The Gate of Moment Part One

Chapter 1

– "What are you thinking about?" someone asked Mark. But Mark didn't answer; he was staring at a point that was growing into a large black hole, surrounded by a raging ocean that filled the remaining space, the darkening sky. "Here they are, the gates!" thought Mark. "The name is written above: 'Moment.' Here, two paths collide – the past and the future."

Again, he heard the voice:
– "Enter these gates, my friend, and the question of everything: 'Do you want this again and again, countless times?' will weigh heavily on all your actions. If you say 'yes' to joy, then you must also say 'yes' to all sorrows. Everything is connected and intertwined..."

Mark entered this space. He winced from pain – not physical, but emotional shock. His memory began to crumble into unorganized details. Visions flashed before him: lacy stockings, young plump behinds, feasts with abundant food and envious faces. Luxurious cars with proud owners, people rushing to work with unclear purpose, passionate business faces glued to mobile phones; restaurant tables with people dazed by their own existence. Quarrels, scandals, doll-like women's legs, and a sick sexual passion turning into hatred. Endless black men's suits and constant meetings. Amidst it all, the passion for creativity that hunted him all his life, like an addict.

"Again! It's probably just frayed nerves," Mark thought and looked around. There was no one around. Only a gentle wind caressed his forehead and hair like a mother's hands in the distant world when he was born.

When he was born, the great sadist Joseph Stalin was still alive. The war with another tyrant, Adolf Hitler, had ended a few years earlier. Incidentally, Mark's father was also named Joseph. Likewise, the respected stepfather of Jesus Christ was named Joseph, and both were Jews.

But Mark was ashamed of his Jewish heritage in that distant world where he once lived. Perhaps he was shamed for it. But here, now, he found it interesting and smirked, feeling close to the truth.

However, he was only half-Jewish. His mother was Orthodox and met his father, a young man returning from the front after Germany's defeat. Those were romantic postwar years when people sincerely believed in the invincibility of communism and its leaders. When the air was filled with the sound of beautiful tango, young people full of hopes and dreams fell in love, went to concerts, built families, fought for truth, sacrificed their youth for something important, and believed.

The country "came alive and bubbled with spring bloom." Yet people understood these were just slogans but believed "that's how it should be." Perhaps it was true: flowers, tango, and love; but the whole spring garden grew only on the surface – like the last hair sprouting on a smoldering corpse. The smell and stench were felt by all, but they refused to believe love could be shattered by poverty, faith broken by sadistic communists, and some never returned from the front. Somewhere, a ruined fate, or arrest, or execution. Applause for the communist messiah didn't help. The "hair" of official happiness thinned and fell out.

The country collapsed! It knelt! Then, with pain and shame, it began building a new, supposedly humane society. But all this was yet to come!

In those postwar times, his young parents decided whether Mark should be. Despite their higher education, they were in need, like the mighty Soviet people. The decision was "not to be," meaning to poison him with quinine. But neither they nor Hamlet could control this. From above, it was decided otherwise. His soul entered the body they lovingly nurtured.

Here he was, a two-year-old, running around a school's courtyard in a small provincial town they then lived in. It was autumn; he collected golden and red maple leaves. For this newly awakened sense of beauty, he paid immediately. A large German shepherd roamed nearby, glancing at him with displeasure. Absorbed in his creativity, he ignored her. As he bent for another leaf, there was a growl and bark. The rainy weather had spoiled her mood, or she disliked his plump rear turned toward her. She was of high pedigree. The shepherd lunged at him, biting his buttocks and reaching for his throat. Mark lay silently on the wet ground, surrendering to God and her. Feeling sharp pain, he screamed. The owner rushed out, initially unaware of the situation, as her body, twice Mark's size, covered him entirely. The owner pulled the dog away, leaving Mark only frightened.

"What did I do to her?" he pondered. "Perhaps I got carried away with my high ideas, forgetting others, the unfortunate and oppressed." In any case, he doubted the saying "a dog is man's friend." Perhaps people felt a lack of human friends. Everything depends on how one treats another being.

His mother once brought home a two-month-old puppy just separated from a shepherd's teats. It whimpered all night, and she rocked it in her arms like an infant, wrapped in baby clothes. Mark asked why it cried. She said it missed its mother. Soon they ran around the schoolyard together. Little Mark ran, and the puppy playfully bit his heels. Meanwhile, his mother made pancakes, and the aroma drew them both to the pan. After eating, they ran back to their games. At night, when Mark was usually bathed, the puppy sat nearby, grinning as Mark splashed displeasedly. In the morning, they ran to the yard, where a large apricot tree grew, barking and yelling for the stout neighbor to shake it. Sweet fruits fell like hail, breaking on their heads.

