The angels must have wings

                In memoriam of L. Strachunsky, my teacher

Altair is one of stars closest to us and brightest at the sky. It comes twelfth
in count. So fast is Altair’s rotational speed that it has flattened the star at
the poles and gave it spherical but not round shape. Altair full revolution cycle
is as brief as 10.4 hours. And our star  the San  takes 25 hours to turn on its
axis. Moreover, the Sun is 2.2 less than the Altair. “So what?”, you could say.
“It is its shine and warmth which matter for us. But turning on the axis… Its
problem”. However, a star rotational speed sets the speed of karmic processes
in its planetary system. An effect instantly follows a cause at the planets of
Altair system. A cheater gets cheated in a moment. A punch-thrower is
punched back at once. And the one who killed…There is no such problem as
child-raising there. Life raises. Here, on Earth, cause-effect relations are
stretched, sometimes for more than one decade. The punishment never instantly
follows the crime. This creates an illusion of evil impunity. It is very
hard for a guardian angel to work under these conditions. Altair is speeding
in the space and approaches us at 26 kilometers per second. In last 100 years,
it has been influencing us deeply. The evolution has accelerated. Scientific and
technological advance has been spurring. Alas, the spiritual level of the Earth
people keeps dragging far behind. I am an angel. I am involved in a spiritual
education of a person, I am an individual coach, so to say. No an easy job, believe
me. I had started to foster Masha long before she was born. It was me
who matched her parents-to-be. Masha was born on 29th April, 1958, in the
mountain stanitsa (Cossack village – the comment by the translator) of
Krasnoriverska, at the very south of Russia. Here, Great Caucasus Mountain
Range and Orlov Range separate slightly and form a shallow valley where
Krasnaya River is flowing. Some kilometers away, they join again and lock the
river into the shallow canyon to rage, foam, struggle and spit the fountains of
spills. It is always cold and wet in the valley; here, relic boxes grow in
abundance and exhale a gummy smell, which is captured by water aerosol and then
falls off as a fragrant dew. Strong beeches and hornbeams powerfully grow up
from the base of rock tops and clefts. They mix with fur trees and pines, bushes
and stones, ferns as huge as they used to be in the Age of Reptiles, and, all together,
form an elaborate, unique landscape. Closer to the water, flat, scale
grey-pearly lichen gives an eternal kiss to the rocks and to the large boulders,
which broke from them long ago. A bit higher, moss overhangs in dark-green
garlands and icicles. I never know why Cossacks called the river Krasnaya, or
Red…It might be due to reddish rocks it is flowing upon, or after an ancient
Slavic custom of calling everything beautiful red. I am an ethereal substance,
have no physical body and do not subject to the Earth gravity. I can instantly
move over the planet and behind. In several centuries of my existence I have
scrutinized the Earth and can say for sure the Krasnoriverska stanitsa is one of
the most beautiful and fascinating corners on the Earth.
The place itself was not large. Its inhabitants specialized in apples growing.
It was surrounded by apple gardens, and local apples were famous for their
taste and smell. There were a school, a hospital, a post office and a club with
a library. Xenia, Masha’s mother, worked in the post office. Aged 28 in those
days, she was still single. Arkadi Ivanovich, Masha’s father, reached his 45 then.
He lived in the central city of the territory, worked as a postal manager and was
about to come to Krasnoriverska for an inspection. He was married, with two
children. Children had grown up and grew apart, following their tracks of life.
His relationship with his wife had been turning sour.
So, Arkadi Ivanovich was struggling with so-called midlife crisis. It was
mid August, the heat was unthinkable, he did not feel like going to his trip.
The day before, he and his wife had a fight again. Let me confess you: it was
me who slightly provoked them…Though, there was nothing extraordinary.
Arkadi Ivanovich was extremely frustrated because that fight of theirs had no
obvious reason, at least he just could not recall what it had flared about. Arkadi
Ivanovich had a physical feeling he had fed his wife up and, when he told her
he would go for a trip, the reply was: «Thank God! A couple of days without
you, at last!». There air was stuffy in the bus. He had attempted to read a
newspaper, but gave up. Wheat fields were floating behind the window. The
wheat was moved off and gathered. It lasted for hundreds of kilometers.
Monotonous landscape. Monotonous life. The picture changed as soon as the
bus climbed into the mountains. Cool air was a bliss to breathe in. It looked
a movie set, not a real nature behind the window, so unnaturally beautiful was
the surrounding. Arkadi Ivanovich was entering a strange world. The road
was winding between the wood-covered mountains. Suddenly, they drew apart
and displayed a valley of nice apple gardens. The wind was bursting into the
open windows and was bringing a dizzying smell of apples. Early apples had
ripened, and picking was in progress. People were busy packing the fruits in
the boxes and putting them one over one along the road. Xenia was much too
happy, even servile, when she met him at the bus stop. The big boss had come.
She was quick-witted, fair and had all the documents and papers in order. In
just a few hours, they inspected everything. And then he was told the village
had no hotel. Hesitated, Xenia offered her place to stay. Aunt Nyura, Xenia’s
mother, gave a hearty welcome to the guest. A clay pot with hot boiled potatoes,
seasoned with dill, crushed garlic and butter, pickled cucumbers, finely
cut pieces of dripping and yes, a nice decanter of vodka were put on the table.
The dessert was newly fried pancakes topped with a sour cream and an apple
nalivka (a homemade liqueur - the comment by the translator) Aunt Nyura
was an ace chief. But the apple nalivka was her speciality.
After the dinner, Arkadi Ivanovich told he would like to see the local
sights. Ksenia willingly agreed to come with him and suggested to show the
canyon. She changed to the knitted tracksuit and trainers. Xenia was well-built.
She got used to long walks and was effortlessly hopping and skipping on the
stones… Arkadi Invanovich lagged, mocked himself and flattered Xenia who
never had heard anything like that before. The canyon stunned Arkadi
Ivanovich. Its wild, mystique beauty drove the mind away, the smell of relic
boxes poisoned and made the head to go dizzy. And what had I done? In the
wink of an eye, I turned into a cute golden-haired Cupid and sent ethereal
arrows of love on him and on her. The arrows always hit the aim and produce
their faultless effect. Next morning, he left.
Masha was born when the Sun stood in the Taururs, and apple gardens
around the village were in full bloom.
                *****
Here, in the steppes of Southern Russia, a slavery was never known. Since the
times immemorial, the morals of stock-breeders were totally different from
that of the land-owners. The breeders were driving their cattle from pasture to
pasture, they were not tied to the soil and never built any defense. The rapidity
was their main means of survival, the reason and the way of their life.
They were very mobile. In war conflicts with their neighbour, they never took
any prisoners, they just killed them. Slaves might slow them down, so they
were not needed. But they made their bravest defeated enemies equal by marrying
them into their daughters. They paid high tribute to the military valour.
Scythians were rushing like a whirl through endless steppes of Southern
Russia. Dashing horsemen, brave warriors, experienced cattle-breeders, they
put mounds where they buried their chiefs and placed armours and refined
golden jewelry next to them. Free and fast spirit was their heritage. The spirit
which is still flying over this place. The spirit adopted and inherited by people
who were lucky to live here. Slavery was never known here. Here, at Taman,
a beautiful legend about Amazons was born. In search of rich pastures,
Scythian men drove their cattle far away. And women stayed at home, with
children. Men were not afraid of leaving them alone. They were sure their
woman could stand for themselves. Ancient Greeks, skilled sailors, came across
the Black Sea, landed at Taman and met women who were reckless horse
riders, excellent archers, and could easily repulse the strangers. Ancient Greeks
were great dreamers. They even did not feel the border between the truth and
the fiction. Thus, the myth of fearless women warriors, Amasons, was created.
Slavery was never known here.
And due north, where boundless forests covered Russia, Slavs struggled
to cut century-old trees, rooted out huge stubs and made the soil ready for
tilling. A back-breaking labour, every year the soil had to be plowed,
and later, the harvest gathered. That wanted slaves, and they appeared under
the name of serfs. The slaves neither loved neither could love the soil they
treated, and the forest they were to fight to win the soil over. All the agricultural
countries went through this phase of development. A shame upon Russia
was that it had been dragging for too long. People were born as slaves and
died as slaves. For centuries, slave psychology was hovering over the country,
was soaking the mind, was being imprinted into the genes and inherited by
generations to follow. Sometimes, slaves and slave owners changed their places,
peasant revolts, rebellions and revolutions burst out, the ones who had been
no one, would become all, forms of slavery went one after another: physical
slavery, tremble slavery, lucre slavery.
And very few Russians listened to their genius writer who gave advice of
dropping a slave out of a person. Meanwhile, French aristocrats were developing
an extremely new idea of intentionally idealized rural life, the idea never
existed before. In art, it shaped in so-called pastoral trend. The painters, with
pure Gallic elegance, turned to show shepherdesses, that is plain peasant
women wearing nice dresses, certainly carrying a bunch of flowers, having
their heads decorated with wreaths, and shepherds playing their pipes against
the trees and green grass. The shepherdesses were all charm: laced bodice
tightens a slender waist. The lace, as though unexpectedly, got untied at the
breast and showed it off, a small foot in an elegant boot could be seen from
under the lace skirt. Skilled weavers weaved tapestry showing pastoral pictures.
Virtuoso craftsmen used the finest porcelain to make elegant statuettes
of posing shepherds and shepherdesses: he kneeling before her and playing his
pipe, or them hugging each other, or her giving him a wreath, or him giving
her flowers, and a sweet little goat nearby is moved by the scene. Musicians
wrote pastoral music, the theaters performed operas where shepherds and
shepherdesses were main characters. A strange vogue appeared and spread
throughout. In aristocratic salons of Paris, noble dames and cavaliers dressed
up as shepherds and shepherdesses and performed pastoral sketches. Very soon,
the fashion captured other European capitals. Future art critics would describe
that art as a far cry from reality, as too pretentious and false. But just in that
was its relish. Ideas rule the world. Many persons of different trades had contributed
their talent, diligence and inventiveness into the idea of peasant labour
; idealization. And the result? The Europe is full, rural works have been mechanized
as much as possible. You could remark, “But then, 300 years are over”.
And I would ask: “Is it much?”
Were there any different patterns? Yes, they were. America offered one.
Hollywood adopted the idea of peasant labour idealization. The cowboy,
Western hero, had sprung up. The great rider, the keen shooter, the master of
the situation. The guy knows no fear, he is a bit of a cynic, all dynamics and a
forever winner. Watch out, you Indians, bandits and unfair sheriffs. He is
always on a ride, chasing, always shooting and never missing his aim, drinking
an occasional whiskey in some tavern. A question is, when does he milk his
cows? Does not matter, though. His image was a painstaking creation of script
writers, designers, make up artists and special effects experts. Extravagant sums
were showered. And they did pay back. The hearts in the whole world just
sank in front of the screens in movie theatres praising the graven image made
in America. Jeans, his working clothes, as the most popular and functional
outfit, were gaining the world. American top-level stores rocketed their prices
for the jeans the cowboys had worn, the jeans which smelled of horse and
sweat, the jeans which absorbed urine and semen drops from the genuine man.
And respectable Americans were buying that second hand just to look like
him, the Cowboy. America idolizes her feeder, and America has been fed up,
even too much.
And how is Russia? Oh, still fighting the food problems. And any decree
of Czar, Emperor reform, People’s Deputies Conference, Party and government
decision, law approved by the Duma, or election pledges thrown by candidates
from various parties will keep failing to change the situation until the
Job column in the cattle-breeder labor record book will call him “a cattler”.
Not a balm on your ears, my dear reader? “Cowboy” sounds much more appealing,
doesn’t it? When a teacher says to her colleague “Oh my, why have you
dressed out like a collective farmer?”, isn’t is a far cry from a pastoral idyll?
Russian intelligentsia feeling neither respect nor gratitude to its feeders should
not complain to gastritis, cholecystitis, constipation and impotence of spirit.
Intelligentsia was Russians’ bad luck, that’s it. What was their good luck, then?
Orthodox Church, for instance. No inquisition, like the Catholics had had.
No indulgence. No witch hunting. No crusades. Oh yes, it anathemised a
genius Russian writer. But did he care? Lived until the very old age. They just
improved his image in the eyes of progressive world. PR-ed him, in today’s
wording.
                ****
Slavery was never known at the South of Russia. In 1792, Catherine the Great
decree had settled Zaporozhye Cossacks here. That was an act of violence. A
deportation of the whole nation. They lead a pretty good life there in
Zaporozhian Host. Here, they found themselves in bare steppe. Exposed to
bullets of excellent shooters. With their kids and their women, who were laboring
in carriages. Many years later, Stalin would repeat this experience with
other nations, Chechens and Crimean Tartars. He would not issue any decree,
would act in a hush, in his manner, and would make the repressed nation hate
him forever. Catherine the Great decided to give Cossacks a gift through her
decree. Generous like a real royal, she gave them something she did not owe.
The land yet to be conquered ad defended against the powerful enemy. Later,
the Southern capital city would be called after her, and her monument would
be put there. A proving example of woman’s mind and appropriate paperwork.
Well, I diverted.
Cossacks wore wide trousers of special style, shaved their heads and left
only oseledets, a funny forelock. They spoke a vernacular, a blend of Russian
and Ukrainian, aspirated g sound. They succeeded in reaching a thing very
rare and volatile on the planet of Earth – a harmony. Their land was never in
a private property. The land belonged to the whole kuren (a subdivision in the
Cossack army – the comment by the translator). They just fail to realize how
could it be traded? They just cherished it. Whoever not? The best soil in the
world. The most fertile one. Years later, Kuban black earth would be mentioned
in the Guinness Book of Records as the soil having the thickest humus
ever. In those days, a harmful weed with an angel name of ambrosia did not
grow there. Cossacks had abundant harvests. Their wheat was the best and
the most expensive at Nizhny Novgorod trade fair. Their saddle-makers made
very comfortable Cossack-style saddles. They did not wear spurs, hussar’s
matter of pride, which produced such a striking clank at the balls and enchanted
the ladies. Cossack treated his horse as his best friend. He only had to
whisper in his mare’s ear “Come on, sweetie” and she rushed into the battle,
ready to face the loss, overcoming the fear of death and the brute instinct of
self-preservation, wishing only to serve to her rider.
In Napoleonic War of 1812, Cossacks displayed wonders of heroism and
art of war. Invincible Scythian spirit survived in them. Their physical force was
fabulous, they were virtuosos in wielding their weapon. They knew how to
transform a kinetics of the galloping horse into the mechanical force of the
saber stab. While riding their horses at full speed, they could cut a person with
just one stab of their saber. They gathered in compact parties. They never submitted
to a strict discipline of the regular army. They really clicked to each
other. They brought some creativity in following the orders. The initiative was
supported by all means. Cossacks disputed many crucial decisions, making and
cried Lyubo! in approval
They wrapped rags around the hooves of their horses to make them move
quietly, and appeared suddenly where the enemy did not expect them. Czar
generals gave them the most crucial and risky tasks. They could even to take
the Napoleon as a prisoner. And they saw him, a short, plain man « Could
that one be the Napoleon? Not garny».
They thought they were wrong: that shabby just could not be Napoleon, and
captured his handsome adjutant instead.
In days of czar autocracy and serfdom, here, at the South of Russia, they
had a local government. Cossacks elected their ataman by direct alternative
voting. On Sunday, they went to the church to say their prayers and to ask the
Lord to help them in taking the correct decision.
The elders gave pebble to each Cossack before entering the church. Two
candidates stood at the doors. Both delivered his program. In front of each, pa-
pakha  laid on the ground.
On leaving the church, Cossacks threw their pebbles in the papakha of one of
the candidates. The elders acted as an election committee and counted the pebbles.
The person who gained a simple majority was a winner.
Women were not allowed to vote. Cossacks had a simple explanation of
that discrimination- A woman shall elect not a clever man, but a garny one.
Cossack women agreed: yes, they were as they were, very sensitive to male
beauty and thus cannot be impartial. They never struggled for the right of
voting.
They did not build prisons as they did not have any criminality. A Cossack
committed a crime was to be dismissed from the kuren. His weapons was
taken off and he was let go anywhere. “Let the Lord judge you”, they said to
him. That was the most severe punishment.
Their healers did not know diagnoses like osteochondrosis or prostatitis.
Cossacks turned the bed of Kuban, the largest river of those lands. In those
early days it flew into the Black Sea. The dug the new bed to make it flow into
the Sea of Azov. That reduced spring high waters and floods which were to
follow. It was a very wise solution, a principle of reasonable sufficiency. Very
different from offspring, sick with gigantomania. «As though it has been like
that!» they said when the job was completed.
In those days in Russia if the man was glancing at the girl she had to blush
like a rose and to look down modestly. But not Cossack women. They were impertinent
and had sharp on tongue.
They estimated men critically and had their own criterion of the estimation.
Cossack had chance to be pleasant. if he was garny.
National Russian outfit was not do for Cossack women. Long straight
linen sarafan hid the curves of the figure. Their tailors created the attire of
their own style, under « Look how garny!» It included a velvet or a dense silk
jacket with a tight bodice, slim waistline and a slight basque. The jacket was
lavishly decorated with beading and satin-stitching. The patterns were floral,
mainly bright flowers.
A skirt was slightly widening down the bottom and was not too long.
When a woman was whirling in a dance, the upper skirt rose as a bell to show
off the underskirt made of linen and lace. This one was very short, above the
knees, so Cossack men could have a pleasure of seeing well-formed women’s
legs. Probably, it was for that reason, too, that they admired the open-air festivals.
Cossacks succeeded in an unbelievable thing. They managed to establish
a friendly rapport with the enemies… And at the time when Russian Empire
was at permanent aggressive wars with the Caucasus! After the convincing
victory over the Turks and local tribes, after the strengthening their borderlines,
Cossacks did not opt for expanding their territories, demolishing locals or
driving them to the mountains. Quite opposite. The shared the lands along the
Kuban River and established good relationship to the Circassians. They made
friends. They married mountain women willingly. Never showed a sha
contempt to the slaves, so common at conquerors. Never tried to impose neither
their life style nor their religion.
Just the opposite! They displayed purely Russian insatiable interest in
strange nations, their customs, beliefs and folklore. To learn not to find any
drawbacks, not for later conquer, subdual, robbery, demolishing, slavery….To
learn to understand, enjoy the tunes of strange songs, the movements of different
dancing, to sponge the best they could offer…
Russians were never afraid of strange culture expansion. They were open.
They always knew the culture would never be able to destroy. It can enrich,
that is for certain. From mountaineers, Cossacks adopted a type of cap called
papakha and an overcoat, burka. It was as warm as a fur coat in winter, and
was used as a raincoat on summer. It provided freedom of movement in a
battle. It could serve as a shield, because it was not tight on the body and absorbed
any hit. Even spent bullets sometimes got stuck in its thick wool. When
a Cossack had to spend a night on a naked ground, burka was his mattress
and his blanket.
As for Cossack women, they adopted Caucasian cuisine, and put adzhika,
on their tables.Cossacks liked it spread on their drippings. A drop of Circassian blood was
good to their appearance. Rounded Slavic features gained more distinct, noses
turned to aquiline shape, faces looked proud. They did not shave their heads
any more and their thick black hair could now be seen. But they kept wearing
their moustache. Beautiful people. Stunningly beautiful. They were free. In a
huge empire of slaves they created a unique mini-state of their own, based on
entirely different principles – liberty, ground owned by everybody, local management.
They did not write books about some harmonic society, nor did they
study historical experience of other nations. They were practical persons. They
just did it. They could. And they were happy. They sang «Lyubo, friends, to
live» Their self-made state-in-state had been existing for 125 years and was
washed off by the floods of blood. First World War. Revolution. Civil War.
Hunger. Stalin repressions. Second World War. Stalin repressions again. Too
much blood. Far too much…
                *****
Masha was growing a healthy girl. There were just a few times when she had
caught some illness. Mainly, they were slight childhood diseases. Only twice
her life was endangered so that I had to interfere. Once neighbors boys, Misha
and Grisha, were jumping over the fire, and five years old Masha tried to
follow them and jumped, too. I lifted her on my astral hands and brought over
the fire. Her short skirt caught flames. Children yelled. Boys’ father, Pyotr,
heard them. He instantly extinguished the fire with a sleeve of his jacket, then
pulled smouldering skirt and pants off Masha and smacked her naked bottom.
Yekaterina, his compassionate wife, was crying: “You are a scum to slap an
orphan!” Pyotr shouted back: “Shut up, woman, do not meddle with up-
bringing process”. Then upbringing process fell on Misha and Grisha, and
Misha had the most, as he was the oldest and should have thought of the
younger kids, especially the girl. At the end, with a feeling he did his duty and
sensing a keen appetite, Pyotr had a soup-plate of borstch and sat on a porch
to enjoy his cigarette. The dark already fell. Stars were appearing at the sky.
They seemed cold and tiny. “In fact, they are as huge and hot as our Sun is,
even much larger. Everything looks different when seen close or from the distance”.
Pyotr was a philosophy-minded and was enjoying his thought the same
and he enjoyed his borstch and his cigarette.
Then, aged 14, Masha fell off the horse. There was a small stable
Krasnoriverska. Kolkhoz chief, bearing a funny Cossack surname Podoprigora
hard a right belief that horse-riding is both more comfortable and healthier
than driving. Sitting in his saddle, he could break an apple branches to see
how the ovary was growing or if tree pests were sprawling. A horse does not
skid, can pass between the crops, rides upslope and fertilizes the soil meanwhile.
Neighbor lads, Misha and Grisha, helped a kolkhoz stableman to groom
the horses, washed them in the Krasnaya River, cleaned the stables. In return,
they were allowed to ride as much as thy wished, and boys hurricaned along
the stanitsa, making their mother terrified and their father proud.
Pyotr, an excellent rider himself, coached Masha to sit in a saddle and to
fall down correctly. Masha turned to be a capable pupil. Meanwhile, Misha
and Grisha began to train some elements of dzhigitovka. When a horse was
 galloping at full speed, theyjumped off a saddle, pushed the ground with their
feet and flew back to the saddle. Masha wanted to repeat the trick, the mocking
instinct let her down again. At full speed, she jumped off the horse, her foot got
stuck in the stirrupand the horse began dragging her along the ground.
 I stretched the time alittle bit and made her to recollect Pyotr’s instructions:
 “Should you happen to fall off the horse, don’t panic and do not try to pull you leg.
Do just the opposite – push it deeper in the stirrup, straighten your ankle,
stretch your toe and only then remove your foot form the stirrup. Right then, push the horse
maw with your heel and roll away at once, so that the horse would not step
on you with its rear hoofs “. Masha followed all these steps. Good girl. In
those days, I did not have any other reasons to feel worry for her life. Before
her 14, I even felt a little bit boring. That was not the case with Vasily.

