smoke and manage to produce a light smile, looking at yellow leaves under my feet.

‘Rob, do not worry, you will die like we all – when it’s your time.’ I mutter and flick the sneaky tear away with the back of my hand. ‘But right now I think is time to pop up in the bakery and get some cakes. What do you think? And then we must get Keggy his medications.’ It sounds better. Cheerful. Optimistic. Almost normal.

Rob smiles and frantically nods. Doctor and his blunt death sentence are forgotten for now. We choose some of our favourite cakes for dinner and then stroll towards the pharmacy.

Keggy needs calcium tablets. We went to the club for a check yesterday, and while they praised pup’s condition, they recommended calcium on top of our daily portion of the cottage cheese for few months.

‘Calcium tablets?’ the pharmacist looks at Rob and passes me a package. ‘These?’

I look at it. Math is not my strength but the basic calculations I can do. If I take these, Keggy will need 60 tablets a day. ‘Do you have something stronger?’

Pharmacist digs through the drawers and produces some other package. This is a better option. Only twenty tablets per day, well, let’s make it eighteen, six tablets in the blister so three blisters a day. For a month... 90 blisters? Well, boys can have some as well, so it makes...

‘Hundred blisters, please.’

‘Hundred?’ pharmacist looks suspiciously at me, then at Rob and then back at me but as there is nothing naughty you can do with calcium, she brings out of the storeroom quite a large box. ‘Here you are.’

At home I make a strong cup of coffee and sit down to think. I do not believe this doctor. It can’t, it simply can’t be the truth. It isn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

I can’t kick John with these news straight away. Not yet. I do not believe that moron of a doctor. I need another doctor. A seriously better doctor for the second opinion. So I need... to ring my mum.

‘But first of all I need the solution for these damn tablets,’ I mumble watching how Keggy carefully picks one tablet after another out of his dinner bowl and spits on the floor.

At first I tried to wrap each tablet in the slice of cheese; it worked very well until I run out of cheese. My second idea - mixing tablets in the food - does not look very promising either.

‘Keggy, come here!’ I pick up all the tablets, open Keggy’s mouth and tuck them right down his throat. My hand disappears almost down to the elbow but at least this works. Keggy doesn’t mind such technique nor do I – quick and clean, and saves a lot of cheese.

The dinner... I suddenly remember. We still will need a dinner tonight. I open the fridge. Usual pile of eggs, some sausage, pork chops, plate with some fish... Shit! Fish! It’s Angelica’s feeding day! Shit! Shit! Shit!

Since summer is over, Angelica’s meal is a serious job. Once a week I’m cutting a fish fillet in quite small pieces, about the size of a quarter of a frog. ‘See, Rob, each bit must be pinned on a thin wooden skewer.’ Rob, elbows on table, attentively watches preparations.

When it’s all neatly prepared on the plate (and Fitzy is finally convinced that this fish is not for him), I take out Angelica. The trick is to put her head in the left palm in a way so the thumb and the index finger are placed evenly on the corners of her mouth, with the rest of the fingers gently bent around her neck below.

At the beginning even this - finding the right position - took endless attempts, tiring out Angelica as well as me. The next of my horrors was – how big is the strength’s difference between opening the mouth and breaking the fragile jaws? Now it goes fast – lightly squeeze together the thumb and the index finger – mouth opens like a gate.

‘Nuts!’ With the right hand I grab the skewer, prepared earlier, and neatly push the piece of fish down the throat. This again is a tricky moment. If I will push not deep enough, it will be spit out and I will need to repeat the whole thing; if I will push too deep, I can damage the snake’s neck. It’s nearly like some kind of an art finding the right way.

Rob’s eyes follow every movement of mine.

‘See? When the lump is in the right place, the fingers must release the mouth and move a bit lower.’ With the index finger of the right hand gently massaging down Angelica’s neck from outside I explain the whole thing to Rob. ‘It’s like milking a cow. When you will grow up a bit, Rob, I think you will be able to do this.’ What exactly? Milking a cow? Feeding a snake? Or simply growing up? Who are you kidding? I clench my teeth.

When the lump of fish has gone down, the whole thing must be repeated again and again until the amount equal to three good frogs has gone down. At the beginning Angelica took to it like some kind of sophisticated torture which made things worse but now we both had found our comfort level with it, much easier than to feed in the deworming pill to the cat.

‘Would you look at books while I make a dinner?’ I offer when Angelica is back in her cage. ‘Carl and dad will be home soon and they will be starving.’

Rob happily nods. As this is a special day, I fetch a volume of I See All encyclopaedia from dad’s childhood; it has gazillions of little pictures and will keep Rob occupied for ages. Leaving happy Rob behind, I drift to the safety of the kitchen.

I need to peel potatoes, I chant silently like a mantra, I need to peel potatoes. My hands are stiff, like numb. Pork chops for dinner... What I’ll say to John? I can’t. Not today. I must stay strong. I must. Placing a big smile on my face I return back to Rob. ‘A mug of hot chocolate?’

When John arrives, Carl is so full of dummies, paint spray and John’s colleague’s car, that dinner goes easy. I pass the plates around and share out meat, and then we eat cake and I praise Rob’s behaviour at doctor’s...

‘Oh, how it went?’ John asks, reaching for another piece of cake. ‘Was he any good? The doctor, I mean.’

‘Are you kidding? An old fart like him?’

‘What did you expected?’ John smiles. ‘Stop worrying! It will all sort out by itself. He is not even three yet. You know, different children do develop differently.’

I’m holding on. Numb, but... on. With a stiff smile, glued on my face. ‘Probably you are right and I’m just a big fuss but still... I’ll look for a private consultation.’

A week later my mum creates a small miracle. We will see another doctor, Dr Gatt. Much younger, a Jewish one, according to his surname. Sounds promising. He doesn’t sit at office, scaring shit out of innocent people like the first one. This one is busy at the clinical hospital, dealing with serious cases. But he will see us, privately, at my parents. For a very sufficient fee, of course.

After a quick look at Rob doctor looks very positive. When boys are safely seated in front of TV in another room, doctor is ready to reveal his opinion. ‘What a nonsense my dear colleague speaks, indeed!’ He is so very cheerful. ‘It’s not a Werdnig–Hoffmann, I’m quite sure. Look, nearly three and he can still walk! It must be Kugelberg–Welander!’

