The pilot s funeral

Перевод рассказа "Похороны летчика"


Sveta's father passed away. He had recently turned 100. Sveta and I with my wife work at the same company. The funeral service was held in a Russian Orthodox church on Long Island, where we arrived a bit late. Outside stood a large African American man whose mannerisms reminded me of a Russian. He pointed out where to park and which door to use. Perhaps he too was Orthodox.

We weren’t the last to arrive—people were still coming in. A quiet woman greeted everyone with compassion, guiding them to their places and handing each person a candle. The priest had an intelligent-looking face and a voice uncharacteristic for such settings. It lacked the mechanical intonations typical of recited liturgical texts. At least, it didn’t sound like anything I had heard before.

About forty people gathered. Everyone stood along the walls with lit candles, and I could see them well from where I stood. Only one woman crossed herself during the service. Another tried to follow suit but soon gave up. The rest stood motionless. Not surprising— only few of us were Orthodox. Most were Jewish, and the head of our design department is Puerto Rican, which likely makes her Catholic. Most women, including my wife, had uncovered heads. I only realized this when I saw the covered heads of the deceased’s daughter and granddaughter, and a few other women, including our boss, and remembered that in church that’s the proper way. I could have told my wife before we entered. But I missed the chance, and now it was too late—and awkward—to bring it up.

The service lasted about an hour. Finally, the priest indicated that the time for farewells had come. The deceased, at 100 years old, looked very well. I’d like to look that good when my time comes. His face bore no signs of illness or suffering. It looked peaceful and serene. Next to him stood a photo where he sat in a chair, smiling happily, surrounded by flower baskets like a storefront display. Clearly, it was from his recent centennial celebration, taken by a professional.

His daughter and then his granddaughter bent over him, kissing his face and hands, gently stroking him. Both were crying. Their noses were red and swollen. The son-in-law—a bald, stocky man—kissed him too, though on the wreath.

Then someone said that those who wished could go to the cemetery, and afterward to a caf; to honor his memory. I was ready, but my wife and another colleague shook their heads at my questioning glance. So we headed back to work.

Well, my wife and the others were closer to Sveta than I was. They knew best.

The church, the priest, and the neighborhood all seemed somewhat strange to me. The church building wasn’t the standard Russian classical type—it sprawled down a hill with many steps and landings. The dome was modest and didn’t dominate the surroundings. As I said, the priest looked almost too intelligent. With his appearance, he seemed more like someone who worked at a university. The houses in the area were over a hundred years old, judging by the style “wedding cake”—multi-tiered pastel mansions lavishly decorated with intricate wooden trim resembling piped icing. In such houses, front doors are unusually wide, rooms spacious, but inside there’s an invisible divide between the owners’ zone and the servants’—narrow doors and staircases, small rooms. They don’t build like that anymore. Along the way, I didn’t see a single house like those new Russians in America usually build. Their houses stand out immediately. But the Orthodox must live around here, because the church is supported by parishioner donations, and it didn’t look poor.

And so it turned out, though the Russians here were a different kind. I found online that the church was built in the 1930s with funds from a certain Russian prince, and the neighborhood was already considered Russian back then. The priest, may be a local, could very well be combining his service with another job—perhaps even teaching at a university. And since he may lack practice, he’s learning the funeral rite along with us, discovering its richness and meaning for himself.

I knew the deceased only by hearsay. Sveta often shared stories about her parents with the women at work, and my wife would relay them to me.

After the death of Sveta’s mother about ten years ago, her father was placed in a senior day center—locally Russians referred to as a “kindergarten.” There, elderly folks socialize, play games, dance, go on excursions, get fed, and even take dinner home.

He found a buddy there, even older than him. That friend is still alive, now 102. One New Year’s, they brought in a bottle of cognac to celebrate. They were caught under the table while pouring it. The scandal was enormous. Both were expelled from the center, which put Sveta’s family in a tough spot—everyone in the family works. They had to set up surveillance cameras at home and monitor the old man remotely while working to reinstate his membership at the center.