                *****
Before her, I had Vasily under my patronage. I was in trouble if I could establish
a good rapport with him. Contacting believers is easy for us Angels, because
when they turn to God praying “Oh Lord do help me, oh God do teach
me”, it is us, bright hosts, who are here to help them. After the October
Revolution, the Soviet Union was a unique diabolic state which adopted a
godlessness as its official ideology. Hitherto, the planet had never seen such a
state. We, Angles, were struggling under those conditions. As every person
his age, Vasily had been raised in the atheistic environment and did not believe
in God. He would be a military pilot and fight in the most cruel and bloody
war ever. As a guardian angel, I have to guard and protect my ward in the
physical plane as a part of my essential duties, and it is almost unachievable
without establishing a contact with the person. The extent of understanding
and of spiritual intimacy we shared with Vasily, has been a pleasant surprise to
me. He was very intuitive and sensitive and felt my presence as an assistance,
a support, his luck and good fortune. Listen to your intuition, ladies and gentlemen.
There’s a voice of your Angel talking to you. Vasily was a person of desperately
braveness. We, Angels, love the ones like him (whoever not?), though
they can be real mavericks for us. We (Vasily, me and his fighter) made a single
whole. Such a contact affords impossible things to happen. When the moment
came, Vasily shut his eyes for a split second, so that the ray of the floodlight
could not blind him; in right time, he turned his head to face a hazard. Vasily
treated his airplane like his Cossack forefathers used to treat their horses. He
loved, understood and felt it. He had made Divine, mystique act which I call
an animation of the substance. I am just short of any other suitable Russian
words, as well as words from other Earth-spoken languages. He put his soul
in his airplane, and the airplane became a living thing. It is only due to that
close connection to Vasily that I, an astral being, could experience sensations
pure physical – plane vibrations, chill wind blowing in the face, lead-heavy
overloads pressing the body, when one almost cannot lift a hand, and that indescribable
losing of body heaviness when Vasily put his plane into a brief free
fall. We were performing a dance of stunning beauty. A divine melody of
heaven spheres was playing in our minds, and silent stars were watching that
show of ours. Speed and victory intoxicated us. We never had a low fuel, even
when we were airborne much longer than estimated. Our engine never gave
us any problem. Bullets just jumped away of the plane skin. I waved my astral
hands and wings to send them away, like persistent flies.
Vasily was born to be a leader; aged 27, he was an Aviation Colonel in
charge of an air wing and just sensed when he was to hurry up to save his
guys. Many owed their lives to him. Vasily inspired a mystique horror to his
enemies. Their HQ was concocting elaborate plans of his elimination. Vasily
knew he was being hunted. Our bosses regularly told him what was in radiograms
they captured and asked him to be more prudent. But he enjoyed
teasing his enemies. Acting as a bird-call, he showed off his vulnerability, when
flew too far away from his squad. German pilots were throwing on him, in an
attempted surrounding. Once they had that luck. And then Vasily puts his
plane in a steep nose-down attitude, black ground is us, we seem to stick our
nose straight into the soil, but in the very last moment we just lift off to run
away from the chase. Germans lose initiative and the battle, while they are following
Vasily. Next time when he let them to surround him, German pilots descended
abruptly to catch Vasily there as they expected him to go down, but
instead he rocketed upwards. He was unpredictable. He was always improvising.
He did every kind of sky tricks - flip-flops and pirouettes. I felt really
sorry we had no watchers. No one could see that great air show, there were no
raised heads. No one admired, or applauded, or made a video shooting. But
not… Once, a German Aviation HQ had commanded a military operator to
film Vasily’s flight for subsequent studying the secrets of his piloting. The operator
was sitting in the German fighter, which was off the action, and which
mission was only to film the flight. Vasily had his time. Unconsciously, he felt
like a movie star, and he enjoyed the sensation. 200 kilometers of film were
wasted and then delivered to the HQ, for the experts to scrutinize it. They
found Vasily’s plane was capable of developing a speed much faster than
normal one for that class, even considering the tail wind, and in some points
– oh horror – it was faster than sound.
His Yak-9 changes the direction at an angle impossible for a plane of its
class. His plane is filmed at a height unreachable for this type. From time to
time, his fighter disappeared form the camera view, as though becoming invisible,
and then could be seen in totally different point, which it just could not
reach under the Earth gravity law. Expert opinions split up. Some suggested
that though Vasily was piloting a seemingly standard Russian Yak, his was the
experimental model with totally new capacities and performance, and standard
exterior is just a trick sly Russians played to cheat the enemy.
The question was, how a pilot can sustain loads 10 times more than a free
fall acceleration? That was what the calculations obtained. But other experts
thought none of any latest planes could be capable of such tricks in the air, because
they were not in compliance with the fundamental laws of physics and
thus could not be materialistically explained, and that Vasily was evidently
guided by a mystic devil force. Why devil force? Why not angel, may I ask?
They failed to reach the consensus, and both reports were put on the table at
the Third Reich AF HQ. The information was given a Top Secret status, and,
with the film, was locked in the safe. Neither explanation could be used in developing
the piloting technique or in rising of German pilots military spirit, or
in making any further plans of Vasily disposal.
When airborne, we often could hear our chief, Filippich, shouting through
roar and noise: “What are you doing, son of a bitch? I will show you when you
will back to base”. “I cannot hear you, you are inaudible”, Vsily shouted back
in his mike. No one wanted to annoy Filippich, one of the first Rusian airmen,
who started flying at the “stacks”, the early airplanes, which he was making in
his own shed. Then Vasily proceeded to the base. Two shaken German fighters
were our trophies. He climbed out of the cockpit, jumped on the ground. Not
a hero, not a winner, but a gagster boy, a lad with his head hung in fault. He
approached Filippich and fell on his bosom saying: “Sorry, Dad”. What had
Filippich to do? Did he have any option? And then Vasily began chattering and
just did not let him open his mouth: “You see, it dawned on me, if I would instantly
turn opposite, the Fritzs just won’t have any time to…”
That was a cruel time. It was not only in the air that Vasliy faced a threat.
Field censorship was working hard. Only one imprudent word said, or worse,
written could bring a person to prison and even to death. Vasily was a joker,
one of the boys, kept laughing throwing jokes, sometimes too reckless and
risqué. Military pilots were an elite caste. There were no and could be no
sneaks among them. Still, they had a political commissar appointed to them;
he used to approach in a hush to listen to people talking. Pilots of Vasily’s
squadron had to invent a kind of a warning – they started singing a period hit
« first thing, first thing planes are» That tune, sung or whistled, meant that
 the political commissar was nearby.
To my luck, Vasily was not a genius of epistolary genre, did not like
writing letters, just scribbled brief notes to his parents to console them he was
alive, in good health and fed properly. Only twice, when writing to his father,
Vasily gave a bitter criticism to the General Staff and blamed it for too high
death toll. I had to destroy these letters. First, I pushed a postman soldier, who
was carrying a letter bag, he fell and dropped his bag. The soldier thought he
might get stumbled on a mount. It was raining, the bag dropped in the mud
and lost some letters, inclcuding the one written by Vasily. The soldier began
to pick them up and to wipe with his sleeve. He used to treat front letters with
extreme care and caution. Still, I made him to oversee Vasily’s letter in the
mud and wet grass. Next, Vasily’s letter happened to get to the military
censor’s table. The military censor, a cachectic geek with a chicken-thin neck,
was sitting at his table in a tent, near the front line. With my astral hands, I
dragged the shell for several kilometers and smashed it near the tent. The
inkpot broke in pieces and flooded Vasily’s letter. It turned totally unreadable.
In addition, I turned the table upside down, knocked the geek off his feet and
broke his glasses. I realized he was just a screw in the machinery of the Devil.
But I could not refrain from that dirty little trick. Rather innocent, according
to our highest ethics. Oh my, I just hate these screws …

                *****
Masha’s case was totally different. Since 12 years, the mystery of her father
had been torturing her. She began sticking to Xenia trying to make an inquiry.
Xenia repeated he had died before she was born, and started crying immediately.
It was just impossible to gain any information from her. But then,
Granny Nuyra gave up after some hesitation and told Masha her father was a
rascal and a rogue, that her, Granny Nyura, had treated him like a dear guest,
with meals and drink, and he paid her back with seducing her Xenia, using
her silliness, youth and his high post. He was living in the territory capital city,
but she neither knew his surname nor did she wanted to. Masha asked, if she
looked like her father. Granny Nuyra replied in anger: “No, thank God! He
was aged, fat, bold, wearing glasses, ugly. Not garny at all. I cannot realize
what drove Xenia so crazy as to give her in to him. Might had too much of my
nalivka before”.
Masha turned happy her father was alive and, since that, she started
dreaming of their meeting. She did not blame her father he was not seeking
that meeting. She was sure he did not suspect she existed. But she was wrong.
The thing was that in seven months after his trip to Krasnoriverska Arkady
Ivanovich had unwillingly heard his chief talking on the phone. It turned out
that Xenia Belogotzeva from Krasnoriverska was going to take her maternity
leave and, because she was the only one postal officer in the village, there arose
a problem with personnel – someone had to substitute her. Arkady Ivanovich
checked the dates a question stirred in his mind: “Who’s the father?” Placing
a call to Xenia was an ideal solution. But Arkady Ivanovich did not do that. He
thought the call could not change anything. He was married and Xenia knew
that. He had not promised anything to her. And then – if she had opted so,
that was her decision. A Russian intelligent is always ready to spend his time
and his efforts for making trivial, no matter simple or elaborated, mind structures
to soothe the consciousness. “It was beyond me” or “I had no other
choice” are at hand in such situations.
Masha was dreaming she would grow up and meet her father. I saw her
simple childlike fancies. She was pretending she would become a famous actress
would perform dramatic parts and the audience would sob with shock.
And her father, shaken by her acting, would enter her dressing-room carrying
a bunch of flowers and would express his delight. And here he would know she
is his daughter. A joy of meeting, forgiving words and tears, tears…
Or Masha would make a chemist, would invent a principally new substance
to make a new medicine from it. The medicine will fight the oncology.
Thousands of survivors around the world. Nobel prize. And when her father
will read the biography of newly Nobel winner, which should mention the
place and the date of her birth, he would recall some facts of his private life and
would realize she had to be his daughter. And he would find her, would come
to her institute and they would meet at last…
Or it would dawn on her she would go in for an equestrian sport, namely
theshow jumping. She imagined herself sitting on the back of a black Orlov
trotter, wearing tight breachers, high boots and jockey cap. She wins first prize
at the high-esteemed international competition, and a reporter from “Sovetsky
Sport” does an interview with her. When asked, where had she learnt the
riding, she would reply proudly: “In my native stanitza of Krasnoriverska. My
godfather, Pyotr Ivanovich Petrenko, was my first coach”. The ‘Sovetsky
Sport” would publish her biography. Her father would certainly read the issue,
note the date of her birthday and would want to meet his daughter.
Sometimes, Masha was thinking she would write a book, a kind and an interesting
one, which would make people cry and laugh, which would capture
them, would give answers to many issues the humanity has been worried by
for centuries, the book, which would help the humanity to become better. The
book would have a jacket, and on the rear there would be Masha’s photo and
a brief description of her life. Her father would read the book, it would produce
a feedback in his mind, he would like to meet the author, would read her
biography, would recall something from his own life and would realize she
might be his daughter. A joy of meeting, forgiving words and tears, tears…

                *****
Masha was growing up in paradise. Love surrounded her. Xenia adored her
daughter. But whom else could she? She never married. Granny Nyura adored
her granddaughter, though felt a bit bitter calling her an orphan. She treated
Masha with apples from their own garden, gave her goat milk and fish oil.
That fish oil gave them one problem - Masha absolutely did not want to drink
it. She pressed her lips and was spitting. A family conflict burst out between
Granny Nyura and Xenia. Xenia took her daughter’s part: “Mam, do stop torturing
a child. If she doesn’t want to take that nasty fish oil of yours, let her
go. I can remember how you were stuffing me with the one. I even felt sick”.
“Yes, I did”, - agreed Granny Nyura. – And now you come to the mirror and
have a look at yourself. Garny and healthy. Your teeth are like pearls. Your legs
are well-formed. Masha doesn’t want fish oil. She is a child, what can she understand?
I know, what she does want. A chocolate she wants. Caries, that’s
what she wants.
«Mashenka, my little one. Look our dog Tuzik licking fish oil. He is wagging
his tail, whining, asking for more. And our cat, Murzik. Look him licking
his plate and listen him purring. Animals know what is healthy because they
have their instinct. They have a special feeling for vitamins But neither Tuzik
nor Mursic were no authority for Masha and could not make her to follow
them. Then, Granny Nyyura decided to try to move her granddaughter with
her personal experience. She took a spoonful of fish oil in front of the little girl.
She was smacking and licking her lips insisting it was because of this that she
felt good in spite of her old age. Granny Nyura was right. Decades later, researchers
would find omega-3, unique fat acids, in the fish oil. But Granny
Nyura’s acting did not impress Masha. Then she resorted to the primitive but
effective method of rough pressure. She declared an ultimatum: should Masha
take a spoonful of fish oil, then her, Granny Nyura, would read her a fairy tale.
As Masha could not read in those days, she had nothing to do but surrender
to her Granny.
Pyotr, their neighbor, felt responsible for his God daughter’s upbringing,
trying to be a father figure as much as it was possible. He taught her how to
fight. “A beautiful girl should know how to stand up for herself. And you will
be beautiful. Like Xenia”. “The most important is to learn how to fall properly.
The Earth is your mother. The Earth is your feeder. To jump, you have
to push off the Earth first”. “Learn how to meet a blow. Life can send you to
knockdown, that’s for sure. But not to knockout. You should leap to your feet
very fast”. Pyotr’s wife, Yekaterina, did not have enough doll-playing in her difficult
pre-war girlhood. Probably that was the reason why she was eager to
have a girl. But her fate brought her two sons instead. Yekaterina treated Masha
as her favorite doll. She made her blonde hair into plaits, tied her huge color
bows. Made her dresses from some remaining fabric, knitted jackets for her, or
did suits for the school fancy parties. Masha came dressed up as a snowflake,
or as a butterfly, or as a little fox, or as a monkey.
There were two more persons who loved Masha as though she was their
own daughter. Xenia had an elder sister, Zoya. As a young girl, she had gone
to the city, where she did a god marriage. Her husband, Grigory, was working
in oil industry. He often went abroad, worked in the oil industry of developing
countries. He worshipped his wife, spoiled her, often took her to spas. They
had a flat in the centre of Grozny and a black Volga car. Zoya was wearing a
mink coat. But they were childless. Grigory had two hobbies – he was collecting
philosophy books and enjoyed making presents. His huge salary afforded
that to him. His every visit to Krasnoriverska was a triumph. He
brought Pyotr a tape-recorder, first ever in the stanitsa. Yekaterina received
some bundles of mohair and a length of crimplene, the hit of the period. Misha
and Grisha got their training shoes, a Granny Nyura – a suspiciously green
liquer in a nice-looking pot. Granny Nyura took a sniff and swallowed a little
of green liquid. “But my nalivka is better”, she muttered, trying not to annoy
Grigory. But Masha was simply showered with presents : dolls, sweets, foreign
made clothes and books. I was afraid Masha would grow up absolutely selfcentered
person. But it turned out quite opposite.
                ****
“Xenia, have a look what kind of a book has Grigory brought for Masha!
Russian fairy tales. As large as a Bible, dense shining paper, nice bright colors.
Grandad Frost looks just alive. And the price, the price! Grigory never gave it
a second thought to spent three roubles for his favorite niece. But what is in
there! Just listen. On winter, an evil stepmother is instructing her husband to
bring her stepdaughter to the wild forest. And he does. But what of any
woman can say! So, he brought his own daughter, his flesh and blood to the
forest, to make her die for sure from the biting cold and wolves. Criminals,
that’s what they are. His wife is an organizer, and he is a direct offender. Prison
is his home. But where are the morals there? Or take that one. Tsarevitch Ivan
riding a grey wolf. Stealing all the time, a feather from fairy tale bird wing, or
juvenile apples from someone else’s garden. But presented as a real hero’
Xenia was kneading a pastry for pelmeni and laughing. “Mam, you should
come here to make pelmeni”, - she said. Granny Nyura sat at the table and
started making. But she was going on:
-And that Frog Princees! Just clapped her hands, and crowd of nannies
rushed towards her. They baked pies. Made lots of tasty things – sturgeon in
jelly, stuffed goose. Jams. Pickles. Pancakes filled with red caviar. Made kvass.
Tailored dresses. Stitched sarafans with gold and silver. Silk caftans. Linen
shirts decorated with cross-stitching. Have been working through the night.
Just great. And in the morning Frog Princess pretended it was all of her
making. Robbed other people work, the exploiter of the laborers. As though
was her who hadn’t slept all night long, who was kneading the pastry and
stitching those shirts. Cheated the High Jury of the czar himself, the czarina
and the courtiers. They are gasping with surprise – oh yes, such a skilled
worker. But why not tell the truth? See, you czar and czarina, what an organizer
I am. I have found material and hands, arranged all the procedure, fulfilled
and over-fulfilled the plan in the briefest time possible. And a quality!
Superior! Take me to be a czarina. And they would! After such a promotion!
- I am not going to read these fairy tales to my own granddaughter, -
Granny Nyura concluded. In the morning, she visited stanitsa library.
Chidren’s book selection was not very wide there. Granny Nyura grumbled a
little and borrowed Pushkin’s and Chukovsky’s tales and Chipollino
Adventures by Junny Rodari.
               
                *****
Masha was doing well and easy at school. She always had her homework ready,
did difficult sums, let her classmates crib from her and was always here to
prompt. It seemed children should like her. With one but, namely, Masha’s
custom of putting questions to her teachers. For that, Masha got a slightly annoying
nickname, a Brain Pecker.
A final lesson. Pupils are looking forwards the bell. Tamara Ivanovna, a
teacher of literature, asks as usual: “Is it clear? Any questions?” hoping sincerely
there would not be ones. And at that moment Masha raises her hand :
“I have a question, Tamara Ivanovna. Nikolai Ostrovsky writes a person is
given only one life and must live it so that he would feel pain for the wasted
years, et cetera. But why has Ostovsky decided that there is only one life? Did
he have any proofs? Were there experiments, if any?
Tamara Ivanovna did not get lost: “You see, Masha, proofs and experiments
are tools of exact sciences. A literature, being a part of the art, is very
subjective. Any writer has a right for creativity. He expresses his point of view,
his opinion. It is his subjectivism that is interesting for us. In this quotation,
Nikolai Ostrovsky has called us to treat our life as the only one, unique, which
cannot be repeated. It raises the level of personal responsibility. Though,
Masha, we can continue this talk between us two”.
“Between you two, between you two”, - shouted boys and girls, rushing
out of class. “Do admit, Masha”, - she went on, when they were left alone, -
“if you say to a person he or she has several lives, then that person might think
somehow like this: “Well, I will misbehave in this life, and be better in the
next one”. Why hurry, if, like a contesting sportsman, the person is given several
attempts?” Bravo, Tamara Ivanovna. A mere village teacher. I was delighted
with her explanations and clapped with my astral hands and wings. It
is a pity she could not hear my applause.

                ********
Grigory thought Masha to be too slim and sent her five tins of black caviar.
Every morning Granny Nyura did a toast with that caviar for Masha. Masha
enjoyed it. So did Granny Nyura.
A happy Sunday morning. The family is at the table having a breakfast. A
radio announcer is reading the news. In African Congo children are dying with
hunger caused by draught and bad harvest. In the eyes of her mind, Masha sees
black children with twiggy hands and legs and huge bellies shining like drums.
They are dying. In thousands. Compassion and guilt are piercing through
Masha “I am sitting here gulping my caviar and they are dying with hunger!”.
“Why worry if you cannot help? Why be in trouble? Why waste your feelings?”,
an average person might ask. And that person will be wrong. There is
nothing wasted in the world. There is nothing in vain. Masha developed a
vomit. I clearly saw a small, very dense bolt of concentrated compassion and
some guilt which flew from Masha with the vomiting mass, flew as fast as the
cannon ball. The bolt was expanding quickly. Sending silver sparks, shining
and becoming thinner, it turned into the finest mist, which covered all the
planet. All the planet. The mist was thicker over the cities, was changing its
color like the Northern lights, in smallest drops fell over the heads of the
humans so that they were experiencing synchronous emotions, formed sharp
crystals of purest altruism on their hair and they were shining like precious diamonds.
I gasped with surprise. I never expected such a strong felling could be
found in a girl. These Earth dwellers are very interesting, oh yes, they are.
Some of their specimen may cause a surprise. And it got started. Telephone
began ringing at every corner of the planet. Teletypes started their rap. Front
page headlines captured reader’s eyes “Congo children dying with hunger”.
“Twenty thousand died, are there more to follow?”. Charities were boiling
with activities. Red Cross was doing something. United Nations called for an
extraordinary meeting. In a European capital, countess Matilds was leafing
through the fresh Paris Match while having her morning coffee. With her beautiful
hand, she took a silver ball and rang it. Her secretary entered.
-Good morning, madam.
-Good morning, Roget. Tonight, we are going to hold a charity for young
artists, aren’t we?
-That’s true, madam.
-We will change the subject. The charity will be in favour of hungry
African children. Please call the guests and inform them properly. Contact Red
Cross, too. Tomorrow we are to transfer funds for them.
-Yes, madam. But what about young artists, madam?
-Young artists will have to wait. For a month. Until the next charity. They
are not hungry.
-Some of them might be, madam.
-They probably might, but then, they are not dying with hunger.
-You are right as always, madam. They are not.
-They should drink less.
- Hardly possible, madam. You want too much from them.
With me, all bright forces had a sincere joy and surprise. Surprise and joy.
They were jubilating. Clapped with their wings and were throwing feathers on
each other. They reacted like football fans whose favorite though weak team
hit an unexpected goal. Well done, Masha! What will grow out of this girl?
Through the dark puffs of the lowest astral I could see the ire face of the Devil
himself. Masha managed to make him angry. He noticed her. But he could not
do Masha anything bad. I was providing her with my reliable protection.