‘Indeed? So the first diagnosis wasn’t right?’ I ask relieved. ‘That’s brilliant! ’

‘Yes! I would say that your child has a very good chance to celebrate even the tenth birthday!’ doctor announces quite excited.

Yeah, brilliant, indeed. Four years more. Maybe I need start lay out stakes on this bet?

‘Doctor, how about his verbal skills? Education? I never have had doubts about his mental development – he is as bright as his brother, he only can’t speak clearly.’

‘Well...’ doctor takes a moment. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that. Better concentrate on the plain survival. I would even give him more time.. maybe... up to thirteen, maybe even fourteen, you know. Nobody diagnosed at this stage lives past the puberty, of course, but until then... You have a strong chances here. Can I see that other boy you have?’

‘What for? He jumps from the wardrobe all the time!’

‘Just in case, these inherited ones... Genes... You never know.’

‘So you think the death penalty, given by that first doctor, was right?’ my father asks with an ashen face.

‘Yes, of course, sadly there are no doubts about that. He is a great clinicist.’

With trembling hands I fetch Carl from the kitchen where he was happily riding the contents of the fridge, wash his hands and drag him into the dining room. The doctor plays with him a bit, then takes out a little hammer and starts knocking. Exactly like that old moron did with Rob.

‘You know,’ doctor is full of thoughts, ‘I would recommend you take both boys to Moscow. They do have the new equipment there; it can measure the muscle tonus much more precise that the hammer. It would be really good if you would be able to go because – see?’ he knocks Carl’s knee, ‘no response here as well, even if he looks pretty healthy.’

‘So Carl as well?’ my father’s voice is barely audible.

‘No, no, do not worry yet,’ doctor grabs father’s hand, ‘he seems pretty safe right now but I’m not such an expert. See, we just have one or two cases of this stuff a year at the best, and usually the babies are dead by this age already. In Moscow they see dozens of them so they will have much better idea.’

Mother manages to brew some coffee. We all smile politely, nibbling on the cake.

‘Colleagues in Moscow will expect some bribe, of course,’ doctor explains very business-like. ‘Do not even try to play with money, you can’t beat the ones from the oil regions or Caucasus, they go with suitcases packed with money there.’

He looks around and then estimates the bone china cup in his hand. ‘I suggest art. Like some nice china would fit perfect. And flowers. When they see us coming from the Baltic, they want flowers. We have ones they never see in Moscow. Our flowers are highly valuated there, especially if you can get something really special, new sort of something.’

That’s sounds easy. Of course, by theory the health service in Soviet empire is free of charge, but the reality is a bit different – you pay for everything, with some kind of bribe before or with some “thank you” present after. Some artsy present and some flowers... Well, it’s not a killer, really.

But the rest... The second opinion. Well, it slightly differ from the first one, but in general... The death is inevitable. I have no more excuses to keep the whole thing away from John so I smile and joke until boys are tucked in beds and then spill the whole over John. There is no way telling these news gently. I quickly talk with emphasis on the arrangements done already today, and all that, but the blunt truth is still here – Rob is terminally ill and Carl, most likely, as well. And no more children. Not for us. Doctor had explained it clearly.

‘We are just a bad match, John. There is 96% chance that our next one will be born the same way. You can have perfectly healthy child with another woman, and I can have one with another man, but together we can’t make any more.’

After I have finished we sit in silence, too scared to look at each other.

‘Now what?’ John asks, staring in to the wall.

 ‘I do not know, at least nothing for certain jet. Dieting is one. He must be kept as slim as possible. No exercises, no swimming ‘cause muscles can’t be overworked, and actually any efforts must be taken away. Hope they will tell us more in Moscow.’

I try to keep John busy on to the details. The current “to-do” list avoiding the thoughts about what future holds. We can think it over later. Maybe there is a mistake, maybe... The doctor admitted that he is not an expert on this particular one.

We decide that John’s parents will be saved from the news for a while. One day we will need to tell them but right now I have no strength for that. The pain in my father’s eyes today was enough.

So we sit and talk. About practicalities. Like money. We shall need more money, much more.

‘You know the prices in the market.’

John nods, still stiffly gazing at the faded wallpaper. I would like to feel his strong arms around me. I would like to collapse on his shoulder and cry out for our born and unborn children, for our dreams and hopes never to be fulfilled. But I know I can’t. Instead we keep talking nonsense. We both know that but we are not ready to face the future. Not yet. Maybe we shall never be.

‘We’ll manage, won’t we?’

‘Oh, Mo,’ John finally sighs and reaches over the desk and pats on my arm. ‘Yeah, all will be okay.’

Nothing would ever be the same again, I can see it in his eyes. But there is no space for us to mourn. The boys will be up in the morning and the show must go on.

‘Bo-o!’ the door opens a bit. It’s Ben. He is one of the oddest of John’s friends. While everybody else is somehow linked with arts and suitably crazy, Ben is a devoted gardener. Very unusual choice for a city boy, especially when one is disabled. Ben had been born with one hand. The other is just an underdeveloped culta right below the elbow with few tiny fingers at the end.

‘Hey! How are you doing folks?’ He takes off his huge shoulder bag and bends down to brush Keggy’s ears. ‘You like me already, do you? Good nose!’ Ben winks and takes out of the bag a big meaty bone. ’He will enjoy it; we just yesterday culled a calf. Now here is something for you two as well, you poor starved city people!’ Ben giggles, unwrapping plastic bag with more meat. ‘I love this filet!’

Then comes out gorgeous yellow plums, as big as eggs; then pears and few apples. Ben happily tells us about each sort of them, cutting small slices and inviting us to compare different tastes. ‘These you will not find anywhere, completely new sort, not approved for the market gardens yet, but I think this one is just absolutely gorgeous!’

I agree with a big smile, reaching for the next piece. Ben is exactly what we needed tonight to distract us from ourselves.

‘And now the best part! Especially for you!’ He reaches for the jacket pocket. ‘Newest Parrot sort!’ he triumphantly passes me few tulip bulbs. ’Now, do you think I deserve some coffee?’

‘That’s the only think I hate about the country life,’ he says a bit later, slowly sipping coffee. ‘The coffee there. You know, chicory in milk, boiled for few good hours... disgusting stuff. They truly believe that black coffee is only for ‘em bratish city folk.’

