Secondhand Time: The Last of the Soviets (56 page)

First, one of my mother’s friends let us live with her, they were good to us, I liked it there. A familiar setup: books, records, a portrait of Che Guevara on the wall. Just like our old place…the same books, the same records…Olga’s son was in grad school, he’d spend all day at the library and at night he’d unload freight trains at the depot. There was nothing to eat. All we had in the kitchen was a sack of potatoes. After we’d gone through the potatoes, it was one loaf of bread a day. All day long, we drank tea. And that was it. A kilo of meat cost three hundred and twenty rubles—Olga was an elementary school teacher, and she made one hundred rubles a month. Everyone ran around like crazy, desperate to make money any way they could. Stretching themselves to the limit…The old kitchen tap broke, we called the plumbers, and they turned out to have PhDs. Everyone laughed. As Grandma used to say, you won’t get by on tears…Taking time off was a huge luxury, very few people could afford it…During vacations from school, Olga would go to Minsk to see her sister, a university lecturer. They’d sew pillows out of artificial fur and fill them with polyester batting, but only half full. Then, right before it was time to get on the train, they’d put tranquillized puppies into the pillows. They’d take them to Poland…That’s how they brought German Shepherd puppies over the border…and rabbits. At flea markets there, everywhere you turned, you’d hear Russian…They’d pour vodka into thermoses instead of tea, hide nails and locks in their suitcases under their underwear. Olga would come back with a bag full of delicious Polish salamis. They smelled incredible!

In Moscow, you would hear gunshots and even explosions at night. Kiosks, kiosks…kiosks everywhere…Mama started working for an Azerbaijani, he owned two kiosks, one selling fruit and the other fish. “It’s a job, and you don’t get any days off. Not a single one.” But here’s the rub—Mama was too embarrassed to sell things. Who would have guessed! The first day was the worst: She arranged the fruit then hid, peeking out from behind a tree. She pulled her hat way down over her face so that no one could recognize her. The next day, she gave a little gypsy boy a plum…The owner noticed and yelled at her. Money knows no pity or shame…She couldn’t hold down that job for long, she was no good at sales…I saw an ad on a fence: “Seeking a cleaning woman with a higher education.” Mama went to the designated address and they hired her. The pay was good. It was some kind of American foundation…At that point, we were able to more or less feed ourselves so we rented our own room. Another room in the same three-bedroom apartment was being rented out by these Azerbaijanis. Young guys. They were always buying and selling things. One of them kept asking me to marry him and promised to take me to Turkey. “I’m going to kidnap you. That’s one of our customs—kidnapping brides.” I was afraid of being home alone without my mother. He kept giving me fruit and dried apricots…The man who owned the apartment would drink for weeks on end, he’d go completely berserk: “You fucking whore! You bitch!” He’d beat his wife…The ambulance would come and take her away…and then he’d come after my mother at night. He’d break down our door…

We ended up out on the street again…

On the street without any money…Mama’s foundation had shut down, and she was getting by on odd jobs. We lived in hallways…in stairwells…Some people would walk right past us, others would scream at us; there were people who would kick us out onto the street. It could happen in the middle of the night. Or when it was raining or snowing. No one offered us any help, nobody asked us any questions…[
She is silent.
] People are neither good nor bad. Everyone has their own lot in life…[
Silence.
] In the mornings, we would walk to the train station—we didn’t have money for the Metro—and wash ourselves in the bathrooms. Wash our clothes. We’d have our laundry days there. It was all right in the summer; when it’s warm out, you could really live anywhere…we’d sleep on park benches. In autumn, we’d make big piles of leaves and sleep in them—that was warm, too. It’s like a sleeping bag. At Belorussky Station…I remember…we’d always run into this old, practically ancient woman, she would sit by the ticket counters talking to herself. She always told the same story…about how during the war, wolves would come into her village because they sensed that all the men were gone. All the men were off fighting. If my mother and I had any money, we’d give it to her. “May the Lord protect you,” she’d make the sign of a cross over us. She reminded me of my grandmother…