Once, before bed, his mother read Nosov's humorous stories to Mark. He laughed so hard he fell off the bed. It was his first encounter with real humor. The puppy was startled and jumped to a distant corner, usually sleeping under the bed. More surprised than scared: what was Mark so happy about, even without him?

Years later, when they lived in another city, Mark's father visited Andijan, where they once lived, to see friends. In a yard, he saw Barsik – Mark's beloved puppy. (They had to leave him behind when relocating.) But now he was a formidable wolfhound. The father didn’t recognize him. The dog lived with Joseph’s friends. Bars looked at the father and barked threateningly. Then he fell silent, looked again with sad eyes, turned, and left. That day, he didn't return.

Bars, with his mischievous face and smiling eyes, remained in Mark's memory as his first loyal friend. He had no other friends in that small town. Though there were peers he fought with, misbehaved, and spent the only happy days of his life.

Andijan, where they lived, was a green, sunny city with fertile land. The locals said if you ate a fruit and threw the seed on the ground, a tree would grow. It was true. Uzbek land was incredibly generous. Behind the city walls stretched vast fields growing watermelons and melons, their sweetness and aroma dissolving in the hot air. Around the fields were ravines and ditches with cool water. Beyond lay fruit orchards and small clay huts. The children roamed these fields all day, smashing watermelons with their feet and washing faces with sweet nectar, or diving into the cool ditch waters with squeals like a troop of monkeys.

Aside from its sunny hospitality and rich land, Andijan wasn’t much different from other provincial towns in the Soviet Union, with its endless local committees and party offices. These party offices systematically purged Soviet communists and resolved vital issues of the decaying state. Mark's father, like other party members, hysterically feared these purges, reminiscent of the chemical cleansings by Soviet-Jewish underground traders. In such offices, they could cleanse all spiritual and physical aspects of a communist, sometimes leaving no trace.

Though the country was dotted with these party cells, youth, love, art, humor, dreams, and hopes flowed like a honey river, and no one could turn it back. Educated, young, beautiful people came from all over the vast country in search of a fresh, new life. The run-down province turned into an international town blooming with children and beautiful women. This was stimulated (as was everything else) by communist party policy, which, surprisingly, sometimes bore healthy fruit. Not everything was bad, especially since all communist morality consisted of commandments given to the prophet Moses, albeit with a small amendment: the prohibition on believing in the one who gave him those commandments.

This minor amendment perhaps destroyed communist dreams. However, communism might someday come to the world, but not as a dream crowned with blood-red roses, rather as a law of being, not set by us. "But does it matter what social formation we should live in?" Mark wondered. "Nietzsche is right – 'values'! – the eternal world lies in them."

Each detail from his past life cut his memory like a razor. "These 'values,'" Mark reasoned, "in whose environment I lived, gradually drowned and suffocated me, like in a swamp where one doesn't sink for minutes but for a lifetime."

Mark now saw his whole life in a moment. He was stirred by the novelty and freshness of these new feelings. His memory, recently wandering in strange mists, betraying him like a frivolous woman, now became clear and strict, diving into the past or future – hard to say, for "all things eternally return, and we with them," as Nietzsche claims. In any case, Mark saw everything, all details of his birth. No talk of schizophrenia. He sighed with relief.

He saw the tiny town and the house they lived in. A couch stood by the porch, where he lay, watching snow-white clouds gracefully float in the sunny sky. His mother, as always, cried; he asked why, and she admired his observance instead of answering. The reason was the same. The young father was carried away by some "very interesting woman," as he always put it, believing this love should be noted in heaven. What would reach there first – his love or her tears – was unknown. But intrigues and love adventures flowed in this small town. The communist dream was distant, but beautiful young women and tall witty men were near. Generous eastern sun rays aroused their curiosity, and southern nature wrapped all mysteries in a romantic veil.


Chapter 2

They lived then in a large green park housing the Vladimir Ilyich Lenin School, where Mark's father worked. The school's teachers lived nearby in similar homes for its employees. Some had beautiful private yards with tall oaks, maples, or fruit trees. In one of those lived the school director, Semen Rosenberg, a colleague and close friend of Mark's father. A handsome, educated man, he maintained strict discipline in school. Teachers and students feared him like fire and respected his fairness. In educational work, he strictly followed Soviet communist morality rules, the same laws gifted to Moses. But he violated one commandment, "Thou shalt not commit adultery," with taste, inventiveness, and systematically. He was proud of his sexual victories, like Napoleon strolling through the Moscow Kremlin, as were all his friends.