We quickly dive in the latest gossips. The chief editor of the culture magazine had been kicked out. Helsinki group has released the first copy of their illegal magazine, John tells, showing the worn out already copy. Ben is a bit sceptical about that all – too much noise over nothing. But he is proud to tell that the Greens managed to hold the meeting For the clean air. Some kind of demonstration, complaining about growing industrialization which in general is as anti-soviet as it can go. This time we are the ones, not really impressed as we still believe that the Green Club, established earlier this year, is just a bunch of bored hip kids, unable to achieve something fundamental.

‘We need political solution, not just save some old oak, you know, and then write a poem about it.’ Well, John himself produces a poem sometimes but it’s his private joke while Ben takes Green Club quite seriously.

‘You do not understand! You must come with me and I will show you all the dead land around! The collective farming, all these stupid kolkhozs... The amounts of chemical fertilisers being spread around carelessly year after year and then perfect crop left in fields to rot because some idiot in Moscow had decided that spare parts for the harvesters will be delivered only the next year! It’s a mayhem!’

‘And you think greens will sort it all out? The whole system must be changed so no idiot in Moscow can decide what we must do and what mustn’t.’ John is getting excited.

‘And you think that bunch of idiots like Helsinki group have a solution?’ Ben is getting as excited as John. ‘Moscow will just shit their pants right away! Of course, it would be cool to get the independence back but think realistic – that will not to happen.’

Ben manipulates cigarette for a while, and when it’s light, he continues. ‘You need to see all these country faces! It’s like they are living dead! But when the greens come, they bring some hope in! At least for that oak or for that ruined church, or whatever. They bring hope! And hope is all that matters.’

I smile. This sounds so normal, so... like yesterday when everything was about the future. I make another pot of coffee and when I return from kitchen, they have moved on about the river.

“Moscow has cancelled the plans to build that new hydro electro station on the river! Just imagine, three hundred thousand people signed against it! Three hundred thousand! And they cancelled it!’ Ben jumps up in the chair.

It is a victory, sure, the first real victory of the opposition. If there is any opposition, you can’t be sure after all. The intelligentsia had raised their concerns few years ago pointing that so many historical monuments will be drowned under the waters of the new dams, about the protected valley where the rare lily grows and all the birds whose habitat would be destroyed... They talked laud about all that while we all knew what the real fears were - all the workers who would be called in from Russia because of the new factories which could be build having the abundance of power then. Now the plan is ditched. By Moscow.

‘Birds and lilies do not win such battles, ever.’ John is sharp. ‘Nor the few voices of cagey intellectuals. Nor public opinion, sealed with 300 000 signatures. When soviets cared about public opinion? Nonsense!’

‘So why then?’

‘Common, even if there is no logical answer, a victory is a victory.’ I try to calm the discussion down a bit.

‘Wellington won because Napoleon had a cold, right?’ John snaps.

Ben parts very early to catch the first buss home. ‘That was great, folks! Can we repeat it somehow the next month again? I will be coming for exams. This is my final year in uni and then I will have a full degree in agriculture at least. Any special orders?’

‘You know, Ben, I have one. How about a good mouser? Fitzy is a lazy bastard so we need another one to keep the rodents down.’

The following days run past quickly, all blurred. Father puts his pride aside and calls his friend “of influence” at the Supreme Council for a help – we need plane tickets and we need a hotel in Moscow, and both things are among ones you simply can’t go and just buy. Another “deficit”. Of course, there always is a plan B – the trip in the sleeper which takes about 24 hours but with our two small ones it is better to avoid Soviet trains.

That works – soon the hotel Rossia in the centre of Moscow is waiting for us as well as desired plane tickets. Boys are thrilled. They will fly in the plane for the first time – what can be more exciting? And they are going to see more doctors! Rob is not particularly thrilled about the doctors’ part but Carl thinks its equal fun to visiting the Zoo, at least. To make things easier for all of us, my mum has arranged some time off so she can fly with me.

From the first glimpse of Moscow I detest it. It’s all too gray and too grand for my liking.

‘Mum, look, it’s like a religion. The Communism. And this is the holy city, right,’ I giggle. ‘Look at these huge posters! The half-faced “holy trinity” – Marx, Engels and Lenin!

‘Shut up!’ mother gives me a strong nudge.

‘Look! They are on every corner. Marx is like Father, Lenin like Son and Engels like Holy Spirit! Why Holy Spirit, you might ask? ‘Cause nobody knows exactly what he had done!’ I mock.

According to communist PR prophets, Stalin was something like a hybrid between “Father of all nations” and the bellowed heir of Lenin, bringing the rays of the Communist Sun to every poor soul who had the bad luck to be born under it. Now the icons of Stalin had gone from the official face of Moscow, replaced by more Lenin and topped up with more recent mere portraits of Gorbachev, but I can still feel it - Stalin’s shadow is still there, lurking around like a powerful ghost.

‘Mum, just look! The centre of the Soviet universe, the heart of the communism is the Kremlin – the church of all churches! With the symbolic red star where the cross would be! And, of course, there is the holiest of all the holy ashes – the Mausoleum in the middle of the Red Square!’ I finish my nervous outburst with a deep bow.

‘Want to go?’ mum offers, gingerly watching me like expecting me collapse in a nervous breakdown.

‘I am not really interested to spend half of the day in the queue to see that long dead body of a little bald guy - after all, I’m mostly protestant, and we are not so much into holy ashes. If seriously, mum, Moscow is really getting on my nerves!’

I prefer keeping safe distance from Kremlin, so I’m haunted by minor reminders of the city’s holiness only but that’s enough to provide me with constant headache – probably too much holiness for the sinner like me.

Even Carl feels the pressure of the city. ‘Mum, only Russians around! Nobody talks our language, it’s awful! How they dare not to learn at least some words?’

‘Here they do not need to speak our language; this is a Russian city after all.’

‘Really? Not even in the Zoo?’ Carl is full of doubts. ‘But why everybody doesn’t speak our language in our city then? It would be only fair.’