                *****
On the Victory Day, schoolchildren went to Volgograd. Masha saw the
Pantheon of Heroes. An Eternal flame. Sad quiet music. White marble plates
with the names of died heroes carved on them. At the level of her eyes, Masha
was reading names, patronymics and surnames, dates of births and deaths.
Most of them did young, very young. The lists went up and up. Letters
became small and indistinctive. At the height, they looked like sticks. There
was someone’s life behind each that stick. Near the ceiling, even sticks could
not be seen.
Marble plates were going high in the sky. The surrounded the pantheon.
Each one was covered with names. Names, names, tens of thousands, hundreds
of thousands, millions. A horrible war. And a horrible price of that war.
There was not only something cruel about it. Deadly cruel. Something was
wrong with the history.
Masha could not understand history, though she was good at school. Why
wars? Why suffering? Could not be a mere coincidence, circumstances.
Someone was in charge of the process. Ruled it with devilish cruelty. All the
history of the Earth civilization was a chain of wars, through the thousands of
years. As though some unknown, yet horrible and powerful force brought the
most cruel and aggressive leaders to power, in all times and at all nations.
These leaders were maniacs of conquering other countries and obtaining
a world leadership, though no one of them can hardly tell how this world is
supported – whether it floats on three whales, or there are three elephants
holding it. In some strange, incomprehensible way these ideas were capturing
the minds of millions, who were ready to die and suffer just to make them
true.
Madness of destruction drove the conquerors. The whole countries were
wiped off the face of Earth. Churches and monasteries were destroyed.
Libraries were put on fire. Golden jewellery and statuettes, real masterpieces,
were melted into gold. Cruel and bloody wars burst out of smallest an insignificant
reasons. Masha was especially puzzled with the Saint
Bartholomew’s Night. How one and the same people who confessed the same
religion could kill each other so cruelly? The only difference between the two
was in the language - should they say their prayers in Latin or in French. As
though it makes any difference to God. If He is Almighty, He should under-
stand Latin! And does it make any difference to an illiterate Paris craftsman
who could neither read nor write in any language? Is it possible to kill or to
die just because of that? History did not give answer to “Why?”. Masha suspected
the truth should be hidden somewhere very deep, and she, a persistent
and patient Taurus, was trying to dig it out.
If we speak of the tree of wisdom, Masha certainly wanted to get to its
roots, which cannot be seen, but which feed the tree, support it, let it branch
out, turn green, bloom and bring fruits. Though, some general rules could be
traced and Masha managed to formulate them.
At first, any aggressor had an obvious luck. He easily found his followers,
funds and weapons. His army was multiplying like locusts. Victories were easy,
very often over the enemy larger in amount, and them, who were defending
their country, their homes and their kids could not resist as required, though
the fairness was on their side.
Gradually the potential of evil was accumulating and reached its critical
mass in some time. And then the vector of luck turned 180°. Military spirit of
conquerors started fading. World leadership was losing its attractiveness, for
some reasons no more volunteered to die for it, military leaders did numerous
strategic and tactic errors, and the ire of the conquered nations killed the conquerors.
Huge boomerang of evil, which the aggressor had thrown long ago,
now was flying back as a revenge.
There was one more noticeable rule, the time between the start and the
finish of the aggression, which Masha described as boomerang flight time. It
was varying very widely, from centuries to years. And in the course of history,
that period was reducing obviously. The nature of military actions and the personalities
of leaders were changing, too.
An ancient leader had to courageous, brave, almost recklessly, be wellversed
in weapons and have a physical strength. He could see himself killing.
The eyes of his enemy. His blood on his cloth and hands. His death rattle.
And the thought - he could be at that place. He had to overcome his fear.
Probably that was the main war victory which had certain sense.
Centuries were passing. Conquerors were hypnotized with the thought
of how to kill without taking any risks? Remotely. From far away. For sure. The
distance between the aggressor and his victim was increasing depending on
the bullet flight distance. A sniper sat on a tree, hidden by its green crown and
invisible in the dark. Some dark figure was running across the field. It seemed
small from the distance. A shot. The figure fell down. Like a target in a shot
gallery. The rifle made free not only of fear, but of guilt, too. The war turned
out into the assassination.
An aircraft was cruising at a high altitude. It was out of reach of the enemy
air defence. The pilot did not take any risk. He just pushed the lever, opened
the hatch doors, and atomic bombs fell on the city. That’s it. An absurd started.
In the last war, Hitler did not even think of appearing at the battlefield.
He preferred his fortified bunker, and the strength of fortifications did not
leave any doubt of not only his cowardness, but of pathologic fear for his own
life. Now only was expected from the aggressor. Masha imagined Hitler sitting
on the Alexander the Great’s place, on the back of Bucephalus. Could he win
his victories in those days? Hardly. Then why did our contemporaries brought
the ones like him to power? Has the mankind been degrading morally through
thousands of centuries if the things like courage and braveness are no more expected
from the leader? Then what is the force which brings dictators to
power? Can it be the Devil in person? This is how Masha has closely approached
the issue of the evil nature.
                *****
-Mama, can you tell me why there is an evil on the Earth?
At first, Xenia lost but in a minute attacked Granny Nyura:
-Here’s you nice upbringing! Russian fairy tales were not too good for
you. Immoral, as you used to say. Chippolinos are better. And this is a result.
Instead of taking interest in boys (it’s high time, by the way, she turned 15 ),
instead of learning sewing from Yekaterina, she is pondering over the…How
did you say? Yes, the nature of evil.
Granny Nyura was not the one to get mute in reply.
-And you call yourself a mother! Cannot explain anything to your child.
There’s only rags to think of. Both for you and for that Yekaterina of yours!
What are you making? Neither dress nor blouse. How much fabric does it
take? No more than a hanky. Showing you knees off. A shame! Where does
Pyotr look at?
-There does he look. On the knees shown off. It’s a world fashion these
days, mini.
-The world’ s gone craze and you, too. Come here, my dear girl, - addressed
Granny Nyura to Masha. - Granny will explain. Where is the evil from?
But from him, form t the Devil. Every evil is from him.
-And who is stronger, the God or the Devil? - went Masha on.
-God, of course.
-Then why He won’t kill the Devil?
-He will, certainly He will.
-But when?
-I taught you how to pray. “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on
earth as it is in heaven”. What does it mean? It means our God rules the
Heavens. And the Erath is ruled by the Devil. People had brought him into
power, let him enter their souls through their sins. When each person will dismiss
the Devil from the soul, then there will be no more evil on Earth.
-But how can he be dismissed?
-Oh my granddaughter, my precious one! Why should you need to dismiss
him? You are just an innocent child. It is easier not to let him in, than to dismiss
later.
                ******
I wish I could establish a straight dialogue with Masha. We, Angels, are not
allowed for that. The person guarded might get frightened or think he or she
is driving crazy. Only in emergency when the life of the person is in obvious
hazard, we are authorized for direct translation of brief imperatives straight to
the mind. “Do not buy a ticket for the Titanic’! Will go with some other ship”.
As for an education, here we act indirectly: arrange a meeting with a proper
teacher, help to enter a university even when the contest is very high, bring the
book someone needs. When a researcher or an inventor has been struggling
over some problem and cannot find any solution, we can give a prompt, but
very subtle one, sometimes in a sleep. He or she might think he did it and just
wonders why it had not dawned on him before. But the fact is, before the
person just was not ready to absorb the idea. We provide the information only
for those who are there to take it. Some of us, Angles, specialize in guarding
the musicians, poets and writers. People call them Muses.
In an atheist country, the road to God is difficult. But Masha was my joy.
She was making fast progress. Much faster than other persons I had guided.
She was almost running. Made almost no stops. Was moving straight ahead.
As though she was carrying a compass in her hands. And yet I wish I could
have a talk to her. I would explain that famous words “All the world is stage,
all men and women rely players” are fair. Only there are two directors in that
theatre, God and Devil, and they perform two scenarios. The bright one is
played by us Angels, the other one, dark, is played by the Devil. People are
actors and watchers at the same time. They often confuse their parts because
the God had given them the most precious gift, the freedom of liberty. And it
is very often they choose wrong part, wrong aim, wrong way.
*****
Pyotr was sitting at his perch having a smoke. Masha sat next to him.
- Uncle Petya, please tell me why there is an evil on Earth.
-Probably because our world is polarized. Day and night. Man and
woman. Winter and summer. Good and evil.
- But there is no winter in Africa. It is always summer there on the equator.
- Still, there is a polarity. If not in temperature, then in humidity. They
have rainy season and dry season there.
- That means good and evil are physical notions. Then, under the law of
electrical neutrality, the amounts of good and evil should be equal on our
Earth, shouldn’t they?
-Probably they should.
-I don’t think so. It seems to me, there’s much more evil.
-But who weighted? Can it be weighted at all?
-That’s true. There is no measuring unit. At least we people don’t have
one.
-Yes, we don’t. But God does. He will weight any person after the death:
how much good and how much evil.
- So, one should wait until the death to be appreciated?
- It is not that long, Masha. Life passes too fast. Unfortunately…- In
recent time, Pyotr had sensed he was getting aged. His elder son, Michail, was
a student of the agricultural university in the territory city centre. Wants to
make a veterinary. A good profession. A kind one. As a doctor. But then, less
responsible. Cattle is no human. His younger one was in the army. Pyotr
missed his boys a lot. And Masha had grown up, too. Here is she - asking
questions about the problems of the being.
-Have a talk to Grigory, - suggested Pyotr. – He is coming soon.
                *****
Masha’s questions, allegedly simple and clearly formulated, stunned Grigory.
- The thing you are asking is called theodicy and has been troubling the
humanity throughout its history.
Masha was happy she was not alone. She felt uncle Grisha is her solemate.
He went on:
-Theodicy is a problem of God justification, as God allowed the evil to
exist here, on Earth. To begin with, it requires a proper definition of God. Do
we think He is anthropomorphic which means he understands the evil exactly
the same as we do, or He is an impersonal Absolute, and uses a different scale
of morale values?
Masha was pondering. What kind of God does her Granny Nyura worship?
Of course, the antropomorphic one, the One who understands everything,
loves humans and forbids many things to them.
- When we think the God to be impersonal, - Grigory continued, - then
all our discussions are fated to failure, as He is unsearchable for us. He is just
different, that’s it. The only thing we know is that He has created the Universe
as well as the Earth and it is still in progress. But what do we know of the
Universe? Nothing.
But if we adopt the idea of an anthropomorphic God, then we can argue,
as He gave us this capacity. If we refer to Bible we will know Eve is to be
blamed for everything. She was claimed and exiled from the Paradise. For the
smallest wrong-doing which can never be called a crime, - she had eaten a fruit
from a forbidden garden, just think of it! For that, she has been claimed with
all the sins of humanity, and not only her, but all her descendants were punished
once and for all.
A trial of Eve is the most unfair and awesome one in all the history of law.
Poor woman was not even defended. The most frustrating was that God
Himself was acting as a judge and as an executor. Of course, not truly Himself
– there were ancient Jews who would write the Bible later. So you see, Masha,
an anthropomorphic God can be different with different nations – in some
places He is severe, while in other places He is kind.
- We are lucky our Jesus Christ is merciful, - noted Masha happily.
– Yes, we are lucky to have this God, but He is not lucky to have us. In
1917, we have turned away from Him. – replied Grigory slowly and with pain.
– We have betrayed our God. Judases we have turned out to be.
He stopped. Wasn’t Masha too young for this Universe-scale pain? May
be he shall postpone their talk. Let her grow older. But it was Masha who
went on.
-. They had put the blame on Judas only But is he was acting alone, it
would never finished in the way it had finished. Well, he had betrayed his
Teacher. A fair judge would have no problems in settling the case. What was
Jesus Christ doing, properly speaking? Taught. Healed. Raised form the dead.
Turned water into wine. And where are crime components? Said something
wrong. But he might be interpreted in some wrong way. He did not write
anything. There were no documents. And interpretation may be different. But
the whole crowd was shouting “Crucify Him! Crucify Him!” The crowd of
Judases.
-You are right, Masha. Too many Judases, but the Jesus is only one.
- But He is the God! - said Masha firmly..
- So, when had the evil started on Earth? – Grigory said. – Let’s turn to
biology, Masha. And what do we see? The evil, as we understand it, had appeared
long before the humans.
A wolf catches a lamb, a tiger kills a roe, a shark gulps smaller fish. Black
widow female spider bites the head off the male spider the moment after the
coitus. But there are cases of co-operation and mutual advantage, too. A cow
is at grass, eats it and then faeces the soil for more grass to grow. A butterfly
pollinates the flowers. Which means the evil appeared on the Earth at the same
time with predators and parasites. Does Earth need parasites? Agents of
human and animal diseases? The opinion shared by everyone is no it doesn’t.
Earth can do pretty well without them. Are predators so necessary? And what
for, if they do? Zoologists think it is for evolution reasons. A fallow deer is
always in terror for her life. It has to be sensitive, to be on guard all the time.
To develop its odor sense, vision and hearing. Just gape, and you will be swallowed.
- Does it mean the fear is the stimulus of evolution? - asked Masha. - I do
doubt. With me, at least, it is quite opposite. When I am have my Russian
exam, I am terrified of making mistakes and cannot create anything at all. My
home-written essays are much better. For the creativity to cut inside me, I have
to get out my fear.
Grigory laughed back:
-Well, you are not alone. Look at the elephants, for instance. Though they
are plant-eating, they have no enemies at all. Whom can they be afraid of?
They can squeeze any predator with their one leg. Does it mean they are not
developing? They are very clever animals. Just to find so much food and water
for the elephant herd. Their carried all the Indian civilization on their backs.
They are builders, vehicle and war machines in one. Their intellect is much
higher than that of the fallow deer ever trembling for its life. What follows is
the fear is a brake and not the stimulus for development.
-The objection may be the brain of the elephant is larger than the brain of
the fallow deer. They are in different weight categories, -said Masha and
scratched her head. One more objection followed, to herself that time. -And
if we take our Murzik. Does he have a lot of brains? Just look how small his
head is. But he isn’t afraid of anyone. Everyone’s favorite. And he has developed
so that he knows how to manipulate the Granny
-Do you mean Granny Nyura? - said Grigory in doubt.
-Yes, her. I could see the trick many times. Milk is his usual ration. But he
favors sour cream. If he will be just purring and chafing about the legs, it will
not work for him to obtain his sour cream. And he invented his trick. All of a
sudden, he throws himself under Granny’s feet and she stoops on his tail. He
falls instantly and starts whimpering quietly. Pretending he is in pain, but overcomes
it with a lot of stamina. A real actor. Causes Granny to feel an acute
guilt. And she brings his sour cream to him.
Two of them laughed, and Grigory went on:
-Domestic animals are very clever. There are many stories when horses
and dogs saved their owners.
-So what do we obtain? A fear is the brake of the evolution, and the love
is its motor, isn’t it? - asked Masha, and her clear thinking surprised Grigory
one more. He started telling her of different religious systems, karma and reincarnation.
He was carried away. Never before did he have such an enthusiastic
listener. But it is turned out there was more than one listener. For several hours,
Granny Nyura was standing at the stove.
-Grisha, it is time for Masha to go to sleep. She is going to school tomorrow.
Just look at the clock It is three am. Soon the cocks will start crowing.
-Oh, Granny, please… - Masha was trying to resist though she realized it
was in vain.
-But, Grigory, are you trying to understand the God? Is it possible?
- Yes, I am.
-The God is beyond the human mind, Grisha. He is sensed by heart, - she
did a brief pause. - Tell me, Grisha, is it true Hindus come in this world for
several times?
-They believe they do.
-It’s good I am not a Hindu. Just to recall…. War. Hunger. The soil does
not bring any harvest. But why should it when it is poured with human blood
and not with water? One life is more than enough, to my taste.
While leaving, Grigory kissed Masha and told her she should go to a philosophy
faculty of the Moscow University. He said he would help. Masha
thanked her uncle but had chosen a different option. In all her life, she might
fail to find the truth. As millions before her. But she does want to do something
real. There’s too much pain in this world. She wants to make an anesthesiologist.
                *******
                Russia, 1993
Masha: My life is short of positive emotions. It brings no joy for me. I
turned 35 already. But I have no husband, no kids, no flat of my own, no
prospective to get one. No bank will open a credit for me, when it will know
my average monthly salary. Because it will go bankrupt, if will dare to do so.
I am staying in a hostel for medics, without any stars of course. Yes, I do have
a profession, but it cannot win a bread for me. I have to work as a day-and-a
half doctor.
Yulia says I should learn how to be happy for others. Do show me whom
can I be happy for in the reanimation ward of the Municipal Hospital of
Urgent Aid ?
T. has a lingual cancer. Terminal stage. Huge rigid tongue can no longer
stay in his oral cavity. The tumor is degrading. Massive haemorrhage. I told
Zuev at once I would not be able to intube him, and he quickly put the trachaeostoma
and tied his sublingual arteries at both sides. That did not stop the
haemorrrage, so he had to tie his external carotid arteries, from both sides,
too. Only then the haemorrage ceased “You’d better let the man die in peace”,
- grumbled the surgery nurse. Far from it. Zuev fights until the last cartridge.
“The cartridges over, we’ll keep fighting with clubs” is his favorite saying.
T. quickly caught the pressure, his pupils narrowed, and the urine arrived.
I carried him to the reanimation ward, put under the extended ventilation and
placed a feeding bougie in his stomach. By the morning, he came back to consciousness.
Zuev was impressed with my work and said in few day he would
put a feeding ghastrostoma on him. What kind of life is ahead for him -
breathe through the tracheostoma and feed through the ghastrostoma for several
months which are left for him?
Though we had shown off our professionalism and ability to act fast, the
sleepless night did not bring any satisfaction. A routine. Too many patients.
Deficiency of personnel. Deficiency of medicaments and of consumable materials.
Tanya gives me eight-size gloves. My fingers look like a non-erected
male organ with the condom on. “Do we have some smaller size?” No, we
don’t. There don’t all the time. Don’t enough funds. The crisis in the country
means the crisis in the medicine. Not in stock in the pharmacy. Not in stock
in the central pharmacy storage. Haven’t bought abroad and do not manufacture
here. Or the scope of manufacturing is not enough. Or the quality is
poor.
Plan economy is in ruins, but market one is still to be created. Try to cure
a patient per three dollars a day. We are trying. The ones who are to get better
are getting better. The ones who are to die are dying. Human beings are
mortal. Though there are exceptions, but few, very few, alas. The patients who
were to die but recovered instead. Despite of prognosis, ratings, our experience
and common sense. As though some mystic force helped him. As thought they
started their new, second life in that old body we had stitched. They are our
joy and surprise. They turn to be our legend. Their names are waving like
flags. We like to repeat them. We like to recall them “Do you remember
Anechka B. who lost seven liters of blood?” Sure we do!.
I can be happy for others. It is very rare, unfortunately. Say, it was four
years ago, when we withdrew our army from Afghanistan. On the TV screen,
a long chain of tanks was whirling along the foreign mountain road. I was
crying with happiness. The war was over. The Peacekeeper put the war to an
end. He replaced the Old Man. But not at once. There were two transitional
figures between them. Old Man fed everyone up. He had been at power for
too long. He talked indistinctively, because of dysarthria. He fell into senile dementia.
Was playing toys, as a child. His favorite ones were stars. The Stars of
the Soviet Union hero. Every year he used to put one more star on his
Supreme Commander jacket. It shone as bright as a night sky. Books were
next best thing for him. Memories. How he was at war under Novorossiysk
and how he worked at the virgin lands. And it was him who launched the
Afghanistan war. Just because he wished so, probably. The war would last for
ten years.
The Peacekeeper brought it to an end. He was speaking in volumes but was
very vague. Sometimes it seemed he failed to understand himself. He was not
a lucky ruler. Misfortunes were showering the country. Ships collided. Horrible
earthquakes demolished towns. Nuclear stations exploded.
As though that was not enough, he brought his best friend, the Destroyer,
from far away, from behind the Urals. Took him to Moscow. That was too
much. The Destroyer threw the Peacekeeper off the pedestal and became the
first President of Russia. As Russians say, the first pancake is always lumpy.
Huge Empire broke into pieces. The Destroyer could not speak at all. He
issued one word and then got mute. No one could wait until the end of the
phrase. If the Old Man had a senile dementia, the Demolisher suffered from
an alcoholic one.
He proclaimed himself a democrat and shot the Parliament. One dictator
had done it before. But at night, for no one to see. Our Destroyer acted in
public. Like a cynic. On a large scale. For all the world to see. With a live TV
broadcast. In the very centre of Moscow the tanks were shooting the White
House with people inside. Puffs of smoke. Flames. Devil’s performance. The
richest country was in debts. We were not paid our salary for several months
in a row. Miners claimed strikes and laid on the rails. We, medics, could not
afford that. Generally speaking, the Destroyer did not bring too much joy for
me. Yulia says one should be able to feel joy without any special reason. Just
joy of life. Of sunshine. Of flowers. Of art. She decided she would teach that
art to me. Bought tickets for Shostakovitch’s symphony. “Stepan Razin torture”.
Why did she fancy Stepan Razin’s torture would make me happy? Is it
a kind of revenge for the princess he had drowned?
*****
Masha: I shouted at Tanechka. But how else can I bring her around? She has
already broken two ratter good veins. Her hands are shaking. She is sniffling
like a little girl. An old man wails pathetically: “My sweet ones. Do help me,
do save me”. What can we do for him? He helplessly waves his wrinkled hands.
Catches the air in an attempt to catch us. He cannot see anything. We tie his
hands. At last, Tanechka finds his vein. Start the narcosis. It is awful to fall
asleep in the darkness. A bandage wet with blood covers his right eye. An ophtalmology
surgeon removes it. The eye is gouged out. “I cannot do anything…
can you see”, says the surgeon as he call us to be his witnesses. His only seeing
eye. It is long ago that he had lost his left one. During the war. It was a military
wound. And now, he has no more of his right one…Teenagers gave him
a beat. They robbed his war medals off him. Medals are offered for sale now.
They are in demand. We are through with the operation!
The old man is brought back to the ward. It is awful to wake up in the
darkness.
                *****
Angel: Russia. A boundless land of extremities. A land of sharply continental
climate. Bitter frosts below forty degrees Centigrade in winter, heat above
thirty degrees in summer. Seventy degrees of temperature difference. This had
affected the psychology of those who live under such an extreme conditions
and created a phenomenon of so-called mysterious soul of Russia. One of the
clues is that Russians are absolutely deprived of the moderateness sense so familiar
to Europeans inhabitants of the mild climate. During a very short
summer season, Russians had to grow the wheat, stock the food for their
horses and cows, cut the wood enough to heat their house throughout the
long winter. The nature did not spoil them. Collectivism and sense of humour
helped Russians to survive in their severe environment.
Have you ever been to Paris? You have? Then you should have seen the
Frenchmen sitting at the caffe table, near the window, or outdoors in a good
weather. A Frenchman beholds the world. He is open to it. The world is interesting
for him. He enjoys the world the same as he enjoys his flavourous
coffee and his beaujolais. He knows how to enjoy.
Have a look at an American. He enters the bar and takes a seat facing a
barman, with his back to people around him. And to the whole world. He
does nit acre, what is going on behind his back. The world is not interesting
for him.
And Russians? I say Russians because they do not drink all alone. Even the
most bitter drunkards “share it between three”, as they say. If someone has a
bottle of vodka or money enough to buy it, he is sure to look for his drinking
pals and to find them in no time. Sprat, bread, newspaper and glasses materialize
in instant. They say toasts. They share jokes. The make laugh of themselves.
They grumble over the government. They just cannot have their drink
without sharing a talk. They don’t know other way. Mere workers. In a
gateway. In a dirty block of flats. At a bench in the park. Intelligentsia at the
kitchen. Tourists on a hike. Students in the hostel. They always form a small
circle, closed minisystem of power. Not less than three persons.
They are communicative. They are not familiar with the moderateness
sense. They are fast to change their moods to quite the opposite. The hero of
their epic, Ilya of Murom, had been laying on the stove for 33 years but then
woke up and cut all the army of enemies. Their totem animal, bear, sleeps in
his lair through the winter and then wakes up to become the master of the
forest.
Their religion does not know the purgatory. Either hell or heaven. Either
endless tortures or endless bliss. Discipline is not the thing they like. The word
methodicalness is described in their dictionaries but is not in use among them.
I was always wondering how do they manage to achieve their impressive results?
More than once I could see them starting having no clear plan in their
minds, no good quality raw, no enough funds and professional management.
Without any decent salary. Without appropriate dwelling. But their rockets
lifted off and hit their targets. Their power stations produced electricity. The
oil was extracted. The patients were getting better. How could they? In any
worker, they appreciate most of all the ability to overcome the difficulties and
to find a solution for seemingly desperate situation.
They are inventive. Russian bath is their national-scale love. The bath is
not only for washing. It is a cure, a prevention and a sublime delight in one.
Bath is visited in groups. At first, people take the steam-bath and then they
rush out and throw themselves on a snow. Rub each other with the snow. On
summer time, they dive into the river. When there is no river, they pour icy
cold water on each other. Temperature contrast is mandatory. They do love
contrasts. This is what they really enjoy. And the communication. They have
a habit of sharing their pleasure. Contrary to expectation, the sharing does not
make it smaller - quite opposite, it grows larger.
They were not lucky with their rulers. Weak marionettes or bloody dictators
(more often). Perverse sadists. Mass killers. Father killers. Child killers. A
murder of one’s own husband looked like an innocent trick against that background.
The woman who did that would be called the Great and would be
given a monument. The last Emperor vested in the absolute power was not
able to handle it reasonably but was persisting in his wish not to share it with
anyone else. He dissolved one Duma after the other, lost the Japanese war,
ruined the fleet, but all that did not stop him from joining the next war, fatal
for his country and for himself. Though there was one exception in that
somber list. The Liberator who had abolished the serfdom. But he was killed.
But then, was there any lucky nation at all? Take Indians. They had their
Mahatma Gandhi who managed to arrange non-violent release of India from
its colonial yoke. He was killed, too.
Russians have mixed feelings towards their country. On the one hand, it
is Motherland. The ground. The nature. The feminine, the mercy. It is loved.
People are ready to die for their land. On the other hand, it is the State, im-
personal It. A monster. With its system of limitations and enforcement, with
its censorship, militia and prisons. Motherland - State relationship is quite
strange. The State is located at the Motherland territory. But the same State
gives no second thought for exploiting its mineral wealth, takes no care of
ecology and the Motherland cannot do anything about that.
State-to-citizen feelings are surprisingly mutual and can be described as
hatred. The State cynically exploits its citizens, pays its officers a salary much
lower than the living minimum, depreciates their savings which were stored in
the State bank, by the way, arranges plundering privatization, says a blunt lie
in its media.
Mere citizens, in their turn, feel a kind of revenged, when they have a luck
of cheating their State - by adding some years to their working experience
recorded in their work books, by buying no ticket when taking a public transport,
by paying less taxes. Lower tax-paying is thought to be a guide to correct
behaviour in this country.
Their official salaries are so tiny that it is just impossible to live on them.
Moonlight work is a custom here, which means you work extra hours, normally
in your trade, and are paid so called “leftside”money, which are not taxed.
Wives are happy when their husbands bring these money at home. This is how
a real family man should do.
They are not thrifty. They understand life in not easy in this country. They
pay lavish tips to the waiters and fees to the surgeons. When a bus driver picks
an extra passenger on the highway, other passengers do not mind. They will
give a place. Everyone needs to go. Everyone needs to live. Is some passenger
will resent, others will hush him down. They will explain. Everyone needs to
go. Everyone needs to live. When somebody rents a video cassette, be sure -
his yard, his class, his block and his hostel will watch it. And for nothing. This
is their favourite expression.
They think one licensed copy of Windows is enough for the whole town.
They make copies, install and reinstall the program, hack its protection. In
their opinion, as Bill Gates is already the richest person in the world and he
doesn’t need a pay for each version.
They can be called immoral. From the point of European values, say. But
they just understand good and bad in different way. There scale of moral values
is vertical and is strictly linear. The extreme top is Jesus Christ. The extreme
bottom is Judas. Of course they realize they cannot be equal to Jesus Christ,
but they are terrified of becoming Judases and never rat on each other. When
their neighbor is building a house of palace scale and drives a Mercedes though
he is just a traffic warden, evidently taking bribes (and developing too much
taste for it) no one will inform the powers. Everyone thinks it is a trouble of
his consciousness, of militia and of the God Himself. The life will punish, they
say, and they are right.
I happened to hear a talk between two women in some European capital.
One, let’s call her Gerda, is a mother of two living for the welfare allowance.
Her elder child wanted to have a PC for Christmas, but she had not enough
money to afford it. Her neighbour, Russian woman named Anna, who had
moved not so long ago to that country, offered her to work as a housemaid in
Anna’s flat, “to get some extras”, as she put it. Gerda was terrified: she might
be denied of her allowance after that, because she receives it as an unemployed.
-But who will care? - surprised Anna.
-Neighbours will make a call to the tax inspection.
-Neighbours? - asked Anna in dismay. - The ones who smile each morning
and say you have nice children? Who of them can be capable for that? Is it fat
Gertrude from the third floor? Or short Schulz?
-Everyone, - answered Gerda, and Anna got mute.