Rosenberg often visited Mark's father late, calling him for secret talks in the yard, groaning about the latest scandal with his wife who caught him in the teachers' room with someone; he loved instructing young interns behind closed doors. This time, after a pedagogical meeting, he was tired and forgot to close the door. His favorite pose, resembling a fish or crab, was how his wife found him with a young teacher. After his tales, Mark's father didn't just laugh – he moaned from choking fits, then neighed admirably like a young horse.

Such evening scenes often flashed before Mark's eyes sitting on the porch, admiring the starlit sky. The air was filled with aromatic eastern dishes prepared in neighboring teacher houses, evoking feelings of peace and safety. The dim electric light on grape leaves turned everything into something familiar and familial.

Through tall oaks, the sun, crimson from fatigue, peeked at the distant, cold, unknown west. In the morning, refreshed, it sprang from the other side, merry and happy, like the red communist posters covering Lenin District, or young Soviet faces hurrying to work with hope and plans. Among them, Mark's father – young, stately, long-legged, in pressed trousers and tie. He pulled Mark to kindergarten, posing for attractive women. Mark resisted like a small plump hippo, hindering his father's easy, swift glide among his beloved Soviet herd. In general, Mark disliked mornings, especially since kindergarten awaited punishment for previous day's mischief. But the worst punishment, which Mark feared most, long did not affect him. It involved stripping a guilty boy naked and ridiculing him before all children, including girls.

This "unique" method was often applied to a boy named Yevstigneyka (Mark even remembered his name), who had no parents. His only grandmother often appealed to the educators' Soviet conscience, but they patiently explained they had no other option. Yevstigneyka cried during the execution, while children jumped around him, trying to pinch his "peepee." Over time, Yevstigneyka grew worse, beating children sadistically.

Then came Mark's day of judgment. On that warm September morning, the sun peeked slyly from behind clouds, sometimes showing its full beauty. As always, on the way to kindergarten, his father greeted someone every ten meters. Mark tried hiding from his father's countless acquaintances, disliking greeting so many people, disturbing his peace.

When they arrived, his father didn’t leave immediately but hid behind a tree. He decided to find out why candies disappeared so quickly from home. Behind the tree, he watched as little Mark distributed candies to children politely seated in a row, awaiting the now familiar ritual. His father called him aside, gently explaining that kindness was a valuable trait few possessed, but there was a family budget Mark shouldn't disrupt. Mark didn't understand the second part, but liked the first. Fortunately, his father was a good educator and didn’t crush the sprouts of the future garden where Mark's soul would rest for long.

This sweet morning incident marked the start of a terrible day, involving a tragic encounter with a venomous scorpion, Mark, and the entire pedagogical staff of Lenin District Kindergarten №2.

His father left, and Mark immersed in games. Suddenly, a little girl screamed, playing in dirty sand by a clay wall. Everyone rushed over to see a green, huge scorpion crawling over the sandcastle she had been building since morning. It wasn't even green – more yellow, autumn-colored like pus. The scorpion's powerful tail twitched nervously, as if predicting dire pollutions, but overall its movements were smooth and confident. It knew its goal. A young teacher emerged, holding a pen with a sharp nib. She had just been writing a report for the kindergarten head, who couldn't write reports herself due to lack of education but was considered a strong leader.

Seeing the scorpion, the teacher admired its formidable size, rare to encounter such a giant. In another bout of eastern sycophancy, she decided to show it to her head, who, as usual, was delayed but soon expected at work. The scorpion sensed danger and prepared to fight. It froze, tensing its venomous muscles, and threateningly lunged at the attacker. The teacher furiously struck it with the pen, trying to impale it on the nib, while it deftly dodged, aiming its venomous dagger at her. Both were in ecstasy and happy: she with confidence in victory, and it with proximity to the life's enemy.

A blow landed near its tail. There was a crunch. Impaled on the nib, the scorpion writhed like a devilish muscle, trying to continue the fight. The ink pen with the impaled creature was placed on the high clay fence to prevent children from reaching it. They were strictly forbidden to approach the fence to preserve the magnificent sight for the "highly respected and awaited head." Yes, it was a splendid sight indeed! Crucified against the darkening sky, the scorpion, following its ancient, terrifying tribe's traditions, tried hitting its own head with its tail to end its suffering. But the nib in its back hindered this beautiful ancient ritual, tormenting it most.