I would like to agree but it would be long discussion and right now I’m more concerned about practical side of life - the distances on the public transport in this city are killing, especially with two little children on tow. Public transport is exactly like at home, only dirtier. Well, except metro. Moscow’s oldest metro stations are like posh castles, real museums of Stalin’s era. Hotel, which is supposed to be one of the best in the whole city, in turn, is full of very faded glory and dirty carpets.

‘And cockroaches,’ mother ads, grabbing from the table a magazine for the blow. ‘Disgusting!’

The Neurological centre, as everything in Moscow, is huge. Our appointment is delayed by an hour but then we just roll from an office to office, from a test to test. “Our” doctor is an energetic lady in her fifties, well decorated with impressive scientific titles. She gets her china and a rare sort of coronations, and we, in turn, get her full attention.

In afternoons we go around, taking children to museums and to the mall Children’s World which is huge and provides a lot better choice than at home. Mother even manages to get few kilograms of bananas which are unseen luxury at home, so boys are enjoying every moment of the trip.

‘Mum, listen, these bananas are part of the mythical glory of Moscow!’I announce, peeling off the skin. ‘Even Soviets understand that posters and red stars are not enough to keep pilgrimage blessed enough so Moscow had been turned into a Soviet shopper’s Paradise.’ I carry on my mocking. It seems so unfair - while there are still places of the Soviet vastness where the only milk children saw was coming out of tins, Moscow has the first hand supply of everything.

The only time I saw a fresh pineapple was in 1973 when our city got a shipload of overripe pineapples by accident. But it was really a one off while in Moscow exotic fruits, electric coffee grinders and other consumer miracles appeared quite regularly, keeping steady flow of shoppers from all over the Soviet empire trying their luck. To settle in Moscow was a dream of every Soviet citizen except of few weirdoes like us who preferred their homeland, even if it meant pineappleless life.

In few days our Moscow pilgrimage is over and done. The verdict hasn’t been changed. Rob indeed has this spinal cord whatsoever. Even Moscow doctors can’t decide, Kugelberg–Welander or Werdnig–Hoffmann, but for me it doesn’t change anything. According to the electromyogram, muscle denervation is there while the doctors are keen to stick with the “before puberty” rather than early death, but anyway – Rob is terminally ill. Moscow said so.

‘Maybe... Is there any possibility that in the West they can treat this? In America? Or maybe some non-traditional Eastern medicine?’ The possibilities are spinning in my head. Emigration, we can fight for it. We can fight for our boys whatever the price will be. There must be a chance in the world, at least something... somewhere...

‘No, there is no treatment for this illness as far as we know. And trust me, we know. There is nothing that can be done. Of course, there will be some kind of neurological vitamins and stuff like that, but...’ doctor grows silent.

‘But they are basically for us, parents, not for the child himself, right? Just to keep parents going, make them feel like they are helping somehow?’

Doctor looks at me for a moment then nods slowly. ‘I‘m afraid you are right.’

‘Nothing at all?’

Doctor shakes head and repeats the same dieting thing, explains why no swimming and no exercises and then its over. Time to go home. 

  Chapter 9

Back at home sun is still shining the same when the plane lands. We take a taxi to my parents until John will be able to fetch us later. Boys have hands full of new toys and while Carl tries to explain granddad why the elephant in our Zoo is much better than the one in Moscow and all about magic of the metro, my father prepares a great meal. We fuss about it, and bananas, and the other shoppings we are unpacking thus avoiding the main story.

‘What a grand dinner, dad!’ I smile broadly, putting a large spoon of mash on Rob’s plate. Damn the dieting! If he must die anyway, there is no point make his life even more miserable by taking away every little pleasure of life. ‘Another slice of pork, Rob?’

When excited boys had finally fallen asleep back in their own beds, John looks at me silently. He is afraid to ask. And I’m afraid to give the only answer I have. We are defeated.

I can hear nurse in the kitchen banging pans. There is the smell of their dinner drifting in - burning sunflower oil and that awful stench of salted herrings roasting in it, overflowing the gentle, sweet smell of freshly made coffee.

John sits at the end of the desk dazed. ‘It’s going to rain.’ Indeed, outside, the sky is low and grey.

I tell him in details that doctors were not able to make their mind up about Carl’s fete. ‘His muscle tone is low, according to the tests. Most likely, Carl will not go down quickly, he may even reach the adulthood. But one is clear – even if he makes it, he can’t have his own children – he is a carrier. Bad genes.’

Silence trembles between us. Everything will be different now. Nothing matters anymore.

‘Well, then, no hopes for grandchildren?’ John finally smiles grimly. He is like never-ending constipation right now, indeed. Nothing comes out except that grim smile. ‘What a relief!’

It feels twisted to think about grandchildren we shall never have right now – after all, I’m only twenty-five! I swallow a lump in my throat and try to produce a smile as well. ‘Yeah, we’ll save on college expenses as well.’

‘Well, then we must enjoy what we can have,’ John says, lighting a cigarette. ‘Say hello to Angelica!’

I put down my mug and walk across the room. There she is, our dear Angelica. Only tonight instead of her usual lazy, nearly ignorant, approach she raises her head and hisses at me with quite a serious anger. ‘What’s with her? Why she is so aggressive?’

And then I see. In the corner, right under the heating lamp, lays a pile of pearly white, nearly translucent eggs of different sizes.

‘John!’

‘Well, maybe they will be not exactly the most attractive grandchildren in the world, but at least we shall have plenty of them!’

‘Dream on! This is as grim chance for us as human babies! Snake eggs have no proper egg shells, more like a thin parchment so these will dry out before time in apartment, no doubt about that! But... we can always try!’

I find a large empty glass jar, fill it with some sand and moss, and sprinkle well with water. While John holds the hissing mother, I take out the lump of eggs and carefully slide them into the jar.

‘I think the top of the wardrobe near the stove will be the best place for it.’

‘If top of the wardrobe is the best you are ready to offer to your future grandchildren then maybe it’s for better to keep them away from you.’ John burst out in giggles but his eyes have no sparkle in them. ‘Well, it had been a tiring day for you; better go to bed now.’

‘And you?’ It would be so nice to feel his comforting arms around me tonight, his heavy body on top of me, get lost in some wild passionate sex right now.

John probably sees longing in my eyes. ‘Good night, Mo! Go and have a good sleep.’ He pats me on the back and quickly pecks on the cheek, gently pushing me out of the room.