One day, I left my mother sitting on a bench…When I came back, she was no longer alone, there was a man with her. A pleasant man. “Meet Vitya,” Mama said. “He likes Brodsky, too.” The writing was on the wall. We know full well that if someone likes Brodsky, for Mama, it’s like a code word, it means he’s one of us. “He’s never read
Children of the Arbat
? What a savage! Straight out of the forest! That’s a stranger, not our kind.” That’s how she’d always categorized people, and that hadn’t changed, even then. I, on the other hand, had changed a lot in the course of our two years of vagrancy. I’d grown serious, perhaps beyond my years. I’d realized that my mother couldn’t do anything to help me, quite the contrary: I felt like I was the one who needed to take care of her. That’s how it felt to me…Vitya was smart, he asked me instead of her: “So what will it be, girls? Shall we?” He took us to his house, he had a two-bedroom apartment. We always lugged all of our possessions wherever we went, and so, with our tattered bags, we suddenly found ourselves in paradise…His house was like a museum! Paintings on the walls, a magnificent library, a curved antique cabinet…a grandfather clock as tall as the ceiling…We were dumbfounded! “Don’t be shy, girls. Take your coats off.” We were embarrassed and worse for wear…the smell of railway stations and stairwells…“Don’t be shy, girls!” We sat down to tea. Vitya told us about himself…He’d been a jeweler and had his own studio. He showed us his tools, his satchels of semi-precious gems, silver settings…Everything was so beautiful, interesting, and expensive. I couldn’t believe we were going to live there. The miracles were really raining down upon us…

We ended up becoming kind of like a normal family. I started going to school again. Vitya was very kind, he made me a ring with a little stone. But the trouble was…he drank, too. And smoked like a chimney. At first, my mother would yell at him, but pretty soon, they were drinking together. They sold off his library at secondhand bookshops, I remember the smell of the antique leather bindings…Vitya also had a collection of rare coins…They just drank and watched TV. Political shows. Vitya philosophized. He spoke to me like I was an adult…He’d ask me, “What do they teach you in school, Yulia, now that communism is over? What are we supposed to do now with Soviet literature and Soviet history—just forget it ever happened?” Truth be told, I didn’t understand very much of what was going on…Do you find this interesting? Well, I didn’t think that I had anything to do with all those questions, but as it turns out…when I think about it now…

“…Russian life is supposed to be evil and base, that’s what elevates the soul, and forces it to recognize that it doesn’t belong in this world…The cruder and bloodier life is, the more space there is for the soul…”

“…The only way we know how to modernize is with criminal syndicates and executions…”

“…The Communists…What can they do about it? Bring back ration cards and fix up the barracks out in Magadan…”

“…Today, normal people are the ones who seem insane…This new way of life made short work of people like me and my mother…”

“…In the West, capitalism is old, an established fact; here, it’s fresh, with brand-new fangs…While the government remains purely Byzantine…”

And then one night, Vitya started having pains in his chest. We called an ambulance, but he never made it to the hospital. Major heart attack. His relatives showed up: “Who the hell are you? Where did you come from? Get out.” One man was screaming, “Get those beggar women out of here! Out!” He looked through our bags as we were leaving…

We were back on the street…

We phoned my mother’s cousin…his wife answered. “Come on over.” They lived in a two-bedroom Khrushchyovka not far from Rechnoy Vokzal Station with their married son. The son’s wife was pregnant. It was decided: “You can stay here until Alyona gives birth.” Mama slept on a cot in the corridor, I slept in the kitchen on an old couch. Uncle Lyosha’s friends would come over…from the factory where he worked…I would fall asleep to their conversations. It was the same as ever: the bottle of vodka on the table, the game of cards. Only the topics had changed…

“…We’ve squandered it all…Freedom…Where the fuck is freedom? We’re gnawing on raw grain without any butter…”

“…The kikes…They killed the Tsar, then Stalin, and Andropov, too…Now they’ve trotted out this liberalism! Time to tighten the screws. We Russians have to keep the faith…”

“…Yeltsin is on his knees, fawning in front of America…even though we were the ones who won the war…”

“…When you go to church, people cross themselves but stand there like statues…”

“…Soon enough, things will heat up again, then it’ll get fun…We’ll hang the liberals from the lampposts for bringing about the nineties. We need to save Russia…”

A few months later, she gave birth. There was no room for us there anymore.

We were back out on the street…

Railway station…

Stairwell…

Railway station…

Stairwell…

At the railway station…The policemen on duty, both young and old, would either march you out onto the street—and this was in the winter—or you would have to go to the storeroom with them…They had a special screened-off corner…A little couch. One time, my mother got into a fight with a cop who tried to drag me in there with him…They beat her up and threw her in jail for several days. [
She falls silent.
] I…what happened was…I came down with a bad flu. It took us a while to figure out what to do…I kept getting worse…Finally, we decided that I should go recover at our relatives’ house while she stayed at the train station. A few days later, she called me up, “I have to see you.” I came back and she told me, “I met a woman here who’s offering me a place to stay. She has enough room, she owns a house. In Alabino.” “Let me come with you.” “No, you need to get better first. You can come later.” I put her on the commuter train, she sat down by the window and looked at me as though she hadn’t seen me in a long time. I couldn’t stand it and jumped on board: “What’s wrong with you?” “Nothing, don’t mind me.” I waved goodbye, and the train took off. That evening I got a phone call. “Is this Malikova, Yulia Borisovna?” “Yes, it’s me.” “This is the police. Can you tell us what your relation is to Ludmila Malikova?” “She’s my mother.” “Your mother was hit by a train. In Alabino…”