Their language is very beautiful. It is spacious. Free from inside. It does not
know rigid sequence of word order. The subject may stand in any place - in the
beginning, in the middle or at the end of the sentence. They can vary accents
by changing the place of their words. Russian language does not have any articles,
but suffixes are in plenty. They attach it to their nouns, adjectives, and
participles. Suffixes can add any nuances to the word. They are mostly diminutives.
The language is kind. The word can be accented at it first syllable, or at
its last one, or in the middle. This affords word-playing and creating any musical
phrases you fancy. The language is very poetic. Because poetry is the music
in words. They write lyrics and often sing them while accompanying themselves
in guitar. They willingly bring their guitars to mountain hike, to sing
near the fire. There are many poets among Russians. You might call them pen
pusher or graphomans in Russian. But what is so bad about this word, ladies
and gentlemen?
Russians care, understand and respect any kind of hobbies. Extreme
sports. Old cars restoring. Collecting of you name what. Old samovars.
Pencils. Matryoshkas. Keeping exotic animals in flats, poisonous snakes and
spiders including. Not to mention traditional hobbies, like hunting, fishing
and flower growing. They are tolerant to sport fans who can break glasses,
doors and people behind.
But why do they despise graphomans to such an extent? You might say,
they try to keep Russian language pure. But do you hear how they talk on the
streets these days? Bad words are no more so bad as they are used frequently.
The presence of women and children cannot embarrass anyone. TV spreads
bad wording for all the country to hear. What language purity? Who protect
it?
I did not see any graphoman, who would not write at least one good
word, or used an unusual comparison. And a lot of sincerity!
I can see these poems as fireflies which sparkle in the darkness of soul and
shine its dark corners. Because poems are photos of the soul. Photos capable
to turn mortal into immortal, brief into eternal, share them, send them to
others, wake synchronous sensations in their souls.
A jubilee celebration. A woman turned 60. A slightly fat man of her age,
with old-fashioned gallantry, reads her a poem of how beautiful was she 40
years ago, how he did not dare to tell her that in those days and tells it now.
Two years later, the woman will be agonizing with the stomach cancer. In her
last days, she will have this poem next to her at the table. She will not be able
to take meals, but will be in her conscience and able to read it. Why read,
though? She remembers them by heart. Yes, there’s a lot of pain and few poetry
in this world.
In spite of their slight despise of graphomany, it is widely spread in Russia.
Russians are like this. They express themselves either in poetry or in bad
wording.
Though, they have their critics who are trying to measure the amount and
the quality of talent in each poet (Me, a higher being, do not dare for that. By
the way…)
Time proves they are often wrong. They dissect the verse the way the
pathologist dissects the corpse trying to know what is inside. They think a
talent or a genius is imprinted in the personality, coded in the chromosomes.
The researchers gather the sperm of the Nobel winners in an attempt to find
a genius gene. But the truth is the creativity is the result of cooperation between
the person and us, Higher Powers. It is very fine and meticulous cooperation.
A creativity is a direct translation of our ideas to the mind of person.
Certainly, a poet is not a mere secretary who just types what he is told. The
ideas are strange, the images are vague. Poet is in a painful search of words.
This is called pains of creativity. He tries to experiment with the language, to
invent new words. We assist him by giving prompts. This our joint labour.
And the poet can feel it.
Alas it is very often when the first success, especially the early one (we do
our best not to let it happen), is followed by the feeling of property the person
experiences about his or her genius, instead of treating it as a gift of God.
Pridefullness captures them. They think or speak (does not make any difference
to us) something like “That plebs are incapable to understand me and my
works”. I visualize pridefullness as a dirty-brown rust, which glues to the soul
and slowly spreads deeper and deeper, infects thinner structures and turn them
into dust.
It is a very painful thing to see. We are trying to cure poets. Deprive them,
provisionally, of our support and assistance. It dawns them - something happened,
something went wrong, they cannot do anything that was so easy only
yesterday. Where have the inspiration gone? They start suffering. We are struggling
for them. Sometimes the process can be reversed. With our astral hands,
we are trying to pull off, to tear the rust from their souls. It is very painful, but
can help provided that the rust has not reached the depth, the very nucleus of
the soul. Then we are of no help. We break the contact with the person, ruin
our astral connection and stop our support for him. What happens next? The
Devil rushes with his usual set of tools. Alcoholism. Drug addiction. Suicide.
Death in young age. In Russia, it is like an epidemic now.

Any society needs its heroes. A writer’s mission is to create a hero in an
imagination. And a bit later, the hero will appear in real life.
For a long time, Russians lived behind the iron curtain, could not travel
and were hungry for information. The information was strictly rationed. It
had a strictly approved quality. The quality set by the Party and its censorship.
Many (at least me) felt sick of that information. Most just did not notice and
fix it. It was just a background, and everyone paid hardly any attention to it.
They demonstrated their outstanding capacity for adaptation. Under those
conditions, their directors managed to produce real masterpieces of cinema to
spoil their audience. The audience paid them back with the purest adoration.
Script writers and authors were virtuosos in speaking the Esopian. language.
Watchers could see behind the frame, readers could read between the lines.
Sincere and original writers published their books (not without our helping)
and they were sold out in one moment.
But there was something positive about the censorship, too. They did not
see any trash, vulgarity or violence. They developed good taste.
When the iron curtain fell, a torrent of information had flooded the
country and ruined all the dams, barriers and boundaries. We, Bright Forces,
were afraid of them to get over-dosed, swallowed, sink in that ocean. Small
wonder. In bookstores, markets, stalls, at every corner. Primitive whodunits.
Weak science fiction. Gloss magazines with society scandals. Memoirs of prostitutes.
Silly tips of How to Jump into Marriage or How to Become a
Millionaire kind. All covered in bright paperbacks. But there appeared literature
of different kind, too. Modern writers, classics of our days. The names
they never heard before. Or heard, but did not read them. Or read, but quite
a few. The things published in the Inostrannaya Literatura.  The books which
had been printed without official approval before. The titles which could be
just whispered earlier. At last, they could satisfy their hunger. At least, one
big plus of the perestroika. We were happy for them.
                *****
Masha: I love my profession. Love of profession and love of patient are quite
different. I am no angel and I cannot say I love this delirious, degraded alcoholic
who is trying to kick pregnant Irochka in her belly. She turns away
quickly and manages to catch his vein. From the torrent of his cursing my ears