It hurts. It hurts more than anything else. The resentment. So we were good enough only to share the fun and joy but in sorrows... Right! Yes, at the end you are left alone.

John quietly creeps in the room about an hour later and slides under the blanket on his side carefully, avoiding touching me. So we lay in our bed. Together but so alone. My eyes are wide open and dry. I have no tears. Right. Alone.

***

Next morning Angelica is back to normal - nearly - so are we. Now we must think about these damned nuts, life and everything.

 ‘I’ve got to go soon.’ John tries to avoid my eyes.

‘Will you be back early tonight?’ Well, I can stare in my coffee too, no problems.

‘Probably.’

‘John!’ I’d like to put my hand on his shoulder, to comfort him. But I can’t. The resentment. I‘d not be able to survive another one. I just stand there, arms hanging like two lifeless branches.

‘Yes?’

‘It will be all right. It will be. The dieting will be not so daunting. Just less sweets, more fibre and nuts... for both of them – then everything will feel more or less normal. We must keep things normal.’

‘Yes, about these nuts and everything...I had a thought last night. I think I might take a different job. The museum needs a photographer and that’s a serious option. The salary is a joke but there is a darkroom and very flexible working hours. And, secondly, it’s not so funny anymore, you know...’

Yes, I know, it’s really not funny anymore. When John started on dummies, it didn’t seemed so bad – grand salary and flexible hours, but the job has some serious side effects. Nobody seems to be able to sort out the ventilation system there so after a good day’s spraying John always walks home quite high. ‘Saves buying beer,’ John laughed at the beginning but soon he obtained some nasty cough and that wasn’t funny anymore. It’s not only acetone fumes, there are other, nastier stuff which can damage human body quite deadly.

‘I would be able to take all the freelance photography jobs, you know, weddings and all that on top of sewing... That will pay for a few nuts easy. And flexible hours will mean that I can adjust to the doctor appointments and such.’ John has planned it all out.

‘Oh, yes, actually Ben called – he needs another pair of trousers.’

‘See? It will work.’

John is quite popular as a tailor among his friends. After the art college he went straight into the tailoring school and it’s useful now - sometimes three or four friends are patiently hanging around while John rattles the sewing machine – our very old friend Singer.

Of course, there are some kind of trousers available at the shops but they are never fashionable and it’s impossible to find the right size if you are out of the mysterious Soviet standard size chart. Too tall or too fat or anything beyond the average and you are stranded with bare ass.

It takes about two hours and three beers for John to produce a pair of perfectly fitted trousers according to the latest fashion. Most of the time it’s only as “jeans alike” as possible, with occasional extra seam on the pockets but none of our friends are exactly into the mainstream fashion, Soviet (if there is such a thing as Soviet fashion) or from glossy Western magazines what are steadily creeping through the Iron Curtain.

Instead of following we create and mix our own. Like now - John’s jacket is a short, dark blue one, lined with real bear fur – he believes that it belonged to a German war pilot back in WWII. With it he wears a top hat and his trousers as well as mine are made out of hundred years old tapestry.

 ‘What for? You just made him a pair last time!’ While Ben, being tall, definitely needs tailored ones, he is actually not into fashion. Few pairs go until they last.

‘I suspect a wedding in the air,’ John giggles. ‘He didn’t officially mention such a possibility, but it looks very much like that.’

‘That’s great! He deserves something special.’ I nod.

‘Do you mean trousers or a bride?’ John seems a bit more relaxed and not so determent to leave.

‘How about both? If you are right, of course...’

‘How about tomorrow? Have you decided? Are we going?’ John asks on more serious note.

‘Sure! I want to see what they will pull out of the sleeve this time.’

18th November is our Independence Day, the one we had celebrated between the wars. Now Soviet officials have had announced very clearly that there will be no demonstration on that day. At least there will be not one at the Freedom Monument. By some twisted reason Soviets had decided to call a demonstration by themselves on the Embankment – to support the Latvian Soviet Republic.

‘It’s quite interesting – even I know that demonstrations are called out of the blue to support something which needs to be supported...’ John winks.

‘Does this Soviet Republic need an extra support? Is it in danger? Wow! We didn’t know it! Now we know! That’s excellent news!’ On the other hand, it is a bit sad - we were so looking for another demonstration. They are exciting. They are fun. And they are extremely cheerful. ‘Oh well!’

‘Well, Mo, now I really must rush! Bye!’ Door slams behind John. 

‘Oh well!’ I sigh again, pouring the last drop of coffee into my mug. ‘Children will be up soon.’

The next morning comes quickly. This time we have had prepared ourselves. Boys had a big lecture about appropriate behaviour while Keggy has a nice, quite large bandana around his neck. I had made him a leather collar with a little storage space under it – enough for ten film rolls, and bandana covers it all perfect. Just in case somebody will have problems with picture taking again. Soviets are a bit paranoid on that field – everyone with camera is a potential Western spy for sure.

Seems like Soviets have had prepared as well. In fact – too well. The whole perimeter around the monument is closed. Soviet Army officers and cadets in their full trappings are standing around in chains, looking very impressive.

‘That’s a posh parade around here!’ giggles a lady in her sixties, slowly taking her way around the chains.

‘Yeah, seems that Soviets have started to honour our freedom and our monument!’ somebody replies mockingly. The crowd is there already, circling around and having fun. By some reason, nobody feels defeated. Yes, shame we can’t put flowers at the base of the monument. But this unusual parade is worth it. Officers, hundreds of soviet officers standing there... It’s some sight.

‘You know, it’s great!’ John chuckles, slowly pushing Rob’s buggy around while I struggle with eager Keggy and Carl.

‘What? These chains?’

John nods. ‘That they needed to use so much manpower to keep us away!’

‘Interesting what they were thinking standing there?’ back at home John pensively asks, putting on Brothers in Arms by Dire Straits. While the reels spin around slowly, he unpacks his camera bag and picks rolls out of Keggy’s collar.

‘I’m more interested to find out who is responsible for the absence of the cheese here!’ I shout staring in the depths of fridge. ‘Rob? Carl?’

‘Not me!’ Carl is very defensive. ‘Are you sure we had any cheese there?’

‘Yes, I bought yesterday nearly a kilo! Confess, who?!?’

