Pyotr Ilyich got so carried away with his story about the old days that he completely forgot we were still standing on the weighing scales; the sweet, forgetful, old man apparently did not know anything about the relativity of time or if he did, he had forgotten all about it.
Following his advice, I plucked up courage and opened my mouth to say something but he was ahead of me. “And now, girls, go straight to the showers. Double march!” he ordered and clapped his hands. Soon Marfa Ilyinichna, who was head of the women’s department, came in and we went to the shower room.
Half an hour later we received two sets of identical clothes — our daily uniform. The trousers were too wide and were made of rough fabric; the top part represented two spacious gray shirts. Marfa helped us to get dressed without taking her eyes off the inscription in bold print behind our backs that was perceived to be offensive to the foster home management; then she handed us two pairs of boots, removed the obscenity from the wall, and gave a sigh of relief.
By the time we arrived in the dining room, it was already empty and all the children had gone back to their rooms long ago. For our supper we ate a plateful of potatoes with two scanty cutlets and two bowls of fish soup; although it contained no fish, we liked the soup the most. Meanwhile, Marfa was amiably chirping with the cook, an immense woman with square shoulders and wet half-circles of sweat on her robe under the armpits. She eventually noticed our empty plates and in an unexpectedly musical and tender voice addressed her rectangular companion with:
“Darling, bring them two teas.”
Tea was made strong, brown, sour, unsugared. We noticed the dining room. It was impressive; it was as spacious as a genuine performance hall. And indeed, it became clear much later, sometimes nurses used it to dress up in fancy gowns and high-heel shoes. They even organized real dance evenings on the premises, in order to chase away boredom.
Right after we had finished our tea, Marfa literally pushed us into a large, white room and closed the door tight. Fully grown-up girls were sitting or reclining on beds, and several guys were sitting at the table. Everybody was gazing at us without a word. It always happens that way: first, people examine us closely, then usually reflect upon something for a very long while. At last, one of the girls got up and, loudly shuffling her feet, walked right up to us. She was seemingly seventeen, red-haired, freckled, with a fleshy nose and small, deep-set eyes; clumping on the floor, she dragged her left foot.
“What a hoot! I can’t take my eyes off them. They look like a real, two-headed, little dragon,” she burst out laughing, and circled us quickly. I guess it was a sort of acquaintance-ritual at the place. “Totally crippled. How could they possibly have been born?”
“You’d better ask them,” one of the guys grinned through his teeth. “Although it’s clear how.”
“But how can they even live looking like this?” she muttered.
“Watch it at the back or at the front, it’s still the same,” the other guy recited. “Two heads, four arms, four legs and one ass.”
“You are a real poet,” the red-haired girl exclaimed. “So, what nickname did the principal grant you?” she addressed us again. “Y-shaped? Brigade?”
“My name is Faith,” I said, “and this is Hope”.
“Keep that for inscribing in your copybooks. Everybody here has a name that Inga Petrovna, or Adolf’s Daughter, or Adoter, for short, as we call her, deems proper. Just beware not to blurt out what we call her in her presence. Clear? So what are your new names?”
My tongue didn’t move and seemed to stick to the top of my palate. But you spat out:
“One-Two.”
For several seconds everybody pondered, then everyone fell about, laughing.
“Well, Adoter has played quite a trick,” choking with laughter, one of girls squeezed out through tears.
“Come on, quit cackling,” we heard from the right corner. “We are all flawed here. At least they can walk, so we will have someone to empty bedpans.”
“Shut up, stupid, and keep your advice to yourself or for your boyfriend when you’re in bed with him,” the red-haired one responded. “And we kept wondering why they prepared just one bed for two of them. And here they are! Everybody calls me Sprinter, because I’m the fastest of all walking CCP’s (Slang – children suffering from cerebral palsy) but, according to my passport, I am Olga Petrovna. The adviser from the corner is called Godly Girl and outside this place her name’s Marinka. Later, you will get acquainted with the others. So, why are you standing and staring? Take a seat over there.” And she pointed to a chair near the door.
We were tired so we went to the chair and sat down. A flimsy chair fractured cracking, and we crashed down on to the floor, falling on our backs. Frantic laughter ran through the room. I felt the full depth of our disgrace. I wanted to hide in the corner and wrap myself in an old sheet. We resembled a messy knot of arms and legs on that cold floor, and the whole scene was oppressive.
However, this humiliation only made you feel more and more indignant. Helping me up and rubbing your own injured parts, you maliciously squawked aloud through clenched teeth:
“Are you happy now? And when did you last look at yourselves in a mirror?”
Your words had an immediate effect. The laughter stopped. One of the guys even rose from the table and removed the broken chair.
Godly Girl stood up for us again:
“Why did you get them on the bottom? Can’t you see they are totally miserable? If you cripple them by accident, more than they’re already crippled, you’ll pay for it.”
“All right,” muttered Sprinter in a conciliatory way, “the guys are simply fooling around; the chair incidentally happened to be broken. Here is your bed, the empty one next to Half-Jane’s; it will definitely bear your weight.” And she pointed with her finger at a newly made bed near the wall opposite the window. Later we knew that our neighbor Half-Jane — that skinny creature with pale, yellowish skin and thin, greasy hair — was completely paralysed from the waist down.
“Please don’t blame it all on us,” one of the guys, the “poet” with a wooden artificial leg, responded. “Who could imagine that they are stuck together? Go figure it out with them hiding under that sheet. Will you have some vodka?”
We cautiously reached our bed, stepping indecisively as if on thin ice. I was staggering rather than walking, holding my hurt side. Guys poured a muddy liquid from a bottle into a glass and handed it to us. You sipped a half glass at one dash, shrank, then moved your shoulders and bit the slice of bread they generously handed over to you; I mistrustfully drank up the remains. We got tipsy at once, lay down and covered ourselves with a blanket, not having the slightest wish to talk.
Over time it became clear that booze-ups were arranged quite often. Everybody was drinking and practically forcing one another to drink. At times it is so enjoyable to mire your neighbor with the same filth you have been stuck in for so long! They hid bottles under their pillows or in boots and sometimes piled them up behind a locker. At night all the bottles were collected, brought to the kitchen and carefully camouflaged under potato peel. There were many ways to disguise the drinking, but the kitchen was the most popular option.