its work. He shut up at the middle of the word. I am entering the laryngoscope
in his smelly mug with cavernous teeth, give a quick washing of his nasopharynx
and intubing him with the bed head end raised at its maximum to
prevent aspiration, connect him to the respirator. He is wet. Now, Irochka will
enter the cateter in his bladder, and then we’ll change him. His liver is absolutely
ruined. I feel sorry for his liver.
God was taking great pains when He created a man. It could be stamped
“Made with love”. It came just great. Beautiful from outside. Rationally.
Functionally. With a huge stock of strength. So what? Who appreciated that?
Who cares and who cherishes? What’s going on with us people? We destroy
ourselves. Alcoholism. Drug addiction. Suicides. What do people do to themselves?
What do they do to each other?
When a student, I was taught that a human being, liked any other living
thing, has a powerful instinct of self-preservation. A lot of literature and history
examples tell us how people survived in the most unfriendly environment,
what kind of trial they had to overcome. A thrive for life. Where has it gone?
Why self-destructive instinct is so strong nowadays? May be it is because we
have multiplied too much, and the planet is trying to release itself by starting
that self-destruction program? Or the country crisis has infected its citizens,
too?
I should discuss it with Yulia. But I know what she will say. It seems I can
even hear her voice in my ears. If you were an investigator, you would see a
criminal in any person. As you know I am a psychiatrist and so everyone, even
myself, seems to be crazy for me. And you, where do you work? And she is
right. Our city is like a multi-layer pie with several levels. At the very top, there
are museums, theatres and a philarmony. Music. Books. Poetry. Performances.
Sometimes, I rise there, too. Enjoy. Have a bliss. Charge myself. Next comes
middle level - a routine life of a city. Bakeries bake bread. Ice cream is sold in
the streets. Children go to school. Trams follow their route. At the bottom,
there is the lowest level. Prisons. Hospitals. Morgues. A real entrance to hell
is under our reanimation. Torrents of heavy back carma, as smelly as the town
waste system, are flowing here and draw people behind them. Here they turn
into a whirl and tend to suck our patients in the grave. Every day. I am
standing at the edge of this whirl trying to pull our patients from the dirt they
are going to sink in. But that black hole is not going to give its food to me and
sucks my strength, my health and my luck. An insatiable monster.
-Why do we have so many patients dying? Why death toll is so high? - I
ask Fyodor Ivanovich, the Chief of Intensive Cure Unit
- Suppose it is not that high. Seventeen percent is normal for any Intensive
Cure Unit. People are mortal. And where else do they die? May be like heroes
at the battlefield? Thanks God, we are not at war now. So far…- he smoked a
cigarette. - Everyone wants to live as long as possible and to die as quickly as
possible. Without an agony, in sleep. In their own bed. So do I. But not
everyone can have such a death. If you live for too long, you have to pay for
that Lack of strength. Diseases. A vague borderline between life and death.
The death is stretching, sometimes lasting for a long time. But in the end, they
all will be brought here, at the middle-stop before the cemetery. He is right.
And that what I have to see every day. From 8 am till 4 pm. And in half-paid
night duties.
And how can fell joy of life after all that? Believe it to be beautiful. If I
were a florist…I would live my life among the flowers. I would study their
nature. A rose, for instance. She is self-centered. An individualist. She does
not like to be surrounded by too many roses. She wants to be in a focus of attention.
The only one. Or three. Or five. But not more than that.
From the window of the operational room, that voluntary prison of us, I
can see a rose bed. It is just a pinkish patch of some unpleasant, even trivial,
shade. But daisies are quite communicative. They enjoy company. The more,
the better. A bunch of daisies. A field of daisies. One daisy does not attract attention.
One doesn’t even want to break its petals to know is he love or not.
I would make small bunches of filed flowers. Romantic ones for the
brides. Elegant ones, from exotic flowers, for jubilees and celebrations. I would
visit flower shows, where gardeners compete themselves and even God. And
they often win, can you imagine! Selection masterpieces triumph the evolution
masterpieces. And proficient jury fixes and appreciated all that beauty.
Flowers are so unnaturally beautiful that seem to be hand-made of some
new synthetic materials under the drafts of gifted artists, who splashed their
wild fancy out. They petals bend in precise parabolas, and the tips are cut like
fringes. Petal colors cannot be numbered, with many shades, transitions and
dots. Capricious irises smell with a mystic. Blossoms foam. Buds hide their
growth potential. Every of them knot it would be a flower soon. And is proud
for it. If I were a florist…I would live a different life. May be I could be happy
and be loved then.
But Yulia insists that us Slavs are masochists by birth and just cannot live
without suffering. We always find the reason to feel one. If not a real one, then
some abstract, say, an imperfection of the world. This what we love best. All
the time debating with the Creator blaming Him for poor quality of the end
product.
I know. Because I am like this, too. Why other nations know what joy of
life is? Have carnivals, dancing their samba, half-naked, covered only in
feathers and sparkles. Laughing. And if I were not a florist, I would have found
a reason to suffer. I would feel sorry my bunches have such a brief life, that they
are fading so quickly. If they were not in demand, this could annoy me, too.
But it is hardly can be called suffering. Rather, it would be some kind of subtle,
very delicate melancholy. It could be even pleasant,. Especially for a masochist.
                *****
Masha: His name is Misha. He is a young investigator in the Criminal
Department. Surgeons told me to put him an epidural cathether. He has got
a perytonitis. His belly is severely inflated and makes him gasping. He looks
as slick as a walrus. I cannot feel spinous processes of his vertebra. I even
cannot count them.
- Could you sit up for a while? It will be easier for me to
inspect you.               
 - Of course I could. 
- Do you feel dizzy?
- No. He is talkative.
- Do I sit properly?
- Shall I breathe or not?
It would be much better if he could be silent for a while. But he is from
those people for whom it is easier to stop breathing than to stop talking. Zuev
entered the ward. He always visited reanimation before leaving the hospital.
“Why this patient’s feet are so dirty?”. He asked that about the tramp. The
patient is slim and long that’s why he does not settle in his bed. His feet are
protruding. Hells are black because of mud imprinted in them, toe nails are
long and crooked. Long ago they forgotten the scissors but are too familiar
with the myca. Aspergilluses and actinomycetis have grown in grey abundant
stalactites on them.
-Why his nails are so dirty? - addresses Zuev to the nurse.
-Because this is the Intensive Cure Unit, not a beauty parlor. Shall I do
pedicure for him? - answers Galina, our nurse.-By the way, this was how they
have brought him from the operation room? - she goes on. - How could you
take him, so dirty, to operation?
-But he was bleeding, - replies Zuev checking out somehow
-A nice subordination you have here, - notes Misha. He is keenly interested
in what is going on around him. It is god that he is not concentrating on his
illness. The ones like him are quick to get better.
-And your personnel is so quick-minded, - comments Misha. - Just look
what the nurse is doing!
But I cannot .I am workig. I am looking at the  Misha’s back.
-Is she washing his legs? - I ask.
-How could you  think of that? - he says as though annoyed for the nurse. - She
put shoe covers at his feet to hide the dirt on them.
I finished and have my back unbent. I can see shoe covers put on the
tramp’s feet and strips tied in bows. What is a nice view!
                *****
Masha: I am going to bury her now. She is 26. She is dying because she did
not like dentists. Had not cured her teeth on time. Odontogenic phlegmon at
the neck. Mediastetinitis. I cannot tell if she was a beauty or not. No one can
tell it now. Red puffy face. Puffy lids do not let her eyes open. She is still conscious,
complains she is short of air. This is even worse than a pain in her
throat. She is agitated. Trying to sit up. But this will not last for long. Very
soon, she will fall in a stupor and then in a coma. Her lips are blue. She can
hardly breathe. She must be given a mechanical ventilation. Now.
I turned her consciousness and start ventilation with 100% oxygen… That
doesn’t work! I cannot find her lower jaw, I even cannot feel her bone because
of severe edema. It is like a dense rubber pillow. I need to intube her as soon
as possible, but this may be a problem. The same edema is inside. May be my
next attempt will be lucky. Because she will die if I will fail. No one can help
me. No one. It’s night. Oh, my God! Human life depends on that. Will I be
able to see her glottis?
Surgeons are preparing for the urgent tracheostomy. If they will be on
time. To open the trachea in such an edema can take a while. If she could be
ventilated through the mask, I could do that quietly. We called for the en
scopist, he would run in five or six minutes. But I don’t have even these five
minutes. I don’t inject relaxants, letting her to breathe at least slightly. I take
thin intubation tube, ¹ 7… Her mouth is small. The tongue is large, swollen
and cyanosed. With the blade of my laryngoscope, I am moving towards the
back of her tongue, trying to raise it up a little. The tissues are bleeding easily.
The blood is dark. I can hardly find her epiglottis, as it is small and flat. I
squeeze it with the laryngoscope blade and pull up a little bit. I should see the
glottis now. Is should be here. But I don’t see it. Even its lower pole. Nothing.
Turning the blade slightly to the left. Nothing again. I kneel down and look
up. We should here raised the operation table. It would be more comfortable.
But not it is too late to speak. I have to do a blind intubation. Oh God, do help
me! Do help me, oh God!
Angel: Instantly, I am zooming in down the match box size and sinking
into the patient’s throat. Squeezing myself behind the root of her mouth and
hardly find her glottis. It is located too high and thus inconvenient. Certainly,
Masha cannot see it. Tissues are severely swollen. Masha is putting her intubation
tube inside. I take its tip with my hands and place it next to the glottis,
push my feet against the rear wall of the throat and stay like that. It was good
of her not to inject relaxants. If you cannot see anything, you should act
blindly. Masha cannot see the glottis, but she can feel a weel airflow, which
patient’s lungs produce at the other end of the tube. On breath in, Masha
enters her tube and gives it a slight rotation, as though she is screwing it in. I
can see the tube passing the glottis and proceeding inside the trachea. The cuff
inflated. The tube is fixed. That’s it. Completed. I go out, zoom out, unfold
my wings, shake off ill biological field. Yes, we did it. And as fast as standard
30 seconds.
Masha: I am taking the intubation tube with my right hand and pushing
it slowly above the epiglottis. Distal end of the tube is next to my right cheek.
I am trying to catch a weak flow of the air breathed out. She can hardly
breathe. At last, t seems to me I can feel her breathing out. Now, I am catching
her breathing in and quickly enter the intubation tube. Size seven is difficult
to push. I am screwing it in. Connect it to the apparatus. Tanechka inflates
the cuff and bandages the tube on the patient’s neck. It is there? Should be. I
am listening to her lungs. They are breathing. Scanning the apparatus. Normal
resistance to the breath in. Her lips turned pink. It is there, for sure. Just a
miracle. Thank you, God!
-Cut approved?
-Fentanil. Relaxants. Approving.
I fall down on the chair. My legs cannot support me. Heavy breathing
Anton rushes in carrying his bronchoscope.
-Oh, you have done it without me! Masha, you are just super! Oh, but she
is very young, - wonders Anton looking at her hands.
-Twenty six.
-Kinky! But why is she so advanced?
-Because she had not gone to hospital. She was scared of doctors.
-Of doctors? But what about death? Are we more frightening than the
death? Masha, just look at me. Am I so frightening? Could one be scared of me?
Anton is evidently asking for compliments. I am too weak to speak and
keep silence.
-Okay then. I am going if do don’t need me, - he sounds slightly annoyed.
I would say he is always needed. This is true. And I always say that to
him. He got used to. But not now.
Surgeons have opened the wound wide apart. Placed lots of drains. They
are thick, with many holes in them. Purulent surgery success is in the adequate
draining. Now the trachea is well exposed. The tracheostome can be put there.
She cannot do without one.
- Are you going to place tracheostome? - I ask.
-Not today. We’ll do it tomorrow. Because we will have to do the operation
one more.
I tight the bandage on her neck and fix the intubation tube.
-Not too tight? - worries Tanechka. - Maria Petrovna. Look, the bandage
is cutting her cheeks.
- It’s okay, - I calm her down. - Some hours later, the swell will drop and
the bandage will get loose. The tube is thin and should be fixed properly.
She has a long cure ahead. Prolong ventilation. More operations.
Antibiotics. A lot of antibiotics. Feeding through the tube. Care. A lot of work
for us. But she is young, and that is her chance.
                *****
- Ah, Masha. Why do you fancy people get what they deserve? - Yulia is puffing
her cigarette, while I am peeling the potatoes.
-Not for me, please, - she adds. - I am going to starve today. I need to
lose some weight.
It is beyond my understanding why slim women can be so obsessed with
starving. But it is of no use to argue with Yulia.
-Look around, - she keeps saying - Laws of nature are universal, applicable
to humans as well as to animals. Women can be classified in three categories:
grass-feeding, chewing their grass and producing milk (I call these ones
cows): then, predators, who eat the grass-feeding ones, and then parasites who
drink the blood from the first two. There are no other categories. And never
were. In each category, there are beautiful and ugly ones, clever and silly ones…
-Yes, I know. - I interfere. - Donors and vampires. I have read about that…
-Yes, that’s true, - she says quietly. -What are going to fry you potatoes on?
-A lard.
-With onion?
-With onion?
-Then make some for me, too. And do we have some marinated mushrooms
left?
-Yes, we do.
-It is just impossible to lose weight here, - she sighs. - Masha, the thing is
how the society sees it all. In last century, a cow -type woman was the ideal- a
mother, a friend, a matron. To the Siberia, to the exile after her husband! Then,
predator pretended to be a cow. There were some who did not want to pretend
and did not take care of the society and its morals. The society paid them
back. Just remember Nastasya Philippovna story. And in our days, morals are
changing. Predators are in trend. Female sexuality is associated with the aggression,
humble behaviour is thought to be a defect, and shame is just a complex
one should get rid of. Predators are hunting. They make the collection of
sexual partners, as Indians did with the scalps. Just read it, - she stretches a
flashy booklet to me.
- I cannot. I am peeling potatoes.
-This is nothing but the instruction for tigresses and vipers. And the headlines!
“How to become a viper”. Big problem! “How to jump into marriage”,
“How to spread you drag-net” “How to throw the final blow”, and the last
one is “How to get pregnant”. A baby yet unborn becomes a trump card in
the war between sexes. After reading books like this one, cow tries to turn into
tigress. And she fails, naturally. “Got pregnant? Your problem. Why haven’t
you used contraceptives? I never promised anything to you” And she comes
to me with their depressions. Of course, I will provide some treatment for her.
Though it is the society that should be treated. The society is sick. Isn’t your
potato going to burn?
-No, it’s raw yet.
-But smells like fried one. Masha, do understand a society is a herd of
grass-eating species. It lives under the herd laws. And grass-eating ones should
be in the majority. But is a society consists of predators and parasites…And
grass-eating ones are deprived of their pastures…
-The fries are ready.
-At last! Do we have some apple nalivka?
-A little bit.
-Divine! Thanks Granny Nyura - Yulia sips a little. - Predators always were
great in masquerading. Hide in the ambush and fuse with the environment.
And grass-eating ones cannot do that. But then, why? The force is in their
amount. And predators know that. It is no use to fight the herd. It will just
trample you underfoot. For a good hinting, a victim should be segregated
from its herd first. Tasty fries! - she says licking her fine fingers. - The herd
leader must one of it. A cloven-footed. A strong ox. The one who can plough
the ground and defend from enemies. The paradox of our time is that predators
are our leaders. And they have imposed their predator ideology on us.
Even law of jungles is better. A tigress kills only one roe. For herself and her
cubs. And then has a rest, relaxing. But look at those new Russians of us. The
world’s not enough for them… No measure.
-But animals have their fights, too. For the territory, for their female…
-Sure. Their mating fights…But they follow their honour code very
strictly. Never use dead tricks and never try to kill their opponent. Even cobras.
They, too, want a larger piece of desert and a fatter female. And their males do
fight. Puff their nasty cheeks. Throw their forked tongues out. Fall on each
other and hit each other with their whippy bodies. At the end, the weaker one
crawls away. Spits, but crawls away. But never bites the tail of his luckier counterpart
with its poisonous teeth. Only humans kills the ones of their kind, -
sighed Yulia. - After Cain had killed Abel… Oh, yes. After Cain had killed
Abel. The human tragedies had started with that murder. And not with the
fruit Eve has eaten. Poor woman. She had a husband, Adam. Good-fornothing.
Incapable of anything. Could neither seduce a woman nor tear the
fruit off the branch. Would like you someone of that sort?
-No, I wouldn’t.
-So would I. But Eve had no choice. She was exiled from her home (a
paradise was her home). In addition, her sons killed each other. Poor Eve. Oh
yes, human history is a history of crimes, not of a gastronomy.
                ****
Angel: Sinking into the material marsh is gradual. In a material world, a
person has to solve material problems and he or she more or less succeeds in
this. An average person is knee-deep in the material. It is the optimum level
from where you always can drag your legs and jump on some dry mound. I
visualize material marsh as nasty dirty-greenish slush, living and aggressive
one, which has tentacles to catch a person.
The favorite spring of the Devil.. The more the person is pottering in the
material marsh, the faster he is sinking. He is afraid of losing his money, he
doubts the reliability of the banks, he is not sure about his business partners,
he does not want to do anything for free, just because of kind heart. The
person does not enjoy unselfishness any more, and does not terrified by that,
as he thinks it to be a symptom of maturity, common sense, farewell to his
youth illusions. “No more working for free, we had it enough when we were
young”.
At that level, he is still good at any trade which does not need a creativity.
But it here where the creators turn into craftsmen.
The depth of sinking does not depend at all from his savings, or from his
living standard, but relies mostly on the amount of energy the person brings
to the Devil. He is dreaming to become rich, plans the ways he is going to
spend his money, fells happy when money come to him and feels sorry the
sums is less than he had expected it to be, is angry with his business partners
and is jealous to the luckier ones.
At the end, thoughts of money and associated emotions displace any other
ideas. When a parson is thigh-deep in the material marsh, the men have problems
with their potency, even the young ones. They try to cure themselves by
paying huge money, visiting expensive prostitutes or fashionable doctors.
A waist-deep sinking is accompanied by loss of will and energy. Loss of
energy is counterbalanced with the developed appetite and gaining of weight.
A person having no will turns into a marionette. He might act unethically
when paid well. But the situation gets much worse when the person sinks
chest-deep. He is not able to throw himself out of the marsh. There is a weak
hope someone kind and loving will stretch his helping hand or throw a rope.
But if a sinking is a head-deep it means the Devil has won his absolute victory.
The marsh covers his head and does not let any sunshine in. This person
has no independent thinking, his only thoughts are of money, he drives crazy.
These people are patients of psychiatry hospitals. They have no more human
feelings at all - nor love for his neighbours, nor for his kids and no one can help
them. Their physical existence, emotions and thinking are under complete control
of the Devil since now. They are his most loyal servants. Bright forces lost
the battle for their souls. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, do not treat the money too
seriously. They are only money.
                *****
“Maria Petrovna, tomorrow we have socialistic competition commission. Our
tutors documents are not in good order. And you are responsible for them”.
Yes, I am responsible for the tutorship. Nostalgic relapses of the dead socialism.
There is no more socialism, but the tutorship is alive.
I take a nice red file. There is a detailed list inside with the names of tutors
and their pupils they are divided into couples each recorded in a separate notebook
where each tutor writes he or she takes a duty to teach his pupil, and the
pupil underwrites he or she would follow the tutor instructions, then comes
plan of tutorship, subjects to be studied and findings. There is a separate notebook
for tutorship control. I have to fill it every month.
Tutor: Maria Petrovna Belogortzeva
Pupil: Alexei Ivanovich Potozky
Alyosha is capable, hard-working and quick-minded. “Relax, do not strain
your hands, they will do everything as it should be done, don’t squeeze with
them. And don’t rush. You have thirty seconds, and it is a long time. Take the
laryngoscope with your left hand, both hands should work in sync. Here is the
epiglottis and here is the glottis. Insert the tube slowly and carefully. No violence.
Well done. Great”
Either I am a good teacher, or he is a good pupil. He might be in love with
me. A little bit. It is very helpful for teaching. When it really a little bit. I am
writing “Topic No.1: Hazards and complications of initial narcosis”. Shades
disappear, my professional tricks fade, thoughts are confusing.
When we expose our thoughts on paper.. Expose on paper…Where does
that expose derive from? I make a mistake, throw the sheet out, make a ball
from it and kick it to the wastepaper basket. I am frustrated, as though it is the
paper fault.
Somewhere far away, in Siberia, they cut century-old pines to make paper.
And what do we do to it? And the paper takes revenge and turns us into bu-
reaucrats. Some time ago it was a tree and did a real job - photosynthesis, by
absorbing the carbon acid and emitting the oxygen.
               