Little Yevstigneyka gathered all the children and suggested stoning the crucified alien on the fence. The children obediently collected stones; Mark joined the majority but took only one. He stood silently, watching his enemy, while it convulsively tried to end itself. "The hatred I felt then," Mark recalled, "wasn't sincere. It was driven by societal inertia, which already controlled me. But how! How beautiful it was!" Mark admired the crucified scorpion. "There it is, Nietzsche's 'will to power.' And this little monster undoubtedly demonstrated it. Even if its power now lay only in managing its own life or death.

Born under Sagittarius, Mark possessed rare accuracy. His first throw hit the devil's head, easing its suffering. Like a razor, it sliced it off the fence, as if there had never been anything but the breeze and looming autumn clouds.

Quietly, in the distance, thunder rumbled. For the first time, Mark was captivated by the wonderful autumn scent mixed with the drizzle's dust. Due to the swift resolution, the children left, heads hung, unsatisfied with the spectacle. Soon, the teacher appeared with a group of educators, including the "highly awaited" head. Energetically gesturing, the happy teacher narrated the surprise she hoped to impress her with. Some ability for imagery perhaps lurked behind the head's narrow forehead, for her black, foolish eyes burned like coals. She moved slowly, as leaders should, dignified, accepting the sycophancy typical in the East. She held her post by the party's direction, being Uzbek, a native. Uzbekistan's party policy encouraged promoting national cadres, quite sensible, to prevent smart Jews like Semen Rosenberg from eventually displacing local leaders.

The long pedagogical procession approached the rain-soaked clay fence. But there, only two wild doves cooed, perhaps of love. The awaited one mysteriously disappeared. Educators, raised in Marxist materialism, didn't believe in mysteries and immediately understood who was responsible.

Their outrage knew no bounds. The pregnant accountant spat saliva, while the young teacher behind the show was mute from nervous collapse. The fateful word "punish," uttered by the head, meant finding the culprit and stripping them naked before the children. Quickly establishing who had hit the villain with precision, Mark likely faced a worse fate than his worst enemy had just suffered. At least, that's how it seemed to him. Mark liked a fair-haired girl with blue eyes and slender legs. He had long been friends with her, even recalling her name – Irochka. Facing her naked was worse than his worst enemy's fate.

So, they took him by the hands, leading him to the assembly hall. The particularly gentle treatment by the educators alarmed him, squeezing his heart. This treatment didn't match the atmosphere of the impending punishment. But hope still faintly breathed in his little heart, feeling it wasn't happening to him.

The young teacher was in shock and avoided Mark. But the pregnant accountant was terribly irritated, constantly wagging her finger. "We haven't punished you for yesterday's misdeed," she spat with her big mouth, "when you led children to eat watermelon rinds from the trash bin." The clay dirt from Mark's shoes left marks on the assembly hall's clean floor where he stood in the corner. Seeing this, the accountant said nothing, only the white toxic spots on her face turned red, and she quickly disappeared. The fateful word "end!" hung like lead on his little heart.

Minutes later, people in white coats lifted him like angels, carrying him to the head's room, where the undressing began. A teacher kept soothingly saying, "Don't be afraid, Mark, this is necessary." Lying horizontally, he looked up, seeing the lascivious yet now somehow greenish face of the accountant holding his legs. Her pregnant belly pressed against his heels. The soft breeze from the bustling white coats tickled his now half-naked body. Formally, Mark bickered and entered the prescribed hysteria for such an event, but the forces were unequal, and he did it more formally.

However, soon a way out was found. Not elsewhere but in his consciousness, precisely in realizing that the girl he loved would see him without pants, naked, humiliated, and disgraced. Imagining this again, he acted cold-bloodedly.

First, he stopped the hysteria and relaxed, calming the executioners' vigilance. All the soul's pain and resentment curled into a ball, slowly rolling to his right leg. Gently freeing it from the trusting accountant's hands, he bent it into a deadly arc and delivered a stunning blow to her pregnant belly.

The blow was so powerful that his former enemy, the scorpion, would have ended himself again from jealousy. It seemed Mark put not only his but all other grievances of the last century into that blow. Everything darkened around, or so it seemed; lying on the cold floor, half-naked, he saw the gray sky through the window and many white coats flickering in the blackened room. They scurried around the accountant, who lay on the floor whimpering. Her child was dead! It died instantly, which Mark learned later from his parents' conversation. They also said, "He's only three, and won't be judged."

He sat alone on the floor for a long time, hearing footsteps, rustles, anxious voices, then the light rain's patter and the fading siren of an ambulance, resembling the howling of jackals often prowling outside the school's courtyard walls at night. No one approached Mark that day.