She was always extremely cautious whenever a train was coming…She was terrified of them. Getting hit by a train was her biggest fear. She would look a hundred times: Is it coming or not? Really…it couldn’t have been an accident, like some random tragedy. She’d bought a bottle of vodka beforehand so that it would be less painful and frightening. She threw herself under the train…She was tired…just plain tired…of this life…of herself. Those were her words. Afterward, I remembered her every word…[
She cries.
] The train dragged her a long way…They took her to the hospital, she was in the intensive care unit for an hour, but they couldn’t save her. That’s what they told me…I saw her when she was already in her coffin, dressed. It was all so awful…I didn’t have my Zhenya back then…If I had still been little, she would never have abandoned me like that. Never…It never would have happened…In her final days, she kept saying, “You’re a big girl now. You’re all grown up.” Why did I have to grow up? [
She cries.
] I was left on my own…I had to go on all by myself…[
After a long silence.
] If I ever have a baby, I simply have to be happy…so that it’ll remember its mother as happy…

Zhenya…Zhenya saved me…I had always been waiting for him. When I lived at the children’s shelter, we would all dream that, even though we were living here for now, soon we’d be like everyone else—we’d have families, husbands, children. We’d buy ourselves cakes, and not just for special occasions, whenever we wanted. We wanted it all so bad…I was seventeen…I’d just turned seventeen…The director called me into her office. “You’re off the subsidized meal plan.” And that was all she said. After seventeen, the shelter pushed you into the real world. Get out there! But where was I supposed to go? I didn’t have a job, I had nothing. And no mother…I called up Aunt Nadia: “I’m probably going to come stay with you. They’re kicking me out of the shelter.” Aunt Nadia…if it hadn’t been for her…She’s my guardian angel…She wasn’t actually related to me, but now she’s more than close; she left me her room in the communal apartment. Now…Yes…She used to live with my uncle, but he died a long time ago. They were never officially married, they were just together, but I knew that they loved each other. You can always turn to a person like that…If somebody understands what love is, you can always turn to them…

Aunt Nadia never had kids, she was used to living alone, it was hard for her to live with anyone else. We had a rough time! The room we shared was sixteen square meters. I slept on a cot. Naturally, her neighbor started complaining: “She needs to go.” She’d call the police on us. Aunt Nadia was unmovable: “And where exactly is she supposed to go?” It had probably already been a year…Aunt Nadia herself brought it up: “You said you were only staying for two months, but you’ve been here a whole year.” I didn’t say anything, I was crying…and she didn’t say anything, either. She was crying, too…[
She is silent.
] Another year went by…everyone ended up getting used to me. I did everything in my power…even that neighbor got used to me…Miss Marina isn’t a bad person, she’s just had a hard life. She was married twice, and both of her husbands croaked, as she puts it, from the drink. Her nephew would visit her all the time, he and I would say hi to each other. A good-looking guy. Then…here’s how it happened: I was sitting in our room reading a book, and Miss Marina came in, took me by the hand, and led me to the kitchen. “Let me introduce you: This is Yulia, this is Zhenya. Now get out of here and go for a walk!” Zhenya and I started dating. Kissing. Nothing serious. He was a trucker and often went away on long trips. One day, he came back and I wasn’t there. What? Where is she? Well, I’d been having these episodes for a long time—sometimes I’d get short of breath or I’d faint from weakness…Aunt Nadia made me go to the doctor, they examined me and discovered that I have multiple sclerosis. You know what that is, of course…an incurable disease. I got it from grief, I came down with it because of all the sorrow. I really missed my mother. A lot. [
Silence.
] So they diagnosed me and put me in the hospital. That’s where Zhenya found me. He started coming to see me every day. One day, he’d bring me a beautiful apple, the next, an orange…just like my father once had…Then it was May…One day, he appeared with a bouquet of roses. I gasped—a bouquet like that must have cost half of his monthly wages. He was in his best suit…“Marry me.” I was dumbstruck. “What? You don’t want to?” What could I say? I don’t know how to lie, and I didn’t want to lie to him. I had already been in love with him for a long time…“I want to marry you, but you have to know the truth: I have a very serious disability. Pretty soon I’m going to be like a little hamster and you’re going to have to carry me around.” He didn’t understand, but it upset him. The next day he came back and told me, “Everything’s going to be fine. We can make it work.” When I was discharged from the hospital, we went straight to the marriage registration bureau. He took me to meet his mother. She’s a simple peasant woman, she’s spent her whole life in the fields. There isn’t a single book in her house, but I loved it there anyway. It’s peaceful. I told her everything, too. “It’s all right, child,” she put her arms around me. “Where there is love, there is God.” [
Silence.
]