                *****
“-Oh Ulysses! Your words are sly like the Troyan Horse. Your Gods are primitive.
Even the most powerful of them cannot seduce a woman in a way a mere
mortal can and had to turn into the ox and into the swan to do it. Or just buys
her by sending the rain of gold. Your beauty contest are not fair. All three main
contestants were trying to bribe the jury in the person of the Paris. And it let
them. Venus has no hands. And you are poor drivers, too. That Phaethon of
yours nearly killed all the Oecumene. The manufacturing is not arranged properly.
Sisyphus still wastes his efforts for some meaningless work. And there is
a sword of Damocles hanging above you. Only Atlants support everything.
But will they last for long? What do you think, Ulysses?
-Yulia, do not worry for Atlants. They are titans. And Ulysses, unlike Zeus,
does not buy his women. He finds Troyan horse for everyone.
-Ulysses, do you own a herd of Troyan horses? Or there is only one, but
universal? The one capable of conquering a town or a woman?
-You are right, Yulia. Only one called cunning.
 - Ulysses, you are brave and royal,
Seaman and hero and all.
But why have you demolished Troya?
Why have you killed the governor?
It means that you are an aggressor.
I’l teach you lesson as you need.
Sword of Damocles is successful.
And I am good in using it.
It’ s time for you to stop forever
It’ s time for me to go on
You are sly man, and I am clever
That’s I, the lady Amazon
My hips are wrapping by the leather
My breast is topless, as you see.
Why are you stunned as a crazy?
Have found site of porno free?
Ulysses, you are not young student.
Turn off the picture. Turn you back
Your Troyan horse was made just wooden
And I am riding bareback.
-Why are you reading my love letters? - shouts Yulia at me.
-And why are you throwing them on the floor? When will I teach you to
be tidy? - I shout back at Yulia. She looks slightly embarrassed. I go on -
Whom are they written to, Yulia?
-You have read. To Ulysses.
- What is that? A delirium of your patients? Or of you? To which Ulysses,
Yulia?
-To which? To Ulysses, the Odissey.
-But he is dead!
Having tortured me enough, Yulia had explained that was a training for
non-standard thinking. (she was taking a psychology course at the University
to get one more diploma, of a prsychologist).
- Have I deserved a good mark? - she teases me. She turned the TV on and
made tea.
- Just imagine my patient tells me “What kind of life is that? All shit. Shit
all around. Nothing bright. Nothing sweet. How is it possible to live like that?”
-But she is right. Why do you keep her at your nut hospital?
-But she was talking of the toilet bowl! She treated it with jam pies, just
to correct this unfairness of life. We caught her on the spot. Well, we could not
understand why our toilet gets stuck every day. It gave sanitary techicians a
headache to clean it!
Yulia is high spirits. She does her makeup in front of the mirror.
-Ippolit is coming.
-It is good not an Ulysses.
-Who knows…
When I saw Ippolit first, I felt like unbutton his shirt, expose his chest, put
a catheter into his central vein and enter glucose, amino acids and fat emulsions
into him. Ippolit was extremely slim. Long black hair and thin black beard.
“Not garny” my grandmother would say. We discussed psychoanalysis. Ippolit
lamented the theory is absolutely rudimentary in Russia. I could not understand
how a consciousness can study subconsciousness. Ippolit felt free to tell
about his diseases and complexes. As though they were his merits. I was
shocked to know Yulia was struggling an incurable chronic disease named gastritis.
But was it not her who yesterday gulped lard with garlic?
- And our Masha is absolutely healthy, - says Yulia about me. - Even after
giving hard time to her body working on a day- and-half payment and in reanimation
for so many years, but you won’t believe: she does not even have a
caries!
-But I am still young - I said as though I was trying to defend myself. -
My Granny used to give me fish oil when I was a little girl.
Ippolit called the names of authors. Yulis showed off her erudition. The
names are like passwords for them. I could the books by these authors fell on
the floor of out room. Yulia cold absorb information only when she was in
horizontal position. She always read in her bed. Then fell asleep. And her
books fell on the floor. I picked them up in the morning.
-And Fromm? What do you think of him? - Ippolit addresses Yulia. I
cannot remember any Fromm on our floor. How is she going to brazen? I
would simply say I hadn’t read him. But Yulia does not like to be simple. Seems
like Ippolit does not, too.
-What can I say? - and Yulia slowly takes a pack of Vogue from her bag.
Usually, she makes use Parliament. Ippolit gives her his lighter. Gallantly, but
not too fast. Yulia takes a slow smoking. The pause is long and Ippolit has
nothing to do but to speak of Froom himself. Well done, Yulia!
After Fromm, Ippolit switched to the search of national idea. His deep
conviction idea that us Russian just cannot survive without having one. The
idea which is to unite the nation. I have strong doubts, somehow. What is
there in common between me and Reckless Pashka, the head of local mafia?
Reckless Pashka has shot tens of his competitors from his machine gun, has
bribed himself off the militia and now has founded Russian National Capital
bank, with a humble replacement “criminal” with “national”. And I do not
want to have anything in common with him.
The idea to unite the nation. Why? We can make a muck of any idea, make
an absurd out of it. Or turn it into the opposite one. Say, turn monarchy into
autocracy. Fight autocracy with terror. Kill the orthodoxy with atheism. Build
a hideous socialism. Will be soon to forget it, too. Change it with capitalism,
a monster too horrible even to imagine.
Ippolit admits my point. The Britons have their Queen and are happy
with her. We failed with our collective farms, and Jews succeeded with their
kibbutz. Our socialism fell in ruins, and Chinese one is flourishing. That means
the idea is not wrong. What is wrong is turning it into absurdity, raising it up
to absolute. He said the mechanism of ideas distortion is hidden in our collective
subconsciousness. And it has to be studied. It turns out the subconsciousness
may be collective, too. Horrible!
The, Ippolit lamented our Earth is at the outskirts of the Universe. He felt
annoyed. The Universe is expanding. It has a nucleus, a centre. And we are at
the periphery. Provincials. Far from the centre. Far from the God. I was annoyed,
too. That might be the reason everything was going wrong. And then
I thought - oh no, we are at the front line. We are the avant-guard. The God
has relied on us when He allocated us the most challenging section. It is even
tougher than Atlants. They just support the sky. And we expand the boundaries
of the Universe.
Then, Ippolit spoke of God. In his opinion, the God was nothing else nut
the sum of souls of dead and alive ones. A sort of collective subconscious.
According to Ippolit, it was not that the God created us, but we created Him.
Is we are a part of God, then what part exactly? Hardly the best one.
I am going. It’s time to leave them. I am scared for Yulia. A fine clever man
may annoy a woman very painfully, much more painfully, than a simple and
straight one.
                *****
Zuyev stretched a case history to me.
-Masha, inspect this one, please. Tomorrow I want to operate him. He
cannot sleep a wink at night. On promedol already. We cannot wait for longer.
Will revise his deep-thigh one, and then decide what to do next. Probably an
amputation. He will not survive a proper reconstruction. He had an infarct and
is a diabetic. A loose one. Rotten intelligent, in one word. And his surname
does not sound good.
-What is his surname?
-Blednolitzev ( Pale Faced - the comment by the translator).
-Yes, an anemic one
I study the history. Arkady Ivanovich Bladnolitzev, aged 75. “Not garny”
my grandmother would say. Not too old so far. Takes nytroglicerin and occasional
diuretics. His left hallux is already black. He is scared. Of operation. Of
amputation. Of death. Of making wrong decision. Of making wrong choice.
He does not have one, though. Even if Zuyev will be able to make a plastic of
his deep-thigh artery, this would only reduce the level of amputation and makes
the recovery of stump faster which is important, considering his diabetes.
Most probably, we will not save the extremity. He asks provoking questions
to me. Is Zuyev a good surgeon? An excellent one. What achievements
does he have? As in Meyo clinic. Will it be better for him to go to Moscow?
But what if he will die there? (It is he asking me). Imagine the troubles of
transportation the body. To arrange it. To pay for it. He laughs bitterly. My
children do not need it. I have very good children, he adds proudly.
Could he deny of the operation? Of course he could. Can it wait? Yes, it
can wait. Intoxication will be developing. Pain will be unbearable. Drugs will
not be of any help. Pain makes a person admit the death. There is no more fear.
Just indifference. “Doesn’t matter”. It will be very hard to love life again after
that. To become active and helpful. To learn how to walk on crunches. And at
that old age. Many give up. Just exist, but do not live.
What would I do if I were him? He is trying to put the reliability on me.
I do not mind. I got used to. The operation is required now. In fact, we are a
bit late already. Yes, he has been offered before. But he was worried about his
heart.
-Won’t my heart stop? - he asks. Won’t his heart stop? A heart is no perpetuum
mobile. Of course, it will stop one day. But why during operation? We
do not expect too much loss of blood. Neither a hypoxia. I offered him an
epidural. An alternative for a weak heart. He refused. What? An injection in
the back? Oh no! I did not insist. It is dark on the street. He says he is sorry
to keep me at work. Your day is over. Yes, it is. I will owe you. I prescribe a
preanesthetic medication and go home.
Angel: Masha should not go to hospital in the morning. I have to make
her catch a flu. It is a right time, an epidemy. She has a running temperature.
She will have to stay in bed for several days. She fells horrible. She is shaking
with fever. She wrapped in warm blanket and put woolen socks on. And still
feels cold. Intoxication. Weakness. I feel sorry for Masha. But how else shall I
neutralize her hyper-responsibility?
It’s morning. Alarm-clock rings. Just look what she is doing! Wakes up.
Goes to the bathroom. Brushes her teeth and takes her shower. She is waving
as though she is at a ship caught by the storm. Her sick biological field hangs
like dirty rags or old worn-out clothes over her. It is impossible. My patience
is almost over. Even my, angelic patience.
She feels vomit. She drinks coffee. Cooffe causes a thachiardia, but cannot
reduce weakness. “Where are you going? Just look at yourself! Let me call a
doctor for you. She will give you a sick leave”, - this is Yulia trying to reason
Masha.
Masha, do listen to Yulia! This is me speaking in her voice. Me, your
Angel. Can’t you hear me? No. “I cannot. The patient is ready for operation.
I must give anestesia to him”.
You must not give anestesia to that patient, Masha. But how to stop you?
It is easier to stop a steamer. Because it has an emergency valve.
Masha: An overcrowded trolley-bus spilled me on the asphalt. I change
my cloth and walk into the operation room. Put drops in my nose and put the
mask on. The breathing is a bit easier now. Tanechka gives me size seven
gloves. The smallest one, my favorite. Latex glues to my fingers as tight as the
second skin. Catheterisation of the central vein. No problem.
Turn the monitor on. Initial narcosis is smooth, the patient fell asleep at
once. Intubation, no problem. Everything as usual. That’s why I was not
scared when I had seen an isoline at the monitor. At first I thought the electrods
disconnected and checked them. No, they were in place but the heart
stopped. Asystolia. Reanimation. Adrenaline. Massage. We must re-start it. It
happened right now.
We are not late. We must re-start it No response to adrenalin. Not at all.
Zuyev quickly does toracotomy and starts an open-chest massage. “He’s got
a huge aneurism after his infarct. How could he live?” The pupils get widened.
“You are doing massage wrong”, - I shout at Zuyev. “But look - that aneurism
has very thin walls. I am afraid I will break it. Then try to explain that to the
autopsist. How can you prove it happened after the death?”
He dropped the word. After the death. Fyodor Ivanovich ran in. “What’s
going on here?” Since now, he takes the charge. I am a mere executor. It seems
I see a nightmare. I must wake up. I must wake up. I caught cold. It happens.
I got flu. I have high temperature. Yesterday I have inspected the patient to be
operated. Yes, that was yesterday. And what? I always do that. I inspect them.
Make records in their case histories. Appreciate the degree of risk.
We have a reference scale. What next? I follow the plan. It is a scheduled
anestesiology. I forecast the events. I manage the situation. But why now it is
out of control? Why did it stop? Why it does not want to re-star? And never
will. We have been reanimating for fifty minutes. No use. Fyodor Ivanovich
took me on my shoulders “Let’s go, Masha. It’s over”. “Fyodor Ivanovich,
dear. Let’s go on”.
He silently opens the sheet. There are clear purple spots on the back side.
Death spots.
We entered Zuyev’s room. Men smoked, I caught cough.
-Are you sick?- asked Fyodor Ivanovich.
-I am not well, - I was shaking.
-Why did you drag to the hospital, then? You could take a sick leave.
-But there is no one to replace me. And today is our operation day.
- You could have postponed the operation.
-Felt sorry for the patient. He was terrified so.
-You should be terrified with the ones who are terrified.
-Fyodor Ivanovich, but why do people fell fear? Are there their fears which
form a negative result, or they sense bad result and feel fear? What comes first?
-I don’t know. I repeat. Be terrified of those who are terrified. This is what
I sat to you. Do you have anything to drink?- he asks Zuyev. Zuyev nods.
- Anything good enough?
-We drink what we are given, - grumbled Zuyev.
He locked his room from inside, and warned the nurse on his phone:
“Yekaterina, I am exteremely busy working with documents. Send everybody
to the senior ordinator. He will, no problem. Everybody, except relatives of
that one, Blednolitzev. Yes, yes, that one. Bring them to me. Only give me a
warning first”.
Then, Zuyev came to his board and took a bottle of Ararat.
-A genuine?- asked Fyodor Ivanovich in doubt - Not a fake?
-We’ll uncork it and then see, - answered Zuyev and poured brandy in
glasses.
-I don’t drink brandy, - I said.
-And what do you drink?
-Dry wine.
-We can arrange it, - suggested Zuyev.
-No dry wine, - insisted Fyodor Ivanovich. - You have to drink too much
of it to get proper concentration in your blood. He gave me a glass with
brandy.
-Drink it. If you do male work, act in a male way.
I got used to follow my chief instructions. Did some gaps and coughed
again. Fyodor Ivanovich slapped me on my back.
-That’s ok, that’s ok, - he went on. - You know where you work. Not in a
spa. Sometimes people die even there.
-Yes, of course, - nodded Zuyev. - A friend of mine is a doctor in Sochi.
Recently, they had one of their patients died in the middle of the intercourse.
Not yet old, rather strong, with money. Came there to relax. And that’s it.
Orgasm and death in one.
-Great death, - commented Anatoly Ivanovich.
-Great, - nodded Zuyev. They had a drink.
Men are so self-centered, - flashed a thought in my mind - They only think
of themselves. But what that woman felt? What am I thinking of, though?
- A death in narcosis is not that bad, too, - said Fyodor Ivanovich.
-Very nice one, I would say. I wouldn’t mind, - agreed Zuyev.
But I would. Not. To let the anestesiologist down! To make him worry!
Better in some other way. But I was silent. I don’t want to make men feel
bitter. They are doing their best to console me. Let’s pretend they did.
Fyodor Ivanovich decided that Ararat has reached a proper concentration
in my blood.
-Masha, take a pencil to write. I will dictate. Write slowly. Do not make
any mistakes. Tomorrow stay at home. Take a sick leave.
Meanwhile Zuyev made a call to the ordinator’s room.
-Yegor, who is on the wheels today?
-Viktor and Maxim. Maxim is in the operation room, and Viktor is busy
accepting patients.
-Tell Viktor to come to me. Maria Petrovna is to be driven home. She got
sick. I will be on duty, - and he put a chewing gum in his mouth.
Angel: On that day, Masha had not only had her patient died during
anestesia. On that day, she became an orphan. Arkady Ivanovich Blednolitzev
was her father. Burt she would know that later, approximately in six month,
when she would come to Krasnoriverska to see her mother. In their talk, she
would mention his rare surname. Xenia would burst into tears. And then, two
of them would be crying.
                *****
Angel: Mankind starts to realize the creative power of idealization. Think good
of bad, and bad will become better. Is there any other way for the bad to
become good? Do not afraid of disappointments. It is an unavoidable side
effect. Love is a sort of idealization. And everyone knows its huge power. A
power of love. No one loves real men and women, in fact. Everyone loves
some ideal tailored to this or that particular person.
And this makes that particular person to grow better. “She believes in me.
I must…I cannot disappoint her”. Idealization of children. “My Sashenka
knows as many as ten words. But he is only a year old! “. The idolatry of
mother. The appraisal of the ruler “Oh, the wisest! Oh, the fairest!” Hymns to
homeland. That’s right. That’s necessary. Even here, Russians went their own
way. They managed to idealize their enemy. Neither nation of Earth had done
that before them.
Neither did after. Enemies could be terrified of, hated or despised. But
praised… And in poetry… XIX century. Russian Empire has its colonial wars
at the Caucasus. We could see thick black aggression was flowing though the
whole country, due south. Russian officers killed and were killed there. They
realized that war was unfair. A genius of Russian poetry, who was at that war,
did not like it at all. At those days, there appeared poems where their enemy,
the Circassian, was shown as some romantic hero. Reckless and freedomloving.
Lonely night avenger. He attracted the kind attention of the Russian
capital. The poems were being read and copied. Romantically-minded young
ladies were eager to be abducted. To gallop a horse, On a moonlight night.
Along some narrow mountain road. Above the depth. Run away from chase.
And then a burning kiss in the saklya (dwelling of Caucasus people - the comment
by the translator) and oh…
They were short of emotions in the icy capital. “But Mama, why should
I marry that Ivan Andreevich. He is so boring..” Poet will pay his life for that.
Later people would say his death was silly. Duel fighter. Crazy fellow. But we
had seen a different picture…Dark torrents of aggression became less dense
and split into small brooks. They could not rise high into the mountains, as
their power was not enough. They gathered at the bottom, and the waters of
Terek River washed them away. With the blood. Poet happened to minimize
the consequences of war. You may ask, “Could one person do that?” I will
answer the hero is always alone. And the ideas of one person are capable of
everything. Provided that other nations will absorb them. Russians turned out
to be ready and open to humanistic vibrations. Caucasians had not been killed
as was the case with other nations. With Northern American Indians, say.
Good is born from bad, and flowers grow on a manure.
The opposite is also true. Think bad of something or somebody means to
fix everything in the same condition and to block any way of development
“Corruption cannot be defeated” “Mafia is immortal”, the phrases like these
are Devil’s favorites. He is trying hard to imprint them into the mass consciousness.
And he succeeds. Symbols are symbolic. Life is prosaic. Alas.
Russia is neither East nor West. Russians are different. They are in between.
Western and Eastern ideas, like two thunderstorm clouds, clash over
Russia and fall down like a rain or a snow. Russians absorb everything. They
are omnivorous. They are insatiable. They can adopt everything. They can understand
everybody. But no one understands them. Americans don’t like them.
But this is understandable. They are antipodes. They live at the other side of
the planet. Though the question may be re-formulated. And it will have no
answer. Whom do Americans love?
Russians are rather unthankful. I am not a linguist, but why Russian language
gives the most annoying meaning to the names of domestic animals?
Domestic animals provided them with their food, gave them their milk and
skin, carried them on their backs, did all the hard work, were killed at war.
And? “Dirty pig”, “stupid hen” “a mug of a horse” and generalizing “animal”.
Their worst curse is “Die like a dog”. But the human never had a better friend.
I feel annoyed for the animals, especially for the dogs. It is good they cannot
understand Russian. Indians worship cow as sacred animal.
When Arabian poets compare a woman to a horse, it is the beast compliment.
And when Chinese women dispose of their waste they talk to it :”Thank
you, rubbish, you have served me well. Thank you, copybook, my son was
writing his hieroglyphs in you. Thank you, pad, you helped me to survive my
critical days…Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” It is not often that I hear
this word spoken in Russian.
                *****
-Maria Petrovna, Please come to chief. He is waiting for you.
I am worried. Is anything wrong with documents, again? Fyodor
Ivanovich is smoking.
-Here you are. Read this - and he gives me a paper. It is titled “The Report
of Prescription and Writing Off of Drugs and Psychoactives”. The commission,
in the persons of Chief Deputy Doctor, Chief Pharmasist, Chief Expert and
Senior Nurse - their names are listed - has inspected the procedure of prescribing
and writing off the drugs and the psychoactives.
The following documents have been examined: 1. The Drugs and
Psychoactives Logbook 2. The Logbook for Empty Amplules from Drugs
Psychoactives 3. The Reports for Empty Ampules from Drugs and
Psychoactives, as well as 50 selected case histories and prescription lists. The
findings are as follows:
1. The Drugs and Psychoactives Logbook is being kept inappropriately, with
corrections.
2. Foreign object have been found in the safe for drug and psychoactives,
namely, krona batteries for the laryngoscope.
3. In the case history No.48350, G. patient, doctor A. Ignatyev recorded the
intramuscular injection of 0.02% promedol, 1.0 ml. Appropriare recrod
has been made in the prescription list, but was not signed by the nurse
who did the injection.
4. In the case history No. 51146. K. patient. doctor M.P. Belozertzeva has
formulated the indications for promedol injection as follows: “To arrest
the abstinent syndrome, the patient has been injected by promedol…”
Fyodor Ivanovich gave me one more paper to read and sign.
Chief Doctor Order. On the basis of findings of the drugs and psychoactives
treatment commission, I order the following:
1. an admonition shall be given to A. Ignatyev, Anestesilogist-reanimator
2. a reprimand shall be given to M.P. Belogrotzeva, Anestesilogist-reanimator
3. Chief of Intensive Cure Unit shall be instructed for insufficient control an
shall be given a reprimand. Dare. Signature. Stamp.
I could clearly remember that K., case history No.51146. A young drug
addict. Was accepted to reanimation with heavy double pneumonia. Gasping.
Tachicardia. High temperature. Cyanotic lips. Fever. Bad X-ray diagram. He
said he had not been having his dose for five days and would die if I would not
inject promedol to him. He was not joking. I gave promedol to the nurse and
was preparing to connect ventilation to him. Bu that was not needed.
Promedol made wonder. Gasping and tachicardia gone. We had only to give
him nasal oxygen and antibiotics.
I could not understand where was the problem. The patient got better
and was released from the hospital..What have I done wrong? Why am I to be
reprimanded?
Fyodor Ivanovich is trying get the point over to me. We are the Municipal
Hospital of Urgent Aid, not a department for drug-addicts. We are not authorised
to arrest their abstinent syndroms.
-But he would die. Heavy pneumonia and abstinence at once. It is too
much, even for a young organism.
-Masha, where were you raised? Oh yes, in mountains…Now, it’s time to
come down to Earth. We are given rules. And we must play according to them.
Or we’ll be punished by those who had set the rules. They will check. But they
check documents, only documents. And the documents must be in order.
What are the indications for promedol? They are three. Anestesia.
Synchronization to apparatus and arrest of pirogenic reaction. What did you
think that drug addict had an abstinence?
-He told me.
-So what? Did he have a fever?
-Yes, he did.
-Was he infused? Did you give him an IV-fluid?
-Sure
-So, you should have written “The patient has a fever with possible
pirogenic reaction to the IV fluid. To arrest the latter, promedol is injected in
the such-and-such amount. Effect achieved. Time. Signature. That’s it.”
-So, I have to lie?
-What else to do, Masha. We are a municipal hospital. The city funds us.
And there is crisis now. City budget just creaks at all seams. Do you think the
city needs the old ones we have cured? They are to be paid their pension. Or
our patients with complicated operations? These ones are to have their disability
allowance. And that drug addict? Yes, he is young. But he is absolutely
useless member of society. He will never work. But the, the city does not need
even those who are ready. Uzbeks will come here to work hard and for
nothing. No problem. No medical insurance. Too many people lives in this
city, Masha. The city pretends it needs our patients. But is trying to make killers
out of us. Though killers are better paid, - he grinned.
I am crushed. I have got a reprimand. I let my chief down. He has got a
reprimand too. I feel I am a foul-up.
-But don’t you worry, - goes my chief on. One reprimand more, one reprimand
less. They will not reduce our salary. Drug addicts are a problem and
no one knows how to solve it. How should they be anestesized after the operation?
Standard doses of promedol are not enough for them, as their receptors
are changed. We cannot exceed maximum doses prescribed by
Pharamcopeia. We cannot just inject the drug addict with promedol, and then
write off to someone else, though some act in this way.
Let his pals come to the reanimation to bring him some non-sterile stuff
to be injected to his central vein we treated? But who will dare? What is left is
to give him innumerous injections of analgyn, to realize he needs drug and
feel like an inquisitor of Middle Ages.
You will be wrong - whatever you do, whatever you act, whatever decision
you would take. And no one knows what is right. And the ministry just does
not want to know. They do nave health problems. It is Russia. Difficult to stay
sinless, when the system is sinful.
So, Mahsa, I don’t know what to suggest to you. Listen to the God. May
be He will tell you something. He does not talk to me. Or may be I just cannot
hear Him.
                *****
Masha: I am to go give a narcosis. The operation room in at the first floor, the
patient is already there, waiting. She is having a extra-uterine pregnancy and
is losing her blood. Her pressure is 80 to 60 mm of mercury. Before, we had
a drug case in the operation room. It was welded to wall by metal strip of
4mm diameter which was inserted 20 cm deep into the wall.
According to new instructions, drugs must be stored in a specially allocated
bunker, almost the same as Hitler’s (the construction was taken from
him and strengthened just in case of nuclear war ). Now all the drugs from all
the operational rooms are there.
I leave my patient lying in a hemorragic shock under the monitoring of
Olechka, the anestesiologist, and rush to the bunker, where I must request and
receive drugs and psychoactives. Record them in three logs, put my signatures
everywhere. Then come up to the operation room. There will be nine minutes
delay in operation.
I wonder, if tax payers suspect the hazard they are in? And efficient reporters
- are they interested in the problems of urgent aid treatment arrangement?
My breath is heavy when I rush into the operation room. Surgeons have
had their wash, treated the operation filed and are at little nervous. The see me
and smile happily. Then, everything comes as usual. As usual, thank God.
                *****
Masha: A usual round in the morning. Senior nurse hisses as a snake and spills
out her saliva in anger. She does not bite. But then, there’s no one to bite. Only
Natasha was on duty at the surgery ward, instead of two nurses as usual. In the
foul ward, patient’s bandages got wet. They should have been changed yesterday,
in the evening. Morning temperature is not recorded in their histories.
-Polezhayev has not recorded it in the morning, - Natasha is trying to
defend herself.
-Who is Polezhayev?- addresses Zuyev to senior nurse - Hired a new one?
But why you didn’t inform me?
-He is the patient from the ward No.8 Has an ulcer. Conservative treatment.
-But why do you have him to record temperature?
-Because he offered, - explains Natasha. - Came to my ward and asked
“Can I help you? Let me write down the temperature, when you are doing
your injections.
-Well, do we now have our patients making temperature records now?-
asks Zuyev senior nurse. But is it Natasha who replies. - So what? Polezhayev
is a school teacher. I think he can understand our temperature diagrams. It is
not a nuclear physics.
-What’s that - understand or not understand?- says angry Zuyev. - Patients
are not allowed of reading case histories!
-But do they make a state secret? There ‘s a patient or the one taking care
in every ward who writes the temperature down and then bring it to me. And
Polezhayev writes them in case histories. What’s wrong about that?
-But do you think it’s right?
-Is it right I work for two here? How can I do all at once? And you will
pay me one salary only. And no more than that.
-Shall I pay to Polezhayev, too?
- Stoyanov has been 10 days with us by now, - repots the senior nurse to
Zuyev trying to distract him from an unpleasant topic. - But Stoyanov is a
tramper. It is time to release him (Insurance companies do not pay for tramps.
They have no insurance policy. The city can pay for 10 days of treatment only).
-Where shall I release him? It is cold and his wound has not recovered yet.
Who is his doctor? Igor, write the release in his history and then open the next
one. As though he came by himself. For 10 more days.
-And then? - inquired the senior nurse.
-How can I know? - defends Zuyev. - It might turn warmer. And he acts
out of fairness, not out of law.

                *****
Masha: We are having tea in the reanimation and are enjoying a cake. It tastes
delicious.
We are having old Martirosov as our patient. His son runs a small bakery
of his own, and every day spoils us with his cakes.
-Maria Petrovna, can we hold Martirosov in the reanimation?
-Of course, I can, until the chief of reanimation will not instruct me.
-But is he will, can you do something to hold him?
-But what can I do?
-Pretend his cardiogram is not very good, for instance.
-But his cardiogram is good.
-Let take it from Sinichkin and say it is Martirosov’s. This could hold him
here for three days longer at least. We will be monitoring him…
We share jokes and laughs. The duty was easy. No narcosis. No one calls
for consultations. Everyone fells relaxed. And then…Ambulance after ambulance.
Patient after patient. Must be something wrong with the stars. May be conflict
between Mars and Pluto. And we are struggling. By morning I felt like a
squeezed lemon.
One more patient arrives at 6.15 am. And I need to anestetize the operated
one before they will have their sheets changed. I distribute promedol ampules
to nurses and go to accept the patient. He is having a stomach
hemorrage. Send him to reanimation. Fill the case history. Write the prescriptions.
Now I have to fill the report for the empty ampules returned. I walk
around the wards. Olechka gives me three empty ampules. There was one I had
given to Nastya.
-Nastya, please give me the ampule.
-Which ampule?
-The one from promedol. Where is it?
-Oh, I…I seemed to throw it away.
-Why? Where?
-To the waste basket.
I look at the floor, terrified. The basket is empty.
-Where is the rubbish?
Janitors had took it away.
-When? Where is Aunt Dasha?
Nastya is petrified. Short, slim, with just two months of working experience.
What is there to do? We will have to sieve through all the rubbish at the
corridor. We may be lucky to find it
-But we have taken the rubbish at the scrapheap, - this comes from Aunt
Dasha.
And what? I will have to write a report. To inform the chief doctor. He
will call the militia. They will come and compile their report. Will open the
case of illegal use of drugs. Later, they will close it for lack of the criminal.
I will be given a reprimand for my recklessness. One more. According to
instruction, I was personally to monitor the nurse injecting the patient take
empty ampule from her, make three records (one in the history, one in the prescription
list and one in the drug record log). And in the mean time I have a
bleeding patient to accept. It will be luck if I get reprimand only. Again I let
my chief down. Fyodor Ivanovich is going to have a trouble.
-Aunt Dasha, have other ward taken their rubbish?
-Should be.
-Rubbish bags are al the same. How caw we find ours?
- We had two bags. One I filled yesterday, in the evening. In the next one
I put an empty box from juice. A green one, an apple juice. I will recognize it.
So we have to inspect all the bags.
We put aprons, masks and gloves on. Took sheets and torn thorns. I
brought the laryngoscope with batteries, to have on the light. And we went to
the scrapheap.
Angel: Of course, a scrapheap is a far cry from the place appropriate to
angels. But what victims shall I not bring for my favorite pupil! I zoom in and
sink into the rubbish bag. It is hideous. Bandages wet with blood and foul.
Sheets with vomiting mass on them. Used plastic systems for infusions And
that smell…There cannot be nastier one. And my colleagues (let me call them
so) are having their time laughing me off. They just double with hysterics. A
comedy titled “An Angel at the Scrapheap” is on. No Hollywood script writer
can imagine that. Location is Russia. Russia, for sure…Where else can such a
pandemonium take place? In no country they do not return used ampules from
drugs. Just throw them away. But is that bloody ampule? Oh, here it is. A tiny
one, just got stick to a piece of cloth. I take it in my hands. Now, to show it
to Masha, for her not to miss one.
Masha: I am cautiously taking pieces of rubbish with my corn tongs.
Shake it. Watch closely. The ampule might get stick. I put the ones I have inspected
on the separate sheet. They smell nasty and I feel sick. Aunt Dasha
tries to give me some hints. She put her glasses on. Inspect the rubbish one
more time. Watches after me. Nastya is silent, with tears in her eyes. Where is
that bloody ampule, damn it! So many of them I have found already…From
dimedrol, papaverin, vitamins…How many injections we are doing! Stunning!
Poor our patients. Isn’t the one? I read the label. It is! What a luck! Thank
you, God!
                *****
Masha: I didn’t want to listen to their talk. I was sitting at the rear seat of the
trolley-bus napping after my night watch. But the old woman was speaking
out loudly and the trolley-bus was half-empty on that early hour, so I could
hear every word from her.
-…I just fed up with him. He hasn’t been working for six months.
Nowhere. And keeps begging for money, saying he would pay me back but
never does. Drinks everything away. After yesterday, again asked me to borrow
five hundred roubles fir him, just prayed. Said he needed them for something
important. But how shall I return them? I have three-month debt for the rent.
The fridge has broken. You know how much is the new one costs. That old one
is to be repaired. This costs money, again. He will drink all away, so I didn’t
give anything to him. First he tried to beg me, then started threatening. And
then…Can you imagine…He slapped me on my face. Raised his hand on his
mother…- she was sobbing. – Can you imagine? I fell. And he…Took the
money from me and gone.
I am giving sleepy nods to the old woman.
-… and I decided. Finish. Better to die, then to live like this. My strength
is over. I am going to throw myself under the car.
I imagined. Squeak of brakes. The wheel is twisting on the left. The car runs into the
tree. The man has a chest trauma. The woman has her head injured. She falls
into coma. She is pregnant. A miscarriage. A hemorrhage. Shall we be able to
save her? And just because some  old woman has thrown herself under
the wheels.
I said - Please, choose another way to die. Think about the others.
 My stop. I am dropping out of the trolley-bus.