The “kindergarten” had its own dramas—love triangles, jealousy, intrigue. Two old ladies fought over him. One wrote him poems, but he was indifferent, and she suffered. One time, a group of Russian women caused a scandal on the shuttle bus that brought them home. They demanded the driver change the route to suit them, ignoring that routes are company-set. They allegedly made racist remarks, prompting the driver to refuse to serve them anymore. His colleagues backed him. The dispute dragged on, and during that time the involved elderly Russians had to stay home. The issue was that the proud ladies refused to apologize.

When they brought up plans for a restaurant celebration for his 100th birthday, he said he wasn’t in the mood this year. Maybe next year, just a simple kitchen gathering now. They replied:

—But it’s a jubilee!

—True enough. All right, let’s do it your way. I might not make it to the next one.

Sveta’s stories were often told with humor: “Guess what my dad did again in his old age!” But behind the jokes was clear pride. Like a grandmother telling childless friends about her mischievous grandchild.

And now they were saying goodbye with true grief. You could see they were really orphaned. They lost something I and my children never had—a united three-generation family living in love and harmony under one roof, in one place, for many years. What a blessing for a child to grow up in such a home! There’s always someone to comfort you when others scold you, feed you a hot pancake off the pan, tuck you in, give you money for a holiday.

Our parents lived, aged, and died so far away that our visiting them was never even discussed. They never rocked our children, never sang them lullabies. Our kids left home as soon as they could. So I watched this farewell scene, figuratively speaking, with my mouth open—like a poor child gazing at toys in a fancy store window. He knows he’ll never play with them. That’s how I know—no one will say goodbye to me like that.

The mentioned day center isn’t cheap. Not everyone can afford it. My wife and I will never get in. We just don’t have that kind of income. But some Russian seniors, like Sveta’s father, go there for free. To do that, you must not only be low-income, but low-income in a very particular way. It turns out the best fit are those who arrived in the U.S. at an advanced age as refugees. Most Russian-speaking immigrants came this way in the 70s–90s, claiming to flee Soviet anti-Semitism. They now make up the bulk of such centers.

Sveta’s family came in the early ’90s. They got refugee status thanks to her husband—the only Jew in the family. Refugee status was granted to nearly all Soviet Jews, who often brought along non-Jewish spouses, kids, and parents. Sveta’s husband immediately got a job in IT. They bought a house in a good area of Long Island. It was easier then than now. The Jewish organization NYANA helped Sveta get a job as a drafter, even though she had no technical education—she had graduated from a conservatory in violin. But she caught on, learned the ropes, and now earns a decent living.

Even though the family was doing well by immigrant standards, her parents’ refugee status remained. They didn’t work due to age and received welfare, then SSI. A social worker came by to clean, shop, feed, and wash dishes. Theoretically, the parents could even “rent” a room from their daughter, with the state covering rent. I don’t know if they did that—but I know it happens. Every little bit helps. No matter how much you earn, money is never enough.

All of Sveta’s childhood, youth, and much of her parents’ lives were spent in military garrisons. Her father was a pilot, starting in the war. Later, he served in strategic aviation. He must’ve been very familiar with the U.S.—at least, with the targets for nuclear strikes. His plane carried missiles for that purpose. Quite possibly, Long Island—with that very church—was on his target list, should the order ever come.

Though refugee status was given to any Jew and their family, there was still a formal selection process. I know this because another strategic aviation pilot—a lieutenant colonel—told me how he failed.

His wife was Jewish; he himself was Russian. In the early ’90s she planned to emigrate to America, where her mother and sisters with their families had already relocated, and persuaded her husband to go too.

At the interview at the Moscow embassy, the vice;consul asked him:

- Your application says that in such;and;such a year you joined the Communist Party. Why did you do that?

Beforehand, people from the Jewish organization NYANA had instructed everyone on how to answer such tricky questions properly.

Treating that instruction too casually, he answered simply:

- How else could I have obtained clearance to fly? I joined the Communist Party because I needed a security clearance.

- Clearance for what?

- For classified documentation.

- What classified documentation?

- Maps, plans. Everything was secret with us; it was kept in a special unit.

