During the first days of my confinement to hospital I was visited by Esmé and, anxious to be reassured, asked her to confirm that I had indeed flown. I was delirious and could not trust my own memory. Esmé passionately affirmed the fact that I had achieved the first powered flight without use of an airframe. I stand by her word and the news in the papers which appeared again many years later in a British magazine, Reveille, and an American newspaper called The National Enquirer. I wish I had the original Russian reports, but they were lost with so much else. Not everyone had faith in me, even then. I was to learn only after some weeks that Sarkis Mihailovitch, alarmed by my borrowing the motor, had decided to dispense with me, partly, I gather, to placate the bakery. My mother said nothing during my period of recuperation. Herr Lustgarten was called in on occasions to keep me in touch with my studies and my mother spent most of her ‘leisure’ time writing long letters to relatives, no matter how distant, concerning my further education. She was selfless beyond common-sense where her own good was concerned and, when it came to my well-being, there was nothing she would not try.
Esmé was allowed to visit me and it was to her that I described my plans for a modified ‘bird-man’ machine. Speaking to her of those who remained sceptical of my achievement, I mentioned the soldiers’ claim that I had merely tumbled down the gorge. She was indignant. ‘Of course you flew. Of course you did. You flew for miles and miles. All over Kiev!’ This was an exaggeration, naturally, from loyalty, but Esmé was well known for speaking the truth and was called ‘the little saint’ in our neighbourhood, for the way she looked after her father.
When Esmé was not there (as all too often she could not be) I contented myself with reading in various languages and drawing up improved plans for my ‘flying infantry’. I wrote letters to our War Office, describing my success, but received no reply. It is quite possible that some jealous bureaucrat, perhaps Sikorski himself, made sure they never reached the proper hands. I also designed a wrist-teleprinter and worked out a means of bridging the Sea of Azov between Berdiansk and Yenikale, using semi-buoyant pontoons. These were just two of many designs which I was to lose during the Civil War, but they were far ahead of their time. I deeply regret not patenting any of my inventions. I was too trusting. The ‘word of mouth’ and ‘shake of hands’ which was good enough for honest people in my boyhood was merely, by the time I reached maturity, the mark of a thorough scoundrel. Had I been less gullible, I would be a millionaire by now. I would have been a millionaire, in fact, many times over, if only on the strength of my Ultra-Violet Light Projector.
Also while in hospital I evolved my lifeplan, after the German fashion. I drew up a chart of the next few years, with all my various goals carefully listed. There was my education, my government work, my employment of agents to seek out Zoyea for me, the house I intended to buy for my mother where she could be looked after by Esmé and Captain Brown, whom I would employ at good wages. There was no reason to consider this plan unrealistic at the time.
Revolutionists and fanatics again conspired to thwart my destiny, however, when, in August 1914, I was healed enough to consider taking the entrance exams at the Technical School. This time an assassination at Sarajevo - ‘the shot which rang round the world’ - led to monstrous Armageddon, the First Great War, and my mother told me the disappointing news that Herr and Frau Lustgarten, those gentle scholars, had fled the country, apparently for Bohemia, fearing an expression of the anti-German feeling already experienced by a number of people with German-sounding names with shops in Kiev’s suburbs. So, between the Armenians and the Germans, I was suddenly without tutor or employer!
It was left to my relatives to rescue me. Some of those to whom my mother had written had, by autumn, responded, including my paternal grandparents, whom I never knew, and Uncle Semya. Certainly there was now talk of my going to be educated in St Petersburg (this delighted me, for the best technical schools were there), but first Uncle Semya wanted me to go on holiday, to visit him in Odessa, all expenses paid. He never really explained why he wished to see me. I assumed he wanted to look over his ‘investment’. My mother found Uncle Semya’s interest in me rather suspicious. She did not care for him much. It seems to me now that he had come to pin most of his hopes on me, having failed to have sons who cared a jot for education. None of my cousins was particularly literate. I think this was a disappointment to him. He need not have worried. They were prepared for Russia’s future. Two of them at least became powerful Commissars during the terrible famines of the twenties and thirties. The Bolsheviks considered brute strength, cunning and blind obedience far more valuable than learning. It did not greatly matter to me why Uncle Semya agreed with my mother, as he agreed on no other subject, in the matter of my improvement. That he was prepared to give me both an education and a holiday was enough. The next few months looked exciting indeed. If I had already astounded Kiev, how might I astound the lazy natives of our Southern and most cosmopolitan metropolis, or the world-weary citizens of the capital itself?
During the three weeks before I left, my mother was in tears. She packed and re-packed my few clothes. She made me swear not to fall in with radicals. Not to imitate flashy Odessa ways or speech. She made me promise to have nothing to do with ‘those crooks of Moldovanka’ (readers of the commissar-journalist Babel will know what I mean). She wept as she reminded me of her husband’s guessed-at fate. She wept as she reminded me to change my underwear. She was the most wonderful, caring mother a boy could wish for. I regret, now, that I did not humour her as much as I should have done. My patched-up skull was full of dreams about my future exploits. The night before I was to leave Kiev, Esmé came to our door with a St Christopher medal which her father had brought back from some foreign land. This she hung, with all proper gravity, around my neck. Then she hugged me. She kissed my cheeks. And she wept. When she had gone, my mother inspected the medal, suspicious that it might be associated in some way with sedition. It was only with reluctance, and some weeping, that she returned it to my neck. I found the medal extremely reassuring and wore it for a long time afterwards, to remind me that I had at least one loyal friend in Esmé.
Soon after Esmé had gone, my cousin Alexander arrived. He was called by himself and everyone else ‘Shura’. He was a weasel-faced and cocky youth with the cropped hair and red-and-white chequered neck-scarf fashionable amongst his kind at the time. He left his small bag with us, refused my mother’s offer of food, condescendingly took half-a-glass of tea from our old samovar, and went into the city to accomplish some piece of slouching business. He returned with a tin of chocolate and something in a sack which he put immediately into his luggage, to my mother’s great anxiety. He had had more than a little vodka (few paid attention to our prohibition laws) and stood at the stove rubbing his hands together and winking at me.
My poor mother came close to fainting and hurried him into our other room where he was to sleep. He did not go to sleep at once. In the darkness, where I lay on my shelf for the last time, I heard him singing some mysteriously lewd song in his soft, trilling Odessa accent, while my mother sniffled complicated counterpoint on her couch. I have every sympathy with her: Shura was not the most reassuring of escorts for a son who was to leave the city for the first time alone.