                *****
Masha: Yulya is stretching on the bed and reading Fromm.
She managed to find his book at the book market. Paid some extravagant
money. Yulya has fallen a victim of sexual aggression and was traumatized. It
happened under completely exotic circumstances. Wild zoosex. At the hippodrome,
she was riding a mare with a fatal name of Karmen. They has a training
in the riding hall and everything went normal at first. But then Karmen, that
lusty fornicator, felt like flirting with the younger stallion. She rushed forward
and bite his back. He did not approve her attempted flirtation and kicked with
his rear leg. As a rule in this life, the innocent suffered. In that case, Yulia. The
kick of the stallion’s leg, what’s worse, of the hoofed one, had reached not the
face of the over-sexed Karmen, but the shin of the poor Yulia. In spite of
sudden and strong pain, she managed to stay in the saddle and did not fall
under the hooves of Karmen. It was good luck she did not break her bone.
I am lecturing Yulia.
-How could you sit on the horse having such horrible name? You, a psychiatrist
and a psychologist! And it is you who are trying to teach me the thing
called neuro-linguistic programming!
-Oh, do stop teaching me! Better make a tea. It’s time for me to take an
antibiotic.
She a rough-edged wound with a primary contagination. It will be repairing
by secondary adhesion. Yulia is worried about the exterior.
-Oh my pretty legs, - she sighs. –Will you ask Zuev to make a plastic surgery
if the tread will be rough?
-Of course I will. He will dissect the old one and will put a fresh one, intracutenious.
-I will owe you a brandy. An Armenian one.
She is studying her X-ray photo. Even put off her Fromm.
-Look, how fine are my bones! An aristocratic one. But how strong it
tuned out to be. Many calcium. I will show that one to Ippolit.
-Good idea. To make him see how beautiful you are from the inside. Better
than from the outside. –Yulia is throwing her pillow on me. Not Fromm,
though the book is near her.
I have to leave Yulia. I am to go to Grozny. After Uncle Grisha’s death (he
died 2 years ago, suddenly, with the acute myocardial infarction) Aunt Zoya
was living in Grozny all by herself. My mother wasted all her salary to distant
telephone calls trying to talk her into moving to Karsnor But Aunt Zoya
fiercely resisted to the idea. Now it is my turn to try. For this, I have taken a
one-week holiday. That would be enough.
                *****
Masha: I came to Grozny on 26th December, 1994. It took me a short time
to find Aunt Zoya’s house. I went up the last, 4th floor and pushed the button
of the call. It was long before the door opened. I could hardly recognize Aunt
Zoya, so aged and exhausted was she. She seemed not to remember me.
- Go back. Now. Why on earth did you come?
-Aunt Zoya, it’s me, Masha. Xenia’s daughter. Can you remember me? I
came to take you from here. It’s a dangerous place. Mama has sent me…
-Xenia has sent you? How could she! A fool, always has been a fool…
-Don’t you dare to call my mother a fool! You have no right
Aunt Zoya weakly sat on the chair and cried:
-Masha, do listen to me. Go away from here, just go as soon as you can.
I pray you. Do go away. You will die here. There will be a war.
- I know, my dear, sweet Aunt Zoya. That’s why I am here. I came to take
you with me. We’ll come back together, you and me. You see, I have two back
tickets with me. I have bought them in advance
- I won’t go any place. I will die here
-But why? Aunt Zoya, why?
- Because I want to be buried next to Grigory.
-My sweet Aunt Zoya, you have a long life ahead. You are not that aged.
You will be staying with us, at Krasnoriverska. There is such a nice climate
there. Many people live long years. The war will be over some time. And then
you will return. Because you have a flat here
-But what if I will die in Krasnoriverska?
-If, God forbid, you will happen to die in Krasmnoriverska, we will bury
you there. And then, after the war, will bring you here. This happens. I
promise you, give you my warranty. We will write this wish of yours in your
will. Will proceed it as required. We will invite a notary. We will have your signature
and a seal on your will. Who will dare to breach it?
She was persisting. I was short of right words. Of whatever arguments.
And then I noticed Uncle Grisha’s portrait. It hung on the wall, between the
bookshelves. Young and self-conscious, he was staring straight into my eyes.
I turned to the portrait as though it was an icon and went on:
- Now, look at Uncle Grisha. Would he support you? Just remember how
he loved you and how he wanted only good for you. It’s right he cannot see
how you live here. Just imagine his pain. To see you living as though in some
wild Middle Ages. According to Shariat, they shoot criminals right on the
streets, making a show out of the killing. They do not pay you any pension
money. Inflation melted your bank savings. Well, you may try to sell something.
But what is there to sell? No one needs the books. Modjaheds are no
Nizhsche’s readers. And what if you will die? Who will bury you here? All
your friends and neighbours have gone long ago. Will wrap you in some
carpet, in a Muslim way, and put you in the grave like that. If not worse..
And Aunt Zoya gave up. She started her slow and unwilling packing. She
handed her husband’s death certificate to me. At its back side, there was a plan
of the cemetery with Uncle Grisha’s grave marked in a little cross. I took her
passport, her pensioner ID and her bank savings book. I put them in the inside
pocket of my jacket and zipped it.

                ******
Angel: They have been having a long talk. There’s almost no time left.
Masha has to leave the room right now. How shall I make her? Well, I will
make her feel thirsty.
Masha: Suddenly I felt my mouth was dry, might be because of too loud
and too long talk. I went to the kitchen to drink some water. In a moment,
there came a deafening noise, the lights turned of in the flat, and over, behind
the window, I noticed bright yellow-red flames against the sky. Then I sensed
a push and fell down.
Angel: It was me who pushed Masha. I turned her body ninety degrees to
the window and carefully laid it on the floor. Otherwise, in that tiny flat, she
would surely bump her head against the table.
Masha: I did not have any idea of time. I hardly stood up, in the complete
darkness. I had a headache and felt sick. I started calling for Aunt Zoya. She
did not reply. I took my rucksack off my shoulder and found my torch. I turned
it on and entered the room. It was all bricks and armature now. Overhead,
there was the sky on fire and fighters were roaring across it flying very low. I
tried to doze crashed bricks and caught a hand after a while. It was Aunt
Zoya’s hand, cold and having no pulse. Aunt Zoya died. And she was dead for
quite a long time. I tried to dig her corpse out. But I could not without
someone’s help. What next? Through noise and roar, I seemed to hear sudden
cry of a baby. Could I be wrong? I was listening. There gaped a huge hole in
the wall separating the flats. A young woman was on the floor. I could only
see her stretched legs. The upper body was buried under the rubbles. She was
dead, too. The child was crying in his bed, which was at the opposite end of
the room. I took him on my arms. Over me, a top beam was creeping ready
to drop at any moment. I went from the room into the corridor, opened the
entrance door. I was lucky locks did not get stuck. I supported myself on the
banister I slowly went downstairs and then on the street.
Angel: I, like Atlantes, was holding the beam with my shoulder so that
that it would not drop on Masha’s head. Masha safely left the house. Just in
time. The house caught fire. What next? How shall I deliver her to a safe place?
Shall I have to risk of Sergey’s life? There seemed no other option. He just
went out to buy some food in the nearest store. But he would fail. The store
is already destroyed and robbed.
Masha: Street air was stiff with ashes and fires were shining brightly. I recalled
there was many oil in the area. Probably the oil processing plant was
burning. I didn’t know where to go and went from the fire, along the houses.
I could hear machine guns squibbing. Bullets traces were puncturing the
plaster and chipped pieces of brick from the walls of houses I was passing by.
Suddenly some tall dark figure fell on me, threw the child off my hands and
pushed me on the ground. I fell. The figure dropped over me. I could not
make a move. After a while I hear a male voice speaking in my ear: “Stand up
and run after me when I will tell you to do so”. He jumped oh his feet, jerked
my hand and pulled me after him. He was winding like a hare. It was very dif-
ficult to follow him. I was breathing heavily. At last we reached a house, the
man pushed the door, and we entered.
-This is the safest place in this hell, a hospital- he said. – Let me bring your
baby in the pediatric ward, for the specialists to inspect him.
-He’s not mine.
-But whose?
-I don’t know. His mother was killed. I know the address only but not
sure about the flat number. He tore a piece of paper off his notebook. I gave
him the address. He pushed the paper under the baby’s clothes.
-And who are you?
-I am a stranger here. I am an anastesiologist and came from a different
place.
I introduced myself.
-Oh, we are colleagues. How nice!
I could not understand what was so nice. He checked himself.
-I’m sorry for saying something wrong. It happens to me.
He took off his bulletproof vest and his helmet and now did not look so
huge.
-Aslan, you won’t believe, I’ve brought an anaestesiologist for you! - he
cried.
The person named Aslan went out of the operation room and removed his
mask.
-Sergey, do you remember, we sent you to get something to eat? We don’t
have any food.
-What food, Aslan? There’ s a real bombardment over there.
-But where have you found that anaestesilogist of yours?
-You won’t believe me. On the pavement.
-To you, I will. Bring her change her clothes and then go to the operation
room. I hire her. We’ll do the papers later.
-Have a heart, Aslan. She is shell-shocked. A shell hit their flat.
-Then let her have a rest. Very soon there’ll be a lot of work here.
                *****
Masha: the roar is getting louder and louder. Casualties seem to arrive in some
endless flow. For many days in a row, we have been working without any sleep,
and yet we are short of time. Surgeons are walking between the tables, without
any washing, like robots. We only change gloves on them. We are short of operation
cloth. I am intubating one patient, inject him a Kalypsol and is rushing
to the next one. We are short of breathing apparatuses. Some Chechen with a
grown beard and a scarf on his head is ventilating his comrade’s lung with the
Ambu-bag. He was fast in learning the procedure. We can hardly hear each
other because of that endless noise. Blood stock is over. Blood substitutes are
almost over. We don’t have anything to work with. Anything at all. In the
corner of the operation room, at the rubber sheet, amputated legs and arms
are piling. Blood is flowing from under it. There’s no one to take it them away.
Our shoe covers soak with blood and make a disgusting slopping. An amputated
hand caught my eye. Long fine fingers, beautiful oval-shaped nails. Black
fringe of ground is under them. Whom did it belong to? I cannot remember
its owner. Boys, just boys. Federals and militants. And civilians, too. These
ones are in majority. We don’t have any more antibiotics. Their wound will
start festering. The treads will move wide apart. All our work is in vain. We are
infected with the Death. We all are going to die here. All of us. This is the
end. The end of the world. Apokalypse.
Hey you who have launched all that! Cannibal maniacs! Killers! War ministers.
Weapon producers. Degraded alcoholic, whom the people selected to be
a President, and who instructed the aviation to throw bombs on a city in the
country he was ruling. Be cursed, all of you. Be cursed for ever. Me, with my
agony cry, will unleash a cruel merciless hound named Death. Oh, I am familiar
with his behavior. I have been studying it for many years. He will storm
in your houses, hack his teeth in your throat, will tear your bodies with his
claws, will enjoy your flesh. You, who have launched all that! Let an endless
trail torture you. Let your agony be horrible at the dead lifeless planet.
Hatred. Only hatred is burning in my mind. Nothing else. Hatred entered
my brain, my body, each cell of it, killed other feelings. I even hate myself to
have become like this.
                *****

Angel: Ah, Masha, Masha. My poor emotional girl. What have you done?
Your hatred, as sharp as a razor, has cut the spiritual cord which connected me
and you. Now my pain is dropping down this cut and is falling on the ground.
A wrath, even a just one, first of all destroys the person experiencing it, Masha.
And that is because we do not guard that person any more. He has no more
of our support. The Devil takes great pains in reaching this and provokes you.
The Savour did teach you how to forbid. He taught you with His own example.
The lesson is not easy, I understand. Oh my girl, you won’t live in
hatred for ever, that is for sure. It war just an emission of the dark energy. Like
a protuberance at the Sun. These are not your emotions. Because I know you.
And since now you will not have my protection. Of course, I will not abandon
you. Of course, I will try to re-establish our connection. To do this, I will need
a new energy cable, a thin and a flexible one. It will be stretching like a tentacle
from me to you. It will cost me a lot of effort. I am going to waste a lot
of time. And meanwhile you will not have my guard, Masha. Masha, I will not
be able to guard you. Will I have enough time? How are you going to run
away of that hell? Only those guarded by angels can survive wars and catastrophes.
I will be watching you dying. You will not reach your destination. To
which we have been preparing you for so long. To which you were approaching
so fast and good.

                *****
Masha: And here, happened the thing most incomprehensible and
unimaginable from the common sense point of view. From the humanism position.
From the position of mankind values. We were surviving among the
war. It was not that we had accepted its laws and followed them. We were just
surviving. As cockroaches surviving the poison. We were not paid any salary.
The banking system was completely destroyed.But what could money buy?
All shops and stores had been were destroyed and devastated.
We were short of food. Sometimes Chechens who took their
wounded militants from us brought us shashlyks, lavash and cheese. We used
helicopters to carry federal soldiers and transportable locals. Our colleagues,
military doctors, came to escort them. They provided us with bandaging material,
medicaments, blood substitutes and preparations. They brought us concentrated
milk and tinned meat, too. We realized there was no “city hospital
personnel provision” item in their budget and they shared their ration with
us. They were making us believe they were given plenty of both. That was not
very easy to believe, when we saw thin if not dystrophic federal soldiers.
City power supply system was destroyed and the hospital used a lowpower
generator which was incapable of continuous operation. We unscrewed
most of the lamps in the wards in the corridors, but that was not of mush help
and the lamps in the operation room were too dull. Sometimes surgeons asked
me to light the depth of the wound with my powerful electric torch. When we
turned the electrical kettle on, it stopped the respirators in the intensive care
unit, because of too low voltage in the circuit. That’s why I examined patients
before turning the kettle on, and id their condition was satisfactory, I was providing
manual ventilation by using an Ambu-bag, and Fatima was boiling the
water and then poured it into the thermos.
Central heating system was not working, too. Our patients were felling
cold. So did us. Fatima gave me a hand –knitted sheep wool jacket. I cut off
its sleeves and was wearing it under my hospital suit. She gave me a pair of
woolen socks, too, and I put my shoe covers on them.
I turned into a biorobot. Eating, sleeping, working. Eating, sleeping,
working. Working.  Working. Working…Everyone had turned into a robot, in
fact. We did not have any emotions of a human being. The things we saw were
beyond any human feelings. We were exhausted and always felt like sleeping.
We were trying to save our efforts and act with maximum capacity. It was a surprise
for me to know the efficiency of my work was much higher than in the
civil service.
Fatima injected the drugs upon the first request of our patients. No one
wrote them off not speaking of counting empty ampoules. We only recorded
incoming casualties. There was a file over each bed where we wrote passport
details, diagnosis and operation. As for patients of the intensive care unit, I
provided them with the list of daily prescriptions, Fatima ticked the proce-
dures done then we added the list to the patient’s history and delivered both
to military doctors. That was the only document we processed.
In the operation room, I serviced several tables at a time. When surgeons
were busy, I performed minor operations – drained pleural cavities for pneumothoraxes,
put trachaeostomes on. At war, there was not a hunger, or a sleep
deficiency, or plenty of negative emotions that were the most horrible things
to sustain. The amount of work we physically were incapable of - that turned
out to be a real torment.
Because of too many casualties, I had to bury the ones I could have saved
in time of peace. While I was handling a patient, the other one was getting
worse. Sometimes I happened to manage the situation, sometimes not.
Strange wounds faced us. A 19- year old soldier, very tall and very handsome.
He has his neck wounded, but it is his gullet that got damaged. We are
shocked, all of us. How come – trachea is intact, precava and carotids are
intact, backbone is intact, but the gullet hidden deep inside is damaged.
Sergey carefully revised the wound. It is of stab-and-slash type, made by
a knife or by a bayonet. The direction of strike is unusual. As though his
guarding angel had thrown modjahed’s hand away. The knife slipped off the
trachea, passed by the carotid, turned horizontally under an unimaginable
angle and damaged the gullet. The guy was lucky to survive it all. Of course
there is not much luck in several difficult plastic operations he would to undergo.
Sergey put a gastrostome on him, and Fatima showed how to take
meals through it. With a next aircraft, we will send him to Mozdok or to
Moscow, where will be possible.
Traumas. Mechanical. Heat. Burns and frostbites. Crush syndromes.
Wounds. Dull. Stab-and-slash. Fragmentation. Gunshot. From the machine
gun. By burst. One doesn’t need to be a good shooter. No need. Only a merciless
one. Some bullet will reach. For sure. Their flight is furious. No one can
escape them. They are crafty. Twisting and dodging inside the human body.
Change their direction. Entry hole is not in compliance with exit hole. Some
of them explode inside the body. Tear the flesh in pieces. They are multi-layer.
Stuffed with death. Forbidden by the Hague convention. What can we do? In
this medley? Excise something. Correct something. Help somehow. At least in
several steps. How does Sergey manage? Traumas. On the chest, on the belly,
on the hands and legs. Polytraumas. Combinations unthinkable of. You name
it. Human phantasy pales. Only that of the Devil can invent it. Perverced one.
It’s a war. His festival. Devil’s festival.
I celebrated New Year of 1995 in the operation room. That one was not
the first I started in the operation room, but the first I celebrated at war. Farima
dissolved some medical spirit, added some ampules of ascorbic acid and of
glucose and treated the surgeons and the nurses with a gulp of that cocktail of
hers, wishing the war would be over as soon as possible. I took a gulp, too.
The war which seemed all chaos in the beginning was shaped now in some
form. There were no day bombings and an illusion of their complete stop appeared.
But at night it began from the very beginning. There were occasional
fire exchanges and motions in day time. In 7 days, they at last could open
strategic stock and delivered some to us. We obtained drugs, blood substitutes,
bandaging material, tinned meat and condensed milk.
                *****
A Chechen boy of no more than twelve was delivered in a hemorrhagic
shock. Gunshot wound on the left shin and damage of the shin-bone artery.
Significant loss of blood. Sergey made an amputation on him. The boy needed
blood transfusion, but we had no more of À(II) Rh (+) blood type. I offered
myself to be a donor. Aslan quickly found my hidden elbow vein.
I was lamenting:
- Aslan, oh please do obtain parents’ agreement. I am a healthy woman, I
had been through the medical examination last autumn and had all the tests
taken. But the documents must be processed as required.
- Don’t worry, Masha, I have talked with his parents. It’s a war. What documents
are you talking about?
Sergey approached us:
-Aslan, you bloody vampire! Are you going to suck all the blood from her?
-Stay quiet and do not interfere in the process. You know women are less
sensitive to the blood loss. Their bodies have training once in a month.
Yes, women might be less sensitive to blood loss. But in spite of monthly
training I felt really bad. I was very sleepy, then yawned several times and fell
asleep.
                *****
I shouldn’t have done that. And I never would if I had any other option. But
there was no one. Aslan brought me to a Chechen man around his forty. “This
is Masha. She has saved your son”. For some reason, the Chehchen did not say
thank you. He was looking at me in silence and then said : “My name is
Kazbek. Masha, what can I do for you?”. And I gave up: “I need to have my
aunt buried. She has died 10 days ago and her body is still is in her flat”. I gave
him the address. Kazbek was keeping his silence. I started thinking he would
say no. Then he told me tomorrow he would come with his brother.
Next day, Kazbek and has brother Marat came on their UAZ jeep. They
brought spades, pick axes and a carpet. It seemed they were familiar with the
kind of work to be done. Aslan suggested I would better not come with them.
But I was persistent. Then Aslan gave me two notes written in Russian and
Chechen and confirming I was a doctor and Aslan was my chief. He signed
them and his personal stamp. Alsan insisted the militants will not open the
fire if they will read his notes. Alas they do just opposite – first shoot and then
read.
Our UAZ did not carry any identification and could be an easy target both
for militants and for federals. Kazbek put me on the front seat, and we went.