- So for all the years of your service you had access to state secrets?

- It couldn’t have been otherwise.

- And you rose from lieutenant to lieutenant;colonel. Can it be said that your service was successful?

- Yes, it seems so.

- Then you have no reason to flee your country. You lived in accord with the government you served, received honors, earned a decent pension. It appears that you are lying when you claim you need asylum in the US because you are persecuted back home.

If he had been Jewish, he would have had one more argument:

- Anti;Semites wouldn’t let me advance; they poisoned my whole life!

But a Soviet pilot could not be Jewish. Jews were not admitted to the flight schools. This was one manifestation of the state anti;Semitism.

And so he was denied refugee status.

After dramatic scenes, they made the difficult decision: his wife with their three sons went to America, while he stayed behind in Russia for two more long years to process his emigration under the family reunification program. To do that, those who invited him agreed to take responsibility for providing for him and paying for any medical care when needed. He was no longer entitled to any help from the state.

In America, his family drew welfare, food stamps, lived in subsidized housing, and were doing secret illegal work on the side. All in all, they lived fairly well, surrounded by familiar household goods which were shipped over in a container: furniture, carpets, dishes, all stuff that had been acquired.

When he came over, he discovered he was the only one in the family not bringing in free money. Moreover, he could expect no American pension. Because of this, his relatives and acquaintances, it seems, did not respect him, thinking him foolish—not without reason. He had to look for work on the street, though he had no skills for almost anything.

I met him at a street illegal "job exchange". He had the nickname “Papa Carlo.” We were both hired for a construction job, and from him I heard many stories: about combat duty, flights over tundra and ocean, love intrigues in polar garrisons, carousing on business trips. That was life!

Papa Carlo was a worthless construction laborer—forever in the category of unskilled workers. He had no interest in the construction trade. Jobs that suit such people best are monotony: digging trenches or endlessly shovel gravel into concrete mixers. With him I tied rebar in New York’s icy December drizzle, with wet hands and feet, preparing the slab over a subterranean fuel tank in Harlem.

His life with his sons in America didn’t go smoothly either. The eldest son—a computer specialist, quite successful—was then accused of rape. According to his father, there was no rape in the strict sense. The sex was consensual. The son had gotten used to meeting women for sex via matrimonial ads in newspapers. At first, he was quite successful. But then he encountered a religious Jewish woman who, after sleeping with him in advance, realized that he had no intention of marriage whatsoever. And she pressed charges. Jewish attorneys proved in court that the sex had been by deception, and therefore against the will of the victim, who would never have consented had she known his true intentions. The unfortunate son, lightly and carelessly, didn’t hire a lawyer in this deeply dubious case, and ended up telling the court things that later were used against him.

The youngest son, finishing school here in America, became addicted to drugs. Papa Carlo tried to raise him in strict army discipline, with a strap. The kid reported the abuse to the police. Family court issued an order forbidding Papa Carlo from coming within ten feet of his son. That did not stop the father from bringing him to work with us at the construction site, along with the middle son. The three of them worked together for some time—until we all ended up unpaid.

The middle son was a good kid—smart, energetic, determined. But the problem was he seemed to despise his father. He treated him roughly, condescendingly, in front of others. I didn’t like him for that.

At that time, I was forty-six, Papa Carlo was nearly sixty, and now almost thirty years have passed since then. Is he still alive now? For some reason I feel he is not. Almost all the people I knew on construction sites—whoever you ask—are dead, even those younger than I was. And to say: construction work isn’t an office. Sometimes I was so tired my heart would ache.

Poor Papa Carlo! Is this the kind of life in old age he dreamed of, flying a strategic bomber under the northern lights?

And maybe, if then, at the vice-consul’s question about why he joined the Communist Party, he had answered:

- I was forced to join the Party, because if I hadn’t – the KGB would have shot me, and sent my whole family to the camps...

…then he would have gotten a refugee visa and perhaps everything would have turned out differently. Perhaps he would now be going to that same day care center.

Two pilots — two destinies.


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http://proza.ru/2025/09/18/1512