‘Mum, seriously, it wasn’t me! Nor Rob! He wouldn’t be able even if he tried to clear such amount of cheese!’

True. Very true. But who then? I definitely remember bringing back a big lump of cheese among other things. Was it still there this morning? I can’t remember. Oh well... I shovel food on to plates. ‘Then only egg sandwiches for tonight.’

‘There's so many different worlds, so many different suns, and we have just one world, but we live in different ones...’ John hums along for a while, looking at his mug of tea, deep in thoughts. ‘They probably were thinking only about their cold feet. It’s getting chilly, isn’t it?’

‘You are right, it’s getting really cold now.’ I stare out of the window. ... we live in different ones... yeah, indeed. We both are like two raw sores now, avoiding each other. Mocking and laughing but scratch the surface and all is raw and untouchable below. 

Chapter 10 

 ‘I got a tree!’ John proudly announces from the doorstep.

‘Really? Where it is? In the shed?’ I’m ready to run out to look at it.

‘Nope. It’s still with my dummies. See, my colleague’s cousin is a forester and he was delivering a load to kindergartens and he had some spare to offer around. They are really nice. Damn heavy as well.’ John shakes snow off his hat.

That’s great! Christmas is a big thing in our families even nobody actually is into religion one way or another. It’s just another thing helping to keep Soviet reality away, some kind of political resistance. Yes, even Christmas in Soviet empire has a political angle, at least for us. Soviets try to strangle everything, related to any religion, and Christmas is one of these things. John’s mother remembers her childhood in Soviet Russia when they lit the candles on the tree on Christmas Eve only after the curtains were drawn and doors locked. Then it would cost them a big deal if neighbours would find out. In fact, later it was not classified as pure anti-Soviet action but lied somewhere along things like wearing wedding rings – pure bourgeois tradition which must be weeded out for the brighter communistic future.

Soviets had found their way. While in Russia itself New Year decorations appear way before Christmas (Russian Orthodox Church keeps the old calendar thus the Christmas by them is celebrated on the 7th January and the New Year – on 14th January), in the Western part of Soviet Empire where Catholic and Protestant churches are traditionally strong, anything Christmassy is delayed as long as possible. If the days fall right, mid-term holidays at school start just before the New Year, and Christmas trees appear only few days before, so in my childhood it took a lot of efforts to get a tree before Christmas. Now it’s getting easier to get the tree in time while there is a new problem – trees for sale are very poor, hardly worth taking home. In the worth cases one buys two trees and ties them together to create something better than just a broomstick. So each year getting a tree makes me nervous – I feel much better when it’s done and dusted.

‘That’s really great, we can now relax on that department at least.’

The tree always is bought in on the Christmas Eve. Our ceiling is high and I would like to have a full length tree but not this year. ‘I can’t trust Keggy around the tree. Can we put it on the table?’

Fitzy was fascinated by the tree the first year when he was climbing and playing endlessly but somehow he managed to swallow one strip of a thin silvery tinsel. As a result the week after Christmas he felt rather embarrassed walking around with about a foot or so of tinsel with little brown lumps on it rattling behind. I had a really hard dilemma how to remove the whole thing – talk about shitting stones, indeed.

This year situation is even more serious. Keggy has reached the size of an adult dog while still in the puppy mode and knowing his clumsiness, the tree on the floor would not last long.

‘Yes, I think I can put a hook in there,’ says John, assessing ceiling above our large dining table. ‘I will bring the tree home tomorrow.’

Since we had children, every Christmas tree had been secured at the top to the ceiling. Thus, even if the cat, dog and both boys would crash in the tree all at once, it would stay up. All our precious glass balls will be hanged higher up anyway, leaving the bottom branches for more sturdy decorations.

Closing my eyes, I try to run through my Christmas list. Mandarins. I must ask John is there any hope that he will get mandarins at his office. The chance to see them in a shop is nil. In our world you get them at kindergarten or at school or if you are lucky, your bosses will provide them – half a kilo to each child. If not, it means another thing at the market where they are at abundance, only price is eight times higher.

Walnuts... I know father will have some but I want them as well. I have fast drying golden paint already prepared. Market.

Candles! I have big white ones for the candelabra but the small ones, for the tree... I have some left from last year but that’s not enough. I must concentrate on finding candles. I really dislike the electric lights in the tree for Christmas. For New Year and all the fun they are acceptable-ish, but for the serenity of the Christmas Eve I need the warmth of the live candle light.

Presents... all are ready. I like when they are ready early, some hidden in the top shelves behind the books since September.

I can hear children in the garden and when I look out of the window I see Carl shovelling the snow in a pile, right on top of Rob. Socks. They will need more woollen socks this year, I add to my list. Rob will get a pair of winter boots which mum bought in Moscow. They are very light and warm but still – in this snow extra pair of thick, knitted socks always works well.

‘Mum! Can we go to the slope?’ Carl rushes in with cheeks burning red. ‘With Keggy. I tied a new string to the sledge!’

The railway line runs high right behind our garden and in winter the slope is always covered with children. There is no wind today and it’s quite nice, only about – 10 C. Why not?

‘Okay. I will call you when the dinner will be ready. But be very careful! Look after Rob, please, and watch out for the trains. Promise?’

Carl disappears and a moment later I see him pulling the sledge away with Rob laying in it.

The food... with a big sight I return to my Christmas list. Tin of red caviar was already in the fridge. A bag of peas. Dried fruits for the cake. Spices for mulled wine. But what to do with the main meal? Roasted pork, our usual Christmas dinner, is out of the question now. A goose, another traditional option? To fatty for Rob as well... A turkey? It will be painful. A price of a turkey in the market for Christmas... It will be like what? Half of John’s monthly salary? But that’s my only choice now.

That’s it then. All planned out - Christmas Eve at home, Christmas day at my parents, and John’s family at New Year. This is our life now – all planned ahead, meals included.

I walk to the kitchen, put few more logs in wood stove, take the buckwheat porridge off the gas and grab my coat – time to fetch the boys.

The slope is full of happy screams. I stand in the shadow of the fence and watch for a while. Yesterday’s snow still looks quite fresh. Sledge after sledge run down with a dull thud hitting the snow, shovelled in a pile at the end of the path, children falling over each other. Our sledge and both boys are in the middle of all this fun. Keggy grabs the rope between the teeth and pulls the sledge back up the hill. Sometimes, when there is no rope to pull, he grabs a pompon of some woollen hat and pulls it up.

