“How many pillows do you have on your bed?”
This unexpected question baffled us at once; at least, it sounded very unusual within the walls of a foster home.
“One.” We exchanged glances.
“Certainly, I knew it.”
“But it would be great to have two,” I said regretfully, suddenly realizing how full of injustices was our situation.
He nodded knowingly.
“So what is the problem? Are you going to sleep on one pillow for the rest of your life? And think about that disgraceful staff. Their lack of brains is not a serious problem, but they have no conscience either. And why is that old TV standing in the assembly hall when it’s broken anyway?” (Actually, the TV had been operable and used to gather a large audience around it in the past.) “And this blistering cold. It is already late November, and the rooms are not heated yet. Are they intentionally tormenting us, in order not to show us any mercy? They’ll keep making it worse.”
“How old are you?” I parried. “How come you understand everything immediately?”
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way – to push the limits! He who has eyes will see himself; and also, certainly, there are plenty of books in this place.”
He often used the word “certainly”, but it did not impair his speech at all and even made it more convincing.
“And, certainly, wherever you go in this foster home, you will surely meet either Petrovna or Ilyinichna; quite a narrow choice,” he smiled bitterly. “One’d think that all of them only had one father, or that somebody with boundless imagination had gifted them the same patronymics not quite accidentally (Petrovna and Ilyinichna are patronymics, i.e., in Russian, components of a personal name based on the given name of one’s father; in this specific case, fathers’ names would be Pyotr and Ilya, respectively).”
“Petrovna and Ilyinichna; that means there were at least two fathers.” You decided to show your wit.
“Unfortunately, it doesn’t change our situation; all of them are like peas in a pod.”
He always had an opinion on just about anything and everything, often contradicting the general way of thinking, that is if you agree that people think generally.
I had so many questions for him, but didn’t have the heart to ask them. Having said goodbye politely, he drove off. For the remainder of the evening I couldn’t concentrate on my reading.
He appeared to be right on at least one point, because the frosty weather came. December began with strong frosts that covered the windows with icy patterns. There was virtually no heating on the premises. At classes, everybody, including teachers, sat in their outdoor clothing, and once someone started talking, white velvety steam wallowed from his or her mouth. Hot water was supplied once a week. Washed laundry couldn’t get dry. You and I were lucky because we could warm each other; the rest of the residents had a very hard time. Thus, life in the foster home got considerably worse. Not just because of the cold, the bad teachers, the poor food; all that was just a consequence. The actual reason was that no one in the foster home management took responsibility for anything and no one had the slightest wish to change anything, each suffering quietly from his own misfortune. All of them had ceased to resist and were resigned to their pathetic, unfortunate existence, and we had to live among them, all of us except Sasha.
Sasha! So many bittersweet memories of mine are associated with that person. I couldn’t imagine anyone standing up for us, not even once, but he did it with admirable regularity, for which he was often scourged. Adoter had been looking for a chance to punish him for quite a while, and one day an opportunity arose. She was walking along the corridor and called him:
“Disaster, you were told to appear before me in my office. Hey, I’m talking to you!” she raised her voice, but not reacting, he continued to move on in his wheelchair.
Marfa Ilyinichna overtook him and, standing in his way, exclaimed indignantly:
“Just look at him! Rules are set for everybody, but he doesn’t even bother.”
“What shall we do with this non-compliant patient?” Adoter said broodingly. “Our good old educational methods don’t work with him. I think he should be put in the isolation cell.”
“Well, the isolation cell it is, Inga Petrovna,” Marfa agreed, timidly nodding her head.
“Then make sure it’s done,” the principal ordered, turning around and walking off.
“So that’s how rules are set up here,” Sasha couldn’t restrain himself from shouting at her back. “Being oneself is considered a crime!”
Adoter, not even changing her pace, only said: “Five days,” and disappeared.
Why are we punished? Why do we accept it? What are we guilty of? Of being disabled, being abandoned, being children, not able to stand up for ourselves? Is that how the rules are set up?
Following his conviction, Sasha never responded to his nickname, for which he was repeatedly sent to the isolation cell. He was given a blanket party, beaten in the presence of other kids, but it didn’t change anything; he kept obstinately to his path, holding his own ground. “You can kill me, but my real name is going to be inscribed on my tombstone!”
Not being afraid of anybody, not relying on anyone or anything, not applying force, Disaster turned into the most dangerous person in the entire foster home.
“They beat you because they envy you,” he told us.
“Do you think anyone can envy us?” you asked with mistrust.
“Certainly. Practically everybody here, including me, hasn’t got the slightest chance of a full recovery. We, cripples, understand this, and we envy anyone who has the slightest chance of leading a normal life. And you do have one!”
I thought he scoffed at us too, in his own, very sophisticated way, through his own abasement, but this wasn’t the case.
“I have read about conjoined twins being separated surgically in the capital city.”
And with a friendly smile he subtly stroked each of us on the shoulder. The very thought of separation filled us with excitement.
“But what do we have to do?” I asked agitatedly, trying to grab his sleeve. It seemed he wanted to confuse us intentionally.
“There are two options. The first is to try to send your clinical record to the capital city where some big head of science might just get interested in your case. The second is to go there yourselves.”
There it was: the reference point, the thought that instantly changed our life and filled it with hope. Now we had a goal. What we needed to do now was to start moving towards it.
First we went into Pyotr Ilyich’s office and patiently allowed him to do a regular check-up. For a full hour he had been humming some vivacious marching tune, but once we started explaining the reason for our visit, he immediately stopped humming and turned sad.
“Whoever told you this would be practicable?” he gloomily looked at us from under his bushy eyebrows. “According to your medical record, and I don’t need an X-ray examination to confirm it, you have one liver for two. And which one of you is going to have it, huh? Isn’t that an interesting case?” he made a long, painful pause and then continued: “Anyway, it is not a big deal to prepare the necessary papers, but I need permission from the principal. Come on, follow me.”
His personal involvement distinguished him from the rest of the personnel. Hastily, as though afraid of being late, he dragged us into the office of the person with the least interest in us.
“Pyotr Ilyich, what you suggest sounds like a terrible experiment, the result of which will be that these girls will die. And who is going to bear the responsibility for that?” Adoter asked rhetorically, her eyes piercing Pyotr Ilyich. “You, perhaps? You who never cared about your wife when she was alive, and what would your daughter say about it?”