The foreign fascists had been vanquished. Unfortunately the ones who had survived were not alien to our Motherland.
One hot bright morning in late July, I was in the squadron locker room pulling on my G-suit. We had a long day of flying scheduled. But I could hardly remember the details of the first training sortie, which Colonel Antonovich had just briefed us on. My mind was focused instead on the dark image of those thousands of unmarked mass graves, stretching like an invisible crescent scar all the way from the pine forests of the Polish frontier to the ancient larch groves on the granite bluffs above the Pacific. That terrible image was not just remote history. Now I saw the steel door of the psychiatric clinic in Samara, I felt the rusty grate in my hands, and I smelled the dank despair of the prisoners who had been held there for “treatment.” Then I saw the sunlit pool terrace of the Pearl Hotel in Sochi. The profiteers sat around the outdoor bar, smearing oil on their hairy chests, leering at the pretty young girls who came forward to sell themselves. Those criminals always reminded me of half-boiled crayfish, cold, predatory.
Suddenly it came to me, as I bent to zip up the legs of my flight suit. I could no longer defend the fascist system that ruled my country. Somehow I would leave the Air Force. I no longer wanted the exciting career of a test pilot. I no longer wanted any of this. I no longer wanted to be married to Jana, a true daughter of the system.
I slammed my locker shut. For the first time in months, the way ahead looked clear.
When Jana returned from Kiev after her summer examinations, I decided to confront her.
“I want a divorce,” I told her, pulling back the shade to flood the room with morning sunshine.
I had to catch the bus to the base in five minutes, and, as always, it had taken a long time to wake her up. As she sat on the edge of our makeshift bed, wincing at the early morning sun, I wasn’t sure she had understood my words.
“Be ready this afternoon at three,” I told her. “We are going to the ZAGS to file the papers.”
Now Jana had definitely understood. She gripped the sleeve of my flight suit. “No, Sasha… no. We can find a way…”
Angrily I pulled back. Jana was completely unrealistic. The night before, I had tried to discuss our country’s bloody history and the criminal class that now controlled every aspect of our lives. But she had moped and pouted, finally haranguing me for not having enough money to buy a proper television set or a car. We would find no “way” to reconcile our differences. “Be ready at three” was all I said in reply.
It took two more days to convince her. But on a rainy Thursday afternoon we went to an office in the large ZAGS building in central Tskhakaya to file our first divorce petition. By Soviet law, we had to attend regular counseling sessions for a month, attempting a reconciliation. Only then would our formal divorce petition be forwarded to the courts.
I tried to spend as much time as possible at the base during this period, and actually volunteered as a replacement duty-alert officer so that I wouldn’t have to sleep at my apartment. All I wanted was for this marriage to end.
But, despite her childlike demeanor, Jana had inherited much of her mother’s native cleverness. Although she signed the preliminary divorce papers, Jana was bound to resist the process in any way she could. Luckily her parents were already in Syria, which deprived her of powerful allies. I hoped there would be enough time to complete the divorce before her family tried to intervene. But this was a gamble.
When we completed our first divorce papers, I knew the news would reach Colonel Baglai in a matter of days. And he would be sure to retaliate. It really did not matter, however. I no longer planned ahead for an Air Force career.
But Jana actually struck the first blow herself. She had confided in the wife of Colonel Prozukhin, the division zampolit who had tried to stage the alcohol-free wedding. His wife, Nadezhda, another chunky matron with even tighter ringlet curls than Jana’s mother, was the head of the division officers’ wives’ committee. This was a powerful position, which gave her as much authority over family matters as her zampolit husband had over our “political maturity.” In addition, Nadezhda was a close friend of Jana’s mother.
One evening when I returned from the base I found Jana serving tea to Colonel Prozukhin and his wife. Obviously they had hatched a plot, because for the first time in weeks the bed was properly made, the apartment was neat, and the kitchen was actually clean. From all appearances, Jana seemed the perfect young wife.
Colonel Prozukhin came directly to the point. “Are you serious about this divorce, Zuyev?” He tried to sound like a real officer, a man used to confronting troops and making hard decisions. But his voice broke into a squeak.
Prozukhin’s wife glared when she saw me smile.
“Yes. I am serious.” I had not invited these people to my home, so I neglected to add the courtesy of “Comrade Colonel.”
“Alexander Mikhailovich,” Prozukhin’s wife said, her voice more authoritative than her husband’s, “how can you talk of divorce after all of us witnessed that wonderful wedding only last summer? That was a tribute to the Socialist Military Family.”
Only a zampolit’s wife would still use such brazenly false terms.
I shrugged. “People get married. People get divorced. Jana and I are going to get divorced.”
Nadezhda Prozukhin scowled at her husband and nodded. He had his orders.
The zampolit sighed and visibly braced himself. “Captain Zuyev,” he recited from memory. “If you persist in this matter, I’ll see that you rot in some lost desert in Central Asia.”
He had made his speech. We all knew it was not an idle threat. Prozukhin’s wife sneered openly as I pondered his words. The division zampolit did have the power to cripple any officer’s career. That spring, Major Ivan Matushkin, an able pilot in the 2nd Squadron, had run afoul of the zampolit and his wife. Matushkin was moving dishes from his apartment to the officers’ dining room for the Air Force Day party. But he had broken the rules by driving his old Zhiguli right up to the door of the podyesd. It was a weekend, and no one cared except Prozukhin. On the urging of his wife to reestablish his “authority,” Prozukhin came down the staircase, grabbed Matushkin’s car keys, and ordered him to report for a reprimand on Monday morning.
“You bastard,” Matushkin had sworn, “I’ll show you some authority.” He snatched back his keys and threw the colonel against the side of the car.
Prozukhin had written a report that the major had attacked and beaten him. The VVS grounded the major, reduced him in rank, and ordered him reassigned to Central Asia as a GCI officer.
Like my mother, this honest pilot had also been sent for a psychiatric “evaluation.”
“My personal life is my own affair, Colonel Prozukhin,” I finally answered.
“And your professional kharacteristika is my affair, Zuyev.” He had gotten his full nerve and spoke with real menace now. “If you persist in this, your career is dead.”
I shrugged. How could anyone want a career serving officers like this? But if Prozukhin acted quickly on his threat, I might find myself isolated in some Asian outpost where it would be difficult, if not impossible, to petition for a discharge.