‘Hey! Time to go home!’

 ‘Half an hour more! Please!’ Carl makes a miserable face.

‘Please!’ somebody small, covered in snow, joins in. ‘If they must go home, can you please leave at least Keggy with us? ‘

‘Mum! It’s not fair!’

‘Oh well, life is not fair. Accept it!’ Rob is quickly tucked in the sledge. ‘Home!’

I can’t unwrap them in the shared kitchen or in the hall so I carry Rob straight in our room, put him on the chair and take his boots off. They are full of snow as well as Keggy’s coat. ‘Carl, quick! Take everything off!’

In few minutes the melting snow has created an impressive puddle in the middle of the parquet floor. I peg the boots as well as wet mittens and socks on the line around the tile stove, brush Keggy’s coat and mop up most of the water.

‘Carl, how this happened?’ Hood of Rob’s anorak has several quite large holes which were not there when they left.

‘It must be Keggy,’ Carl shrugs, ’when he was dragging Rob up the hill. That way it goes faster.’

Yes, it is very hard for Rob to climb up the hill. Or simply walk. It would be safer to keep him inside where the floors are smooth and even. But... I look at Rob’s read cheeks and happy face...

It’s hard watching Rob staggering around. I wish I’d have tears to cry out. To mourn. For the future what’ll never come. While he is slowly getting better with his words, the physical side is hitting in harder day by day. How long until he will be completely bound into a wheelchair? Probably soon. Way too soon. And what then?

There are only two options, right? To let Rob live the life he has and accept all the risks or to lock him inside where he would be safe and protected but ... in prison. He is doomed already. To a very short life, big part of which he will be spending in a wheelchair anyway. How somebody can take off that minimum of the freedom he has left? I don’t care what doctors say. Not anymore. While he is alive he has rights to live in full. Even if it means more holes in the anorak.

‘Good dog, good!’ I pat Keggy’s head frantically. He enjoys the praising. ‘These will be dry for morning, Carl, not to worry. More snow forecasted, by the way.’ I add, shaking last snow off the damaged anorak. ‘Buckwheat for tonight?’

Later, when everybody has been put in beds, I lay with wide open eyes, gazing into the darkness. John besides me turns on his side, coughs and grunts. Yeah, his dreams don’t seem pleasant as well. Sleepless nights and false smiles is all that’s left for us. The burden has been too heavy.

We had it all – bright future, plans and dreams, love... Where it all went? When? Now we are like two ships at night, politely greeting each other on passing. The love is still there, I can see it in John’s eyes sometimes, but the rest... A quick peck on the cheek at morning, a polite hug at night... Hugs of the Communist party bosses have more passion than our crap.

No more attempts for me tonight trying drift into a sleep. It’s hopeless. I’ll be better getting up and doing something. I have woollen socks I started to knit. Yeah, I’d rush with those. I climb over John and silently slide my feet in slippers. I do not want to wake him up. Then he’ll feel obligated to something and we both know that it’s hopeless.

I decide to make myself a little sinful cup of coffee. Who said that coffee is better than sex? I must try that statement out. At least I still have plenty of coffee to play with.

I slide out in the hall and quietly open the kitchen door. Wait a minute! There is a dim light! Who the heck have left the fridge door ajar?

Our fridge is one of these tall monsters with bottom half as a fridge and top – a freezer. Way too big for us so we adjusted it a bit – the bottom is filled with John’s film rolls and few jars with Angelica’s hibernating frogs while the freezer is on its low and serving as a food fridge for humans.

‘Cheeky buggers!’ I’m really surprised. The gang is caught red handed. Mystery of vanishing cheese solved!

Keggy, up on his back legs, has reached as far as the top door and pushed it open with his nose. But he can’t reach any food on shelves. So he has found an accomplice. Fitzy is balancing on top of Keggy’s head, with a front paw fishing out the lump of cheese, wrapped in plastic.

I slap Keggy’s ass with a slipper. ‘Carl will be kissing your sore butt at morning, mate! At least now I know that it wasn’t him.’ I put the kettle on and settle in armchair reaching for the basket with my knitting. I must think this over.

‘Mum, don’t you think that this is one step too far?’ Carl whines at the breakfast table next morning assessing the chain with the padlock on the fridge door.

It is snowing on the Christmas Eve. When turkey is stuffed in the oven, John brings in the tree. Carl is assigned to help dad with saw to trim the tree in the right length. Rob... he will help with the decorations.

‘Can you, please, pick up all the candle holders?’

‘Damn!’ the hammer hits the floor.

‘Hey, boys, you are supposed to have some Christmas spirit in you!’

‘That’s simply not the case here, mum.’

‘Why not?’

‘What a spirit one can have on an empty tummy?’

The box is opened and contents had been laid out on the desk. These two glass bells I took with me from my parents’ house as a reminder of my childhood. And this cheeky snowman is from John’s house. It is like a tradition already – my parents have done the same. Each year my father puts on their tree a little golliwog doll and a stork, made out of cotton wool, glued and painted. These decorations his father kept since twenties when my father was a little boy. They have special meaning for my father; he lost his mother at three when her pregnancy went wrong and there are not many things from their time together. My mum has two ornaments, made out of thin glass tubes, red and silver, stringed on the thin metal wires. These are precious; they have memory in them from my granny’s childhood house, right before the WWI. Interesting which decorations our boys will remember and cherish later? Which ones they will pick up for their homes?

And then it finally hits me. There will be no Christmases for their children. There will be no more children. There comes the point when you can no longer lie to yourself, telling that soon it all will get better. There might be just few Christmases left for all of us together!

I run to the kitchen and stand at the window, clutching the tops of my arms, gazing out into the street. There is no traffic and even the streetlights are hanging motionless. Good bye my dreams about a big family! Good bye, all the unborn babies! Mine and theirs. This is the dead end. I rub my dry eyes in the darkness. Christmas Eve... I shudder.

‘Soon, mum?’ Carl shouts from the room. ‘I’m starving!’

Shit! I nearly forget the bird! I switch on the light and open the oven to check out the turkey. I’m not a great cook and cooking in this old, wood stove is not an easy job even for the expert but seems that all is going well.