It was the first time in 10 days that I left the hospital. The city was all hearth.
I could not understand why there should be more bombing. Everything
seemed to be demolished. I could not recognize Aunt Zoya’ s home. It burned
out, completely. Black skeleton and empty window frames. Kazbek and Marat
wrapped dense black scarves over their faces and looked like bandits now.
Kazbek turned to me:
- Masha, you will stay in the car.
-But  why? I will come with you. Are you going to enter the flat without
permission?
-What flat, Masha? There’s no flat any more.
Still, I followed them. Then Marat put the same black scarf over my face.
An entrance wooden door did not burn put completely. Marat pushed it with
his shoulder and the door opened. The fire had caught all the interior – bookshelves,
uncle Grisha’s books, his photo. Pieces of porcelain tableware were
thrown along the floor. A scent of death struck my nose. My head went dizzy.
It took some time until I regained consciousness Marat gripped me and brought down from the fourth floor.
 I was vomiting. Marat brought a plastic bottle of water from his car. I washed my face and hands and rinsed my mouth. He put me in the car, locked the door and told me not to open it to
anyone. I was shaking. I had no idea of the time. At last, they returned carrying
the carpet with the corpse of Aunt Zoya wrapped in it. Kazbek started the
engine and went to the cemetery. I handed the plan with the Uncle Grisha’ s
grave marked with a little cross.
At the cemetery, Kazbek suddenly turned the car and drove backwards.
They were speaking Chechen. I could not understand what was going on.
Then, Kazbek turned his UAZ back to the earlier road. And I understood.
There was a huge shell-hole in front of us. Some graves were turned upside
down. The air blast threw pieces of marble and broken metal fences around the
perimeter. Uncle Grisha’s grave was exactly here.
“This is the place marked at the map”, said Kazbek. He and his brother
pulled the carpet with Aunt Zoya’s body out of the jeep and laid it at the
bottom of the hole. They had not to dig the grave. At that moment, two
fighters flew over our heads. Marat shouted “Down!” and pushed me to make
it clear. I fell at the bottom of the hole and thought: “Are they going to bomb
the cemetery?” “But they did”, I answered myself. It could be a wrong
bombing, of course. But they can repeat this error. Something scratched my
cheek. I touched and sensed it was a chip, a part of someone’s coffin. I was terrified
to find someone’s bones. The remains of Uncle Girsha…
Fighters went away. We threw some ground over the Aunt Zoya’s body,
sat in the jeep and went back to the hospital.
                *****
I did want to take a shower. There was no hot water in the hospital. The militaries
promised us to install a mobile bath-laundry. But because of endless war
actions they just could not do that. We had mountains of dirty linen, and for
a long, had not have any more clean one.
Fatima spilled hot water from the thermos, added some tapped water and
washed me in the shower room. I laid on a sofa in the doctor’s room. Fatima
put a blanket on me and gave some spirit. “Have a sleep”, she said. “Aslan will
work”. Sergey came and sat next to me on the sofa.
-Why are we being punished so?- I asked him, as though he would had
known the answer.
- Not punished. Criminals are punished, and we are being trialed.
-Trialed? But I don’t want to be a car trialed at the testing ground!
-But, Mahsa, no one asks if you like it or not. Have you ever played computer
games?
-Yes, but why…
-Have you ever noticed all of them are based on the levels? The game itself
does not matter, really – you may play cubes, or catch balls, or shoot the targets,
but at first you are doing slowly, you have time to do everything, gain
some scores and then is transferred to the higher level. There, the game is
quicker, cubes are dropping faster and faster, balls are flying from everywhere,
targets hide, or you are being shot. Now, you do not gain your score only, you
are given penalty. At the next level, the speed is much more faster, your head
is whirling, you are afraid to make a mistake. In the end, you reach the highest
level which is not simple at all, but much more difficult. Here, the game is
over, Masha. We are at the highest level. Which means we have passed the
easier ones.
I pondered over his words. Meanwhile, Sergey opened a locker and took
out a guitar. Who would have thought? He sat back on the sofa, tuned the
strings, cleaned his throat and started:
 Yes, people went. Yes, they will go.
It’s not another way, another road.
Not Moses. Dust. Camels. Heat.
And bare feet.
Not Moses. The Golden calf
Could never know bridle, saddle,
Flight, battle,
Pace at breakneck speed
It is’ t Pegasis. It does not need
Sand. Desert. Camels. Bare feet.
Here is Palestine. Not Parnassus.
Yes, people went. For what? Why did?
Olympus bends it’s neck for others
For climbers. If they get…
Not Moses. Yet…

                *****
We were working in teams and changed our shifts. He were really short of
personnel. During the war, less then one third of staff left here. Most of doctors
and nurses left Grozny before the war. Right before the military actions,
Alan had personally fired all his young nurses. Many wanted to stay. They
asked “How are going to deal without us?”. Aslan answered the war was not
a place for women. I joined the team of Aslan and Sergey. For several days,
Alsan was scrutinizing me, then got used to. Sergey was working without any
visible effort. While operating, he enjoyed to share a talk or was telling jokes,
when his hands were making the knots. He felt at home in the abdomen.
I liked watching him revising the abdomen. For a while, he stopped
talking and shut his eyes. It seemed his fingers obtained the highest sensitivity
in the process. His right hand was quickly searching the inside of his patient.
He was fast in scanning any wound. In a moment, he could find a wound tract
and then began tracing it like a sniffer dog. His working capacity was marvelous.
“But we are not afraid of work”, he used to say.
His anastomosises did not fall apart, and the wounds he healed never maturated.
He succeeded in everything. People like him are called favorites of
Fortune, the darling ones. But then, why not have the ones like him in favorites?
If I were the fortune, I would surely favored and spoiled them. There
was something of a hussar about him, something reckless. Most of us were
just walking, while he acted as though he was riding a horse. Or rather galloping
over the ground.
I was surprised to know Sergey was working as a neurosurgeon in last 10
years and was not dealing with the abdominal surgery. Still more was I shocked
to know Sergey had passed through the severe personal tragedy, when his wife
became an alcoholic. Sergey was trying to cure her, but in vain. They had divorced
in the end. She did not want to leave their children to him. Sergey had
to go the court to deprive her of parent rights. It took several court sessions.
Our court is not eager to leave children for their father, but Sergey won the
case. Now his children are with his parents in a stanitsa. He has brought them
there before the war. “So, our Sergey is free”, finished Fatime and gave me a
telling look.
                *****
On Epiphany day, the militaries did us a gift – at last, they installed a mobile
bathroom and laundry in one and cut it into our water supply system. Now
we could enjoy a hot shower. Our friend Mikhail, a military doctor, came by
a helicopter. He took the casualties from us, and brought us some presents: a
Japanese TV working from the batteries and some packs of polyvitamins, to
save us from scorbutus and rachitis, as he said. Fatima and me got a shampoo.
“Camomile”, I read on the label and showered Mikhail with kisses.

I doubted if the TV will show anything at all, because Grozny TV centre
had been demolished, but Mikhail said their TV was capturing the signal from
Mozdok and so should ours if an outdoor antenna will be available.
He was right. I turned the TV on and started watching. Dystrophic
models were doing a cat-walk. Much less weight, than even federal soldiers.
Their looks were aggressive. But why should they smile? I switched the
channel. Happy-looking, bright girls were dancing cancan. The music was
playing. Everyone was happy. They did not care about us. I clicked the switch.
A world famous opera singer, who was not less famous as a human right activist,
was shaking hands with the main military criminal and called him a
friend. “My friend, Boris Nikolayevitch”. His hand was red with blood. Blood
was covering the opera singer’s hand, too, the blood was at the TV screen,
some drops spilled on the floor and made a pool. Blood. Blood everywhere. I
shut my eyes. I did not want to see that.
Sergey entered the doctor’s room.
-How is that Japanese marvel? Captures Mozdok signal? But what’s this?
He stuck his finger in the red liquid, sniffed and licked it.
- Who was that idiot who put the ketchup on the TV? Everything is
shaking here! Wasted the ketchup, caked the screen…
He took a piece of gauze and wiped the screen dry.
                *****
Mail was not working in Grozny. I wrote to Mama to tell her how Aunt Zoya
died and how I managed to bury her. My second letter was to Yulia. I asked
her to write a request for a holiday without pay, on my behalf, and to bring it
to our Personnel Department. I handed my letters to Mikhail, when he arrived
to Grozny to pick up next group of casualties. He dropped our letters
into the mailbox in Mozdok.
                *****
They entered like a storm. From their machine guns, started shooting the walls
of the preoperational room. Dragged his wounded straight into the operational
room and put him on a free table. It was their luck there was one.
-Stay where you are! Don’t move!
It came to my mind the wounded one should be some well-known field
commander, probably the Khattabov in person. One of the modjaheds pushed
Sergey’s back with the gunpoint and commanded:
-Start the operation! Now!
- I cannot do without the anesthesia, - replied Sergey in a dull voice.
- Who gives the anesthesia here?
- I am an anestesist, - I said and immediately felt an unpleasant cold of
metal between my shoulder-blades.
- Faster! – cried the modjahed.
Fatima had already enters the vein and measured the blood pressure. It
was normal.
-Are you an allergic? – I did my usual question.
-Shut up! – shouted the militant, as though I was trying to inquire a military
secret. A location of their base, for instance.
And there started a mystic act called an initial narcosis. Militant crowded
around me and were watching unconsciously like enchanted ones. A moment
before, their commander had a clear consciousness and was giving orders to
them. And now he is sleeping. The pacient has an excellent anatomy,
long neck,large mouth and good teeth. The intubation should not be a problem.
Why are my hands shaking, then? Laryngoscope blade is rolling on the front teeth
of the Chechen. But it went smoothly. X-ray assistant made a radiography of
his left shin.
Sergey removed the bandages and we saw a wound. I understood we
would hardly be able to save the extremity. And we didn’t have time to get a
patient’s agreement to be operated. But he had been in his conscious. He
would wake up, find he has no leg any more, give a command to his militants,
and they would shoot us. Sergey would be the first, as he will make amputating.
I went frozen. I realized how precious was Sergey to me. I don’t want
see them killing him. Oh Lord, show Your grace, let us die together.
Aslan rushed into the operation room.
- Masha, go away. I will be dealing with the anestesia!
Sergey threw a thankful look at him and said quietly:
-Masha, leave the room.
- Shut up! – shouted the mojahed again.
It took Aslan a moment to estimate the situation.
- The wound is severe. We will hardly save his keg. Can you see? – he addressed
mojaheds. – As the patient is sleeping and we did not have any time
to ask him, you will have to decide shall we do the amputation or shall we
not.
Bravo, Aslam laid the responsibility on the modjaheds. That took them
aback. Evidently, they were not ready to take the decision. They got used to
submission. I realized they were afraid of their commander, not less than we
did. When he would wake up, he would make them responsible. They exchanged
the views.
-Can you wake him up? – addressed one of them to Aslan. – To ask him…
-Yes, I can. I can do anything – answered Aslan in a humble voice. – But
will your commander like to be woken up in the middle of his own operation?
They realized he wouldn’t. But what was there to be done? Aslan made a
theatrical pause and threw in his suggestion:
- We will invite our best traumatic surgeon to know his opinion. Masha,
please go and wake Ivan up.
I rushed out of the room and stuck my breast against the muzzle of a machine
gun. “Halt!” Oh, but how many of militants are here?
-I am to bring a traumatic surgeon, - I explained.
-I will follow you, - replied the modjahed.
Ivan was sleeping deeply in the doctor’s room of trauma department. I
tried to wake him up:
- Ivan Petrovich, wake up, please. You have to go to the operation…
-It’s not my shift, - he replied reasonably and turned to other side.
- It’s very important, urgent. Aslan has sent me.
-Okay, - he said and snored again.
I decided to pour some cold water over him and went to the sink.
Meanwhile, the modjahed burst a quick squirt over Ivan’s head.
-Well, you talked me into – said Ivan and stood up. He went to the sink,
splashed some cold water in the face and gave an angry snort:
-Seems like we’ve been taken to hostage, haven’t we?
- Seems so, - I replied.
Ivan washed himself and entered the operation room. An apron on his
belly. Hands lifted. Fingers are wide apart. The nurse can hardy put maximum
size gloves on them. He is formidable. He is studying the X-ray picture and
shaking his head. Speaks nothing. Militants are silent, too. Waiting.
- The wound is severe. The shin bone is crushed into small pieces, - said
Ivan. – Very small ones, - he added to make them believe. – Yet, I will attempt
an osteosynthesis. Sergey has revised the wound. We are lucky the shinbone
artery is not damaged.
The operation lasted for four hours, Ivan put a plaster at the end. The patient
woke up. Militants put him on the trolley and rolled out of the room. Oh,
the danger is over…
                *****
By the late February, there had been almost no civilians in Grozny. Everyone
who could go away, left the city.
In a night bombardment, a shell hit a neurology department in the therapeutic
building and launched a fire. It was extinguished very fast and there
were no serious injuries. Hospital management decided to evacuate the hospital
personnel in mountains, where we were to deploy a field hospital.
Especially because military actions were shifting to mountains, and it was clear
that after the snow thawing, closer to summer, the main seat of war would be
there.
We had prepared properly. We sent casualties to Mozdok and boxed all
our equipment and medical supplies. Then we were placed into the cars, the
cars were coupled to APCs, and they began their slow ride along the snow-covered
road. I happened to share the car with Sergey. He loaded it all with boxes
containing surgical instruments and we hardly could settle ourselves at a rear
bench…
The location was stunningly beautiful. Solemn grandiose mountains were
puzzling and contempt watching us. The contour of their tops was drawing
an elaborated cut line against the bright blue sky. The mountains along the
road were covered with a forest of very tall furs and pines. They, in their turn,
were heaped with snow. Everything was shining, sparkling, shimmering,
blinding. My eyes had forgotten what a bright light was and were narrowing
like those of a mole. The landscape changed with every new turn. I liked that
we were not speeding and I had time to enjoy each detail. From hell, I came
to paradise. For the first time in two months, I was feeling absolutely safe.
Permanent stress went off. My muscles relaxed. My head was dizzying pleasantly.
Fresh air intoxicated. Each breath in was a pleasure. While working indoors,
I completely forgot what fresh air was like. I kept breathing and did not
notice when I fell asleep.
                *****
Somebody was kissing my face, and that woke me up. I thought I was
dreaming and I closed my eyes tightly. I did not want to wake up. Warm and
soft lips were touching my cheeks and my neck. Wet tongue was licking my
skin, as though it was plombieres, the best ice cream ever. I was trying to lie
motionless. To hold my breath. Then, I heard a hot whisper straight in my
ear: “Mashenka, sorry to wake you up. You were sleeping so sweetly”. I opened
my eyes and saw Sergey. So close, so very close…Warm wave flew over me. He
hugged me and pressed me tightly to his breast. Our hand entwined. He took
my hand, passed it over his face, brought up to his eyes. “Mashenka, your
hands are so beautiful…Fragile fingers, but so skillful”. He began kissing my
palms, then kissed each finger. Then bit my little finger, took it to his mouth
and started sucking pleasantly, as though it was a lollipop. I was stroking his
hair. At the end, our lips met and his tongue entered my mouth. I gasped with
bliss. His hand went under my sweater and began caressing my belly. In one
move, he opened the ever-sticking zip at my jeans. His hand was hot, as
though he was running a high temperature. His fingers were trembling slightly.
He was very tender, though a bit cautious. “Masha, my precious treasure. I
want you. I am crazy about you”. He was gasping “When on earth shall we
arrive? Going slow as a turtle”.
                *****
We stopped at the outskirts of the village. Sergey helped me to walk out. “Wait
here, I am coming back soon”. He ran to a house. I was standing there, waiting
for him. An approaching bliss crept me. Not a hope, which might be in vain.
Not a dream which might not come true. Not an expectation which might
cheat. The knowing. Hundred percent knowing. Absolute. I knew now I
would get what I want, for the very first time in my life. The one I have been
wanted all my life. And even more than that. I was envious to myself.
A landlady, aged Chehcen woman in a black scarf, came to Sergey. He said something
to her, and she nodded. He gave her money. She nodded again in agreement.
Clearly, the sum was even larger than she had expected. I saw Sergey
running back. He approached me and took me by my shoulders “Let’s go. We
will be staying at male rooms. I told her you are my wife”.
As it is the custom with Muslims, any Chechen house is divided into two
parts, – male rooms, where women are not allowed, and female ones. We entered
male rooms, where no one lived now. There was no bed there. Mattresses
and fresh linen lied straight on the floor. Sergey locked the room from inside
and left the key in the keyhole.
We rushed to each other. We were hugging, kissing, undressing, all at
once. We were throwing our clothes all over the room. We were in extreme
hurry, as though short of time. Our naked bodies entwined. His hands, strong
and tender, are passing over my stomach. His lips are kissing my breast. My
skin is over-sensitive. Every inch of me is an erogenic zone now. Each touch
of his is a delight. Unthinkable, unimaginable. Something beyond any limit.
I can feel him in me. Inside. I guess all his wishes and make them true. I foresee
his movements and respond to them
He is improvising. A mystic dance. He is going faster, then slower. He
pushes and then rotates. We are rolling on the floor, changing places and postures,
dissolving in each other. I am up, next moment I am down. I am
winding around him, like a liana. My body has a flexibility of snake.
Epithelium is no more a barrier, a border segregating me and him.
I don’t know whether it is day or night, I cannot feel time and space, and
even myself. I am weightless. The Earth does not attract me any more. Strong
pushes from inside lift me to the sky. Like a ball. I do not realize anything. I
do not think of anything, My mind has gone. A priestess of love temple has
woken in me. The Temple of Aphrodite. There they taught us the art of
making slaves from emperors. I know it and I am a virtuoso. No words. Only
sounds. Only vowels. Only music. A melody. It is beautiful The rhythm. The
tempo…It is going faster and faster. High vibrations, almost ultrasonic. And
a weak spasm…Seryozha-a-a-a!
                *****
Someone knocked at the door. Sergey wrapped himself in the sheet and was
now looking like a Roman patrician. That was the landlady – she brought us
sheep cheese, lavash and milk. The said she made a bath for us.
Chechen bath was almost like the Russian one. Sergey took a wisp of bast.
Rubbed me, tenderly and cautiously. Then squatted in front of me, hugged
me and looked up.
-Mashenka, you are such a beauty. What a slender waist. Unbelievably
slender – his hand slipped on my soaped bosom. – Just a miracle. I cannot realize
how can it contain your stomach, bowels, womb?
I laughed:
-They are all there and are functioning excellently.
-Don’t have any doubt. Inspected it personally, from inside. – he smiled
and, with a scoop, poured some water on me. – I wish I were an artist to paint
you. Oh no, a sculptor. An artist will not be able to reproduce dimensions. To
take a piece of marble. Not that ice cold, white, but slightly pink one. Turn the
masterpiece of nature into the masterpiece of art. Capture in centuries. Make
you immortal, make your beauty imperishable… But I am not a sculptor,
Masha, I even don’t have a camera…- there was some annoy in his voice. – But
I am a poet. And I will write the most beautiful poem for you. The best love
poem ever. And not because I am the best poet in the world. But because I love
you as no else in the world…
We rushed out of the bath and jumped in the snow. Miriads of tiny needles
burned our skin. The night was very dark and moonless. Indifferent
shaggy bright stars were watching us. Soon I fell cold and ran back to the
bath, but Sergey had his time while rubbing himself with a snow. I was worrying
as he might catch a cold.
                *****
A knock on the door woke us up. There was already a day behind the window.
That was the landlady: she brought us fired eggs, lavash and milk. We were enjoying
our breakfast, when there came one more knock. I heard Aslan talking:
- Sergey, Masha. We have a sheep cut for us. Do come, we are going to
make a shashlyk
Sergey slightly opened the door:
- Thank you, Aslan, but we won’t. Please bring us two portions when it
will be ready.
-Won’t Aslan get angry? – I asked anxiously
-On no, he won’t. He just loves to make a shashlyk
- And you?
- And I just love to eat it.
- And I just love you. All of you, for head to toe. Each cell of your body.
Every wrinkle at your forehead. Every hair at you breast. I like your smell. To
me, your body is sacred. I am short of words…My mother tongue fails to help
me. For the first time ever. In school, I was doing well in Russian.
I will spend years to study you. Your features. Your individual reactions.
Your especially sensitive places. My hands. My fingers. My finger-tips.
Receptors at the tips. Sensitive ones. Your body is in my hands. Like a musical
instrument. I play it. A tune is beautiful, the tune of love. I will join some
training course for massage. I will treat you like a Japanese geisha does.
Making your wishes, fancies and whims to come true. Will do Eastern dancing
in front of you. I like dancing. And…And… And I will make a borstch for
you.
Sergey began purring like a cat.
Knock again. It is Aslan carrying shashlyks, lavash and a bottle of dry
wine.
-Here you are. I am happy for you.
We could not be full with each other. We were astonished by ourselves
“Mashenka, you are my lottery prize. The biggest prize. My good luck. My
reward. Cannot understand only, what for? What have I done to get one? What
is happening to me? The more I talk to you, the more I feel like talking. The
more I looking at you, the more I feel like looking. The more I have you, the
more I feel like having. What have you done to me? You are my addiction.
Should someone take you away from me, I will die with abstinence”.
In his hands, I was thinning like a candle. Melting like a wax. Was losing
my shape. Was changing my structure. He was creating a different Masha.
More perfect. Filled with love. I was becoming a Goddess.
                *****
On the third day, we dragged ourselves out at last.
There was a deep snow in the forest, and we were walking along the road.
Sergey made plans for the future. Before the war, he managed to sell his
flat in Grozny. For nothing, of course.
In a city, this money cannot buy anything at all. We will have to start from
scratch. Rent a flat. He was grieving he would not be able to provide a decent
level for me.
I could hardly understand what was happening. To marry him? Well, but
I just will not survive this, I will die from happiness. I did not fell like thinking
of the future. I lived to the present.
- Let’s discuss it later. We will go to your parents, you children will meet
me and, if they will accept me, we will get married. I don’ t want to be a
strange woman for them. I want to become their mother.
- Oh Mashenka, my simple heart! Children…They read too many fairy
tales. Of course, strange woman is always wicked there. It is a stereotype
formed in their mind. And then, they are teenagers. Jealous, touchy and sharp.
Like hedgehog. They are fighting between themselves, are jealous of me.
Daddy’s kids.
- But is Daddy jealous?
- For sure! And I wish I were a Muslim
- Why?
- Because I would cover you with a veil, locked in the flat, would never let
you go out and you would make a pork borsch for me.
-Very appropriate meals for a Muslim.
- But my favourite one.
-But I want to go to work. I don’t expect any problems in finding one.
Every large hospital wants an anaesthesist.
- We will be working together, then. We are so good at that. In everything,
in fact…- he added. – Everything will be as you will wish. You see, how
easy is to talk me into. With only one exception. A very strong one. Only day
work. No night shifts. All your nights will be mine…But don’t you think we
have been walking for very long? – he took my hand. – Oh, but you are cold!
I want to warm you up I want..
I want, I want – mountain echo was reverberating. Falling into the snow,
we rushed to our hut at the village outskirts
                *****
Angel: no one can say now who exactly fired that fateful shell.
Federal army might not been warned that the municipal hospital had been
evacuated to the mountains, and their reconnaissance concluded the militants
were in the village.
Or the militants might notice the APCs and decide the army was
preparing to an unexpected attack. Who knows?
I could clearly see disgusting gloating smile at the face of the Devil.
The war is his festival. He had won that time. He meticulously calculated
the trajectory knowing that I would not be able to change it.
The shell flew exactly in the room where Masha and Sergey were hugging
tightly in a deep sleep.
They died instantly. In sleep. Their bodies broke to pieces and then
blended.
I took the precious soul of Masha in my hands, tenderly and cautiously,
and flew straight to the Paradise.
And there, on Earth, thrown away by the air-blast, opened at the last page,
Sergey’s notebook was laying in the snow and blood…
…It’s hard to throw us off saddle.
The hose was named into Pegasus
Below devils fly off handle,
The mortal comes for us as mother
It’s no differ riding, flying.
We made the World a little brightly.
A little kinder, a little better.
For us star Altair is shining
It’s hard to throw us off saddle.
Note written by Sergey’s hand: Altair star, - alpha of Aquila, 1st degree of the
Aquarius. The star of pioneers and seekers, gives a difficult destiny. Believed
to be the star of Russia.