In his own time, Vassily, before he, too, vanished without a trace in the dungeons of the Stargorod NKVD, also begat a son who was subsequently raised by his mother in complete ignorance of his father, an enemy of the people. Maria Panyushkina lived in an instantly acquired and never abating anxiety vis-a-vis Stargorod’s special organs, so decisive in their actions and so doggedly persistent in tracking down anyone they might have missed. Here it is important to note that the report that drew said organs’ attention to Vassily Panyushkin was written by none other than Stepan Kandyba, a disabled veteran who, in his youth, had served in the Petrograd Cheka and arrested Father Grigory. Kandyba once stopped by the priest’s son’s bee farm, got a good deal on some stolen kolkhoz honey, and became curious about the origins of the beekeeper’s last name. Over a glass of excellent mead, the innocent Vassily happily shared his family’s hard-scrabble story with this total stranger, which prompted Kandyba to look up a few dates, connect the dots, and report his suspicion to his own son, Pyotr Kandyba, a lieutenant of the Stargorod NKVD. Pyotr ordered his father to submit a full, anonymous report in the required format; in due course, it brought about the bloody and heroic battle described above.
Many years passed. The veterans all got their medals; even an Order of the Red Star found its addressee after years of zig-zagging through various offices. The Young Historians Society produced a display titled “Partisan Heroes of Stargorod” and placed it in the large window of the Stargorod Telegraph. Time erases old grudges, heals old wounds, and restores heroes to their rightful place, no matter how long they’ve been forgotten or how much they’ve been despised. Portraits of both Opanas Perebey-Gora and Vassily Panyushkin graced the Young Historians’ display.
As one might expect, they ran out of room before they could post the picture of the Grozny Ivan. But by this time the grave of the old partisan – who had died after being stabbed in the neck with a thief’s fillet after losing his legs in the post-war GULAG, as a result of which misfortune he came to occupy the throne of the local holy fool – was considered by the female population of Stargorod to be a miracle-working and sacred site. Women made pilgrimages to the cemetery because rumor had it that the old man could cure many maladies from beyond the grave. The authorities at the time were only just beginning to shake off their uniformly atheistic proclivities; the pictures of Opanas and Vassily were placed at the very top of the display, where they appeared to claim the status of the partisan movement leaders. The Memorial society awarded Grandma Masha regular food assistance, but the old woman, terrified once and for all by her husband’s arrest and sudden disappearance, refused to accept it, hiding her deeply-seated fear beneath false pride.
Without Memorial’s sausages and other fats, Maria Panyushkina’s life took a turn deeper into poverty, aggravated by the fact that her son Grigory had fallen in with the wrong crowd and managed to land in the local prison with a two-year sentence. One can’t judge the lad too harshly, however: he returned from the army to an old mother sitting on a threadbare couch before an ancient Temp TV, a flee-ridden dog, and the oppressive poverty of living on a single pension. Visiting Grigory in prison, Maria finally told him the story of the bloodbath in her black yard, of Uncle Opanas’ heroic intervention, and of Grigory’s own, unlawfully persecuted father. Somehow, the tale inspired a hope for a new life in her wayward son. The Kandyba family was also mentioned, and firmly fixed in Grigory’s memory. Having found, albeit belatedly, a real father, the boy decided to avenge him, and even applied for parole, which he did not get. Nonetheless, he was a changed man when he came out.
Never having seen anything good from people in uniform, Grigory now had an ancestral bone to pick with them. So, soon after he came out, he won himself new fame in the story with Elsa’s inheritance: Grigory defended the foreign fortune that had befallen Elsa, his neighbor, out of the blue, by fighting off a crooked prison guard who aimed to confiscate the money by pretending to be a KGB officer. The thirst for vengeance dimmed a bit in Grigory’s heart after this incident, since he had the opportunity to whip the crook publicly – in the streets – for his misdeeds, before a large crowd of guffawing locals. But it did not die completely. His success, however, made him popular and some good people got him a job as a meat cutter in at the Stargorod market – a position passionately desired by many but available to almost no one.
Old Maria Panyushkina lived her last days in luxury: Grigory bought her new furniture, acquired a color TV and a VHS player, and married well. Before she died, his mother had a chance to play with her grandson, who was named, naturally, Vasilko. Maria died in dignity and comfort, yet still fearing for her high-flying son and praising the Good Lord daily for not abandoning her and letting her sleep on clean linen sheets in her last days. She died, and her son buried her in the Stargorod cemetery, affixing to her grave a large cross welded of stainless steel.
In the course of all this, he almost forgot his desire for vengeance – he had too much going on: a butcher’s work is hard and stressful, and not only gives, but also claims much in both spiritual energy and nerve cells, which, as we all know, do not regenerate.
In the meantime, a certain lieutenant Stepan Kandyba arrived in Stargorod after graduating from the MVD11 training institute. By sheer accident, he had attended school at the other end of Stargorod and up till this moment, fate had kept his and Grigory Panyushkin’s paths far from crossing. Fate was saving him; fate waited for the proper occasion; fate raised and educated him, fed him and brought him up in the safe harbor of a retired major’s home. Fate then ensured his political literacy in the halls of the MVD institute, and finally returned him to his native city, where it placed him right at the exit from the bridge where you turn to go into the suburbs.
Stepan Kandyba was honest, principled, and did not, unlike many of his fellow officers, accept bribes, for which he was disliked by his superiors and cursed at not only by motorists violating traffic rules but, of late, also by his wife, who was trying to feed and clothe a family of four on the combined income of an honest traffic cop and a typist.
The momentous encounter occurred on a Sunday afternoon. Grigory Panyushkin was in a hurry to get home: he had picked his wife up at the hairdresser’s, and they were worried about their boy being left at home alone for so long. Grigory drove, as always, fast but carefully. At the exit from the bridge, he obeyed the stop sign, but the front wheels of his car edged just beyond the white line.
The violation was duly observed, and a traffic policeman’s wand appeared, ordering Grigory to pull over; a very young lieutenant saluted the shocked Grigory and introduced himself as Stepan Kandyba. A short exchange followed:
“You have got to be kidding me. I drive here twice a day and know all you guys by name.”
“You have violated the rules!”
“Really, pal, are you sure you want to mess with me? It’ll come back to bite you.”
“License and registration, please.”
“You can have those, of course, but you look new to me. What did you say your name was?”
“Inspector Kandyba.”
So transpired the first round of the Stargorod vendetta: the inspector won an easy victory and Grigory got a traffic violation on his record. Grigory threw the license onto his wife’s lap, and said to the lieutenant, quietly but very clearly: