None of the people like Uncle Yura would have burglarized someone’s apartment or picked someone’s pocket. God forbid! But was it really stealing when someone snatched at least something from the Soviet state that deceived us all the time? The pastries, cakes, and other delicious things were sold to Soviet people at the same prices as at the state stores.
Uncle Yura, naturally, didn’t forget about his family. At their house I had as many sweets as I could wish for. And I could take some home.
Uncle Yura worked in Tashkent which meant that he was often away. Even though their house looked like it had plenty of everything, it seemed empty to Aunt Maria: she was lonely, often, very often. On top of that, she felt fear and tension. If he were caught, he couldn’t expect any mercy. No, Maria, unlike her husband, was not a passionate businesswoman.
That, I thought, was the reason the two women became friends: they were both unhappy. Both of them had something to complain about, something to confess to each other. It was gratifying for both of them to feel a kindred spirit next to them.
Once, arriving home from school, I entered the kitchen where Mama was busy at the blazing hot stove, but it wasn’t just her soups and pilafs that were seething and boiling, Mama was also at the boiling point. I could tell immediately from her voice, her very quick movements. It meant that something had happened. That morning I had heard Father’s voice, or rather his barking, coming from their bedroom.
After she put a plate in front of me, Mama ran out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, “Eat, I’ll be back…” And I heard her quiet voice from the living room. Of course, she was calling Maria. Whom else could she, seizing a moment, tell about yet another quarrel on the phone?
In America, women visit psychotherapists not just to get medical help. It’s well known that a conversation with an understanding, compassionate person brings feelings of relief and satisfaction.
Mama was back in the kitchen. Her face brightened up. “Have you eaten? Would you like more? Oh, Aunt Maria said that Edik had problems with his homework again. Perhaps, we can visit them together.”
“Aha,” I thought, “Uncle Yura is not back yet, and Aunt Maria is worried.”
The Musheyevs were not only emotionally kind. They knew how we lived, how carefree and selfish Father was. Mama often didn’t have enough money from one payday to the next, and she would run to the Musheyevs to borrow money for a week or two.
“What would I do without them?” she used to say.
Mama well knew how seldom one came across genuine kindness in our cruel world. Probably, the Musheyevs’ support seemed quite natural to me. They were rich, and our life was so hard.
Not that I thought about it all the time. Wealth in the Musheyevs’ house wasn’t that flashy. But I did really envy the Musheyev boys, and I still remember that painful, disgusting feeling.
A holiday was drawing near. Uncle Yura was assigning errands to Aunt Maria when he came to Chirchik for a short time and was about to leave again. “Oh, yes,” he remembered, “what about presents for the kids? All right, guys…” he approached the coatrack in the hallway where his casual pants were hanging and took a few crisp new banknotes out of the pocket. He turned the banknotes in his hands, as if he were teasing the boys, and then gave them to Edik and Sergey. “It’s yours, spend it. Buy whatever you want.”
That’s when the oppressive and shameful feeling of envy, of my own deprivation, gripped me. No, it was even more complex. I felt as if I had been separated from the realm of this wealthy family. I had a different fate and status that my friends Edik and Sergey knew nothing about, which they couldn’t possibly feel and understand.
But that didn’t happen often. I usually felt at home at the Musheyevs’.
We were having dinner, eating pilaf from the big plate. The youngest son, Sasha, was in his mother’s lap. He opened his mouth wide, like a baby bird, and Aunt Maria put pilaf into it, not like a mama bird with its beak but with her hand, and the baby bird munched happily.
“Boys, it’s time to do your homework,” Aunt Maria reminded them. “Valery, will you help Edik? Wait, have you had enough to eat? Would you like some more?” “Thank you,” I shook my head and stood up. It was impossible not to have enough at Aunt Maria’s table, but it was also difficult to stop eating.
Edik, who until now had been eating rather sluggishly, suddenly perked up, and his spoon became busy.
“I’m not full,” he mumbled with his mouth full.
“If you want more, take it from the pot.”
Edik went to the kitchen, and Sergey giggled and winked at me.
“Let’s go. Why should we wait for him? It could take forever.”
Sergey was not lazy like Edik. Even though he was two years younger, he could see through his brother. As often happens, the brothers quarreled all the time. Compared to theirs, my relationship with Yura seemed an example of peaceful coexistence. I enjoyed their fights very much as a spectator.
It would begin with a squabble. The brothers argued about everything. They gradually got fired up, insulting words were brought into play, then their hands began twitching by themselves. The brothers moved close to each other, their nostrils flaring, their eyes wide open and unblinking. One could run through and around the Musheyevs’ apartment, just as in ours. The brothers always used that particular feature of the apartment during their battles. And then it would be best not to get in their way. They could knock you down. I remember how Sergey darted out of the hallway holding a long metal shoehorn during one of those chases. He caught up with his brother on the veranda and… “Boom! Boom! Boom!”
I writhed with laughter because the “booms” Sergey drummed on his brother’s shoulder were so booming, and his brother would forget that he was older and would yell shamefully:
“Ouch! Val-lery! What are you waiting for?! Mama, he’s beating me up!”
Not a day passed without a fight, without new bruises.
After helping Sergey with his homework, I was about to go home when I stopped in the living room to say good-bye to Aunt Maria. Edik was still eating. He didn’t look at me, and Aunt Maria, who looked sad, nodded at me, “Good luck, Valery.”
Aunt Maria was very kind. She was a very patient mother. Was she perhaps much too patient?
Chapter 59. Father and Daughter
Emma broke her leg in class at school, in the P.E. class of Teacher Yuabov, our father, to be precise. Father had transferred Emma from PS 24, which we both had attended, to PS 19 to keep an eye on her all the time for Emma wasn’t succeeding in her studies.
The seventh grade had been jumping hurdles on that ill-fated day. Emma misgauged her jump, and her foot snagged the hurdle. It’s usually the hurdle that falls over, but that time, one of the students accidentally held it up, and my sister fell down.
“He was so mad! You should have seen it, Valery! He was yelling at Bikerova, and she was crying.”
Emma, disheveled and pale, lay in her bed, her left leg, in a cast, resting on some pillows. Only her toes, covered in white powder, could be seen. I nodded compassionately, and my leg began to ache and twitch slightly. I sympathized with Emma and could almost feel physically what she experienced. “A whole six weeks,” Emma uttered in desperation. “I’ll fall behind. I’ll never catch up with them.”
Well, she shouldn’t have despaired on that account. Of course, it was not pleasant to be lame for six weeks, but as to her studies, she had no reason to worry. Soviet schools had a well-organized plan to help students who lagged behind or fell ill. I had also had that experience. And now, almost every day, Emma’s classmates came to our place. They explained the new material to her and helped her with her homework, so she didn’t fall very far behind, after all.