And so in the end Mel lost his bet, but after the entertaining show he had provided we forgave him.
At the age of twelve I got into trouble. I was put on trial for ‘threats in a public place’, ‘attempted murder with serious consequences’ and, naturally, ‘resistance to a representative of power in the pursuance of his duties of defending the public order’. It was my first criminal trial, and in view of the circumstances (I was a young boy and the victim was a previous offender a couple of years older than me) the judge decided to be lenient and give me a sentence which in slang is called a ‘cuddle’. No prison and no obligation to follow any re-education programmes, after which most convicts usually become even nastier and angrier. All I had to do was observe a kind of personal curfew: stay at home from eight in the evening till eight in the morning, report to the juvenile office every week and attend school.
I would have to live like that for a year and a half, then I would be able to return to normal life. But if in the meantime I committed some crime I would land myself straight on the bunk beds of a juvenile prison, or at least in a re-education camp.
For a year everything went smoothly, I tried to keep as far as possible away from trouble. Certainly, I often went out at night, because I was sure I wouldn’t be discovered, but the important thing, I told myself, was not to let myself get caught in a place far from home at the wrong time and above all not to be found mixed up in some serious crime.
But one afternoon Mel and three other friends came round to see me. We got together in the garden, on the bench under the tree, to discuss an incident that had occurred a week earlier with a group of boys from Tiraspol. We had a friend, a boy who had recently moved to our district. His family had been forced to leave St Petersburg because the father had had problems with the police. They were Jews, but in view of the special circumstances, and some business they had done together, the Siberians had guaranteed their protection.
Our friend was thirteen and was called Lyoza, an old Jewish name. He was a very quiet, weak boy: he had health problems, was almost deaf and wore enormous glasses, so in the Siberian community he was immediately treated with compassion and understanding, like all disabled people. My father, for example, never stopped reminding me to look after him and to get out my knife should anyone attack or insult him. Lyoza was very well-educated, had refined manners and always talked seriously – everything he said seemed convincing. So we had immediately given him an appropriate nickname: ‘the Banker’.
Lyoza always went around with us. He never carried knives or other weapons and wasn’t even capable of using his fists, but he knew everything, he was a kind of living enyclopaedia, he was always telling us the stories you find in books: how insects live and multiply, how the gills of fish are formed, why birds migrate, and things like that. I remember once he managed to do the impossible – explain to Mel how hermaphrodite worms reproduce. It took him a long time, but in the end he succeeded; Mel wandered around in a daze, as if he’d seen Jesus, God the Father and the Madonna all at once.
‘Wow, what a story! Worms don’t have a family! They have no father and mother! They do everything on their own!’ Getting my friend Mel to understand anything, even the tiniest thing, was proof of great human and intellectual qualities.
Mel and my other three friends, Besa, Gigit and Grave, told me that Lyoza had gone on his own to Tiraspol, to the second-hand market, to exchange some stamps, because he was a keen collector. During the return journey, on the coach, he had been attacked by a bunch of thugs who had hit him and stolen his stamp album. I was furious, so we arranged to meet the other kids of our district to make an expedition to Tiraspol.
Tiraspol is the capital of Transnistria; it is about twenty kilometres away, on the opposite side of the river. It is a much larger town than ours, and very different. The people of Tiraspol kept out of crime; there were a lot of munitions factories, military barracks and various offices, so the inhabitants were all workers or soldiers. We had a very bad relationship with the kids of that town; we called them ‘mama’s boys’, ‘billy goats’ and ‘ball-less wonders’. In Tiraspol the criminal rules of honesty and respect among people did not apply, and the youngsters behaved like real animals. So none of us was surprised at what had happened to Lyoza.
We went to Lyoza’s house to see how he was and to ask him if he would come with us to help us identify the assailants. We explained to his father that we were going to Tiraspol to carry out an act of justice, to punish those who had attacked his son. His father gave him permission to go with us and wished us all good luck; he was very pleased that Lyoza had friends like us, because he profoundly respected the Siberian philosophy of loyalty to the group.
Lyoza said nothing; he fetched his jacket and came out with us. Together we returned to my house, where we planned everything.
At about eight in the evening thirty-odd friends gathered outside. My mother at once understood that we were planning some mischief.
‘Perhaps it would be better if you kept calm. Can’t you stay at home?’
What could I say in reply?
‘Don’t worry, mama, we’re just going for a quick trip, then we’ll come back…’
Poor Mama, she never dared to oppose my decisions, but suffered in silence.
We set out for a park on the outskirts, where all the thugs of the town gathered in the evening. It was called ‘the Polygon’. There the kids used to ride around on scooters, barbecue meat and consume huge quantities of alcohol and drugs until late at night.
So as not to attract attention we arrived in town on the regular coach, and then, splitting up into groups of five, set off on foot towards the park.
My friend Mel showed me a five-shooter revolver, an old, small-bore weapon, which I called affectionately ‘the prehistoric’.
‘I’ll let them see her this evening,’ he said with a broad grin, and it was clear that he couldn’t wait to do something nasty.
‘Holy Christ, Mel, we’re not going to war! Hide that crap, I don’t even want to see it…’ I really didn’t like the idea of drawing our guns. Partly because according to our education a firearm is used only in extreme cases, but mainly because if word gets around that you grab your pistol at the first opportunity, people start criticizing you. Ever since I was small I learned from my uncle that your gun is like your wallet: you only take it out to use it, all the rest is stupid.
But Mel tried to convince me that his behaviour made sense.
‘But it’s dangerous to go there without one; goodness knows how many guns they’re carrying, they’re prepared…’
‘Yeah, I can just imagine how prepared they are, all high as kites, and with holes in their veins… By the Passion of Christ, Mel, they’re all drunks or junkies, they shit themselves when they see their own shadows, aren’t you ashamed to pull our your gun in front of them?’
‘Oh all right, I won’t use it, but I’ll keep it ready, and if the situation gets out of hand…’
I looked at him as if he were mentally ill; it was impossible to explain anything to him. ‘Mel, I swear to you, the only person who can make the situation get out of hand this evening is you, with your fucking pistol! If I see you use it, don’t bother to try speaking to me ever again,’ I snapped.
‘All right, Kolima, don’t be angry, I won’t use it, if you don’t want me to. But remember, everyone is free to do what he wants…’ My friend was trying to teach me our law.