John climbs down the table and folds the newspaper he was standing on. ‘Done! Now it’s your turn, lot!’

Keggy watches this bedlam in awe. He has a bright red bandana around his neck and looks very Christmassy.

‘Angel? Where is the angel?’ While I’m not a big fan of angels, there is no way the tree top would be decorated with a star. That symbol Soviets had spoiled completely for us. Red and golden stars are everywhere – from the top of Kremlin down to every military uniform. Even children must wear a badge with a star at primary school. ‘Carl? Where is the angel?’

Carl dashes to their room and brings the paper angel they were making this morning. He is not very good with drawing but knows how to use scissors very well. Rob is our artist.

‘Wow! That’s some wings! And that smile!’

I secure the grinning angel on the top and then boys pass me decorations, one after another. When tree is ready, I check on the turkey again. It needs at least another hour. Well... Floor is full of branches John trimmed off the bottom of the tree. ‘Boys! How about Albert? He needs a tree himself, isn’t he?’

An apple and the carrot and two little knives do the trick. John puts another reel with Christmas songs on while boys happily cut little bits and tie them to the branch. Who said that a rat can’t have some festive fun?

‘Merry Christmas, Albert!’ Carl secures the decorated branch in the cage. Albert rises up on back legs and carefully sniffs the branch. Then he reaches greedily for one of the carrot pieces.

‘Mum! I want my food as well!’

‘Time to light the candles then.’

Turkey is quite edible, despite my cooking skills. After the dinner we unwrap our presents and then we all take Keggy out for a walk. It’s cold now and fresh snow is glistering under the street lights. Rob is holding our hands while we slowly thread through the snow. Carl is bouncing in front with Keggy.

‘When he will start lifting the leg?’ John asks curiously, watching Keggy squatting like a dog girl.

‘I have no idea. I thought he would do by now but maybe larger breeds start later.’

Like an urban thunderstorm, a freight train rushes past us.

Seventy-eight cisterns!’ Carl proudly announces the final count. He really loves numbers and math.

‘Have you noticed the labels, Mo? Yprite.’ John points, sniggering. ‘All this amount of mustard gas running past... It feels like Soviets are preparing for the First World War again.’

‘Even knowing your very positive approach, they can’t be so much behind the time, can they?’

John makes a snowball and drops it down my back. I scream and giggle and then throw some snow back. I hug John and he hugs me and then we all roll in snow in a big pile while Keggy excitedly jumps around us. And then we walk back, holding Rob’s hands and humming The Silent Night together. It feels great. Like the darkness of the past months has gone. Like we are back where we were – a very happy family.

The next day at my parents Carl is on his best behaviour. ‘Obviously this is not sufficient.’ Carl politely points towards the mere amount of the mash on his plate. ‘I’m most displeased. It seems to me that your motherly love has almost obliterated.’

I must admit, it’s my fault. Knowing my parents, I asked especially to reduce the amount of food, at least for Rob. And they had been taking it into account. Of course, there is caviar, smoked eel, roasted lamprey and all other usual festive food but the amount of mum’s potato salad had been reduced by half and there is no jellied pettitoes and homemade gateau this time.

Father chuckles. ‘Eat, you cheeky bugger!’ He is always amused by the magnitude of Carl’s appetite.

After the dinner father proudly takes out two peaches. They are incredibly huge. ‘Here you are, boys! For the dessert!’

‘What’s that?’ Carl cautiously checks the monstrous fruit.

‘It’s a peach. Like bigger version of an apricot.’

Carl knows apricots. He also knows peaches – the normal ones. But these are different. These two definitely hadn’t grown under the Soviet sun – they must have been travelling from far, far away. ‘Dad, where you got these?’

‘Better don’t ask.’ Father triumphantly winks. ‘Even the blind hen can find a corn once a while.’

Rob holds his peach with both hands and then carefully slides teeth into it. A large drop of juice runs down his chin. ‘Yum!’ he nods approvingly.

Carl still looks at the fruit with suspicion. ‘It’s fluffy. Like a mouse,’ after long pause Carl announces. ‘No, thank you, I don’t eat fluffy fruit, sorry, grandpa.’

I do not like to see the disappointment in father’s eyes; he had tried hard. ‘Carl! Just try!’

‘I’m not going to waste my valuable time arguing with you, mum. Just reconcile yourself to the fact that I will not eat it.’

I really do not feel that I need to discuss this further. ‘How about a cup of coffee?’ I turn to the adults. ‘Or it’s time for more mulled wine?’

Rob has finished with the peach and now both boys are digging through their presents under the tree. Father brings in a jug of wine and we sit around the table in silence for a while, listening the record of baroque chorals and sipping the spicy wine.

Candles in the tree are sending out such a benign light... the smell of cinnamon and cloves drift around... As an extra bonus it is snowing outside. I close my eyes... Peace for the world...

‘Have you read yesterday’s paper?’ dad wants to know. His former favourite escape discussions about UFO’s or Egyptian ancient art are a distant past. Now we can endlessly talk about the latest on the survival rates of our language and about the ways to put on halt the inevitable Russification. And - even better – we have newspapers now to discuss!

In general, we are masochists of some kind. We want to hear the bad news. Good news are boring, especially if they are lies. Goebbels had a point stating that a lie that is repeated by thousand times becomes a truth. It worked well for Soviets for a while but not anymore. Now it’s opposite. Soviets can publish the complete truth on the front page and nobody will believe just because it is on the front page. We are fed up reading about the ‘heroic battle over the crop’ each autumn and then hopelessly search for the results of that great victory in the shop shelves.

Now we have bad news in abundance. Still not on the front page which by rule is filled with usual lot of Soviet’s favourite hurrah words but on the second page we can find a piece condemning the extremists. We are well trained to read such news – look, there are extremists, and they have done something Soviets see worth condemning. Marvellous!

‘Where is Carl?’ mum asks suddenly cutting off my daydreaming. Yes, he is not under the tree anymore. And he is not under the table either. ‘’Course, it’s kitchen, mum!’

I quietly creep up to the kitchen door and there he is, my darling boy. The fridge door is wide open and Carl is sitting on the floor in front of it with a bowl of cold boiled potatoes on his lap. ‘Presents are great and all that fancy stuff but.... Want to join in? At least some proper food in this house.’