His father took him home earlier than usual. While they walked, he was silent. What Joseph thought, placing his hand sadly on his son's shoulder, is anyone's guess... There were no culprits; the once raging passions evaporated into the sky, the tragedy remained on earth, and the sun set over the horizon, fantastically illuminating leaden autumn clouds. On the way, not far from home, they met another of Mark's father's countless acquaintances. But this meeting cheered them so much that they completely forgot the day's horrors.

A close friend and colleague, Vitaly Gusakov, unexpectedly appeared. Like Mark's father, he taught Soviet history at the same school №2. Happy, covered in women's lipstick, he smiled foolishly. He reeked of cheap perfume mixed with strong cologne. Mark's father burst into laughter, while Vitaly continued smiling, puzzled and confused. His father, with Homeric laughter, could only say: "Vitaly... Vitaly..." He couldn't utter the remaining words.

Suddenly, Joseph's face stretched like an Uzbek melon, pronouncing his friend's name fearfully and softly: "Vitaly... Vitaly... Lyuda! Your wife – behind... mouth in lipstick..." Vitaly's wife, returning from work, was just steps away. She always walked with her already snub nose proudly raised. She took pride in some high origin: something about Jews mixed with Ukrainians. She also had many diamonds and other inherited jewels, Mark knew from his parents' constant talks.

Pride prevented her from looking down, so she didn't notice them or the wet pit she slipped into. Meanwhile, Vitaly furiously wiped his lipstick-stained mouth, realizing he was saved by her fall's happy coincidence. Excitedly, he gently approached his wife fallen in the puddle: "Lyuda, Lyudochka, are you hurt?" he playfully cooed. "Where did you come from?" she exclaimed with Jewish-Ukrainian accent, irritated, groaning in pain. "Why didn't you appear earlier? Where have you been today?" "At the party meeting, Lyudochka," Vitaly justified.

Indeed, he had been there that morning. Mark knew since his father planned to attend that meeting, discussing events related to it in detail. A very important closed meeting was held in the city party committee for ideological workers and Marxist-Leninist discipline teachers. As Soviet historians, they both were obliged to attend, canceling school lessons. At this meeting, critical issues were discussed: "the unexpected illness of dear Comrade Stalin," "the doctors-poisoners case" (recently, a "conspiracy" of Jewish doctors planning to assassinate Comrade Stalin was uncovered), and "strengthening ideological work among youth in this difficult time for the country."

Yes, exactly in this difficult time, inspired by the meeting, Gusakov decided to strengthen ideological work among youth, locking himself in the Marxism-Leninism classroom with a young biology teacher. Combining Marx's materialism with Darwin's theory, they likely thoroughly studied the human body's structure, as Gusakov appeared to them quite rumpled and happy.

Lyudochka, his beloved wife, descending from heaven to earth, didn't notice the lipstick, and he, reborn happy, gently picked her up and led her, limping, home. In principle, he was a very caring husband. With Lyudochka, he fussed like with a painted bag. Being a Don Cossack by origin, Vitaly prided himself on marrying a Jewess, a rarity. Don Cossacks were notorious for hating Jews, organizing pogroms whenever possible. Mark's father jokingly called Vitaly a Judeophile, and he laughed, befriending only Jews. Such national metamorphoses were common in communist society, indicating some success in international policy. However, these were exceptions. True communism's rules were Russian chauvinism overall, local nationalism specifically, and hatred of Jews individually.

Nevertheless, Gusakov dreamed of his son Pavlik marrying a Jewess in the future. He adored and was obsessed with his son. Pavlik was Mark's age, and they were friends, practically his second friend after Barsik. Pavlik's rare intelligence attracted Mark.

Overall, Vitaly Gusakov was very educated: knowledgeable in literature and art, he also played sports and was wonderfully built. Always cheerful, witty – he loved life, his family, and beautiful women. But most of all, he loved boasting. A Niagara Falls of fantasies and self-admiration, of his wife or beloved Pavlushka. He claimed no one did somersaults on the bar better than him, often the truth; or his adventure literature library was the best, also likely true. At that time, everyone strove for knowledge. Reading a lot, dazzling with erudition was trendy. Young fathers queued nights for subscriptions to literary legacies of all times and peoples, as well as classical works. General erudition helped career advancement, being an interesting conversationalist, or simply securing a better societal niche. Mainly, a highly erudite man incredibly excited Soviet women, who, as remembered, loved listening more.

Gusakov competed in erudition with close friends – he cited little-known facts, then demonstratively wondered how anyone could not know! This habit was shared by Mark's father and all other young, beautiful, striving to be first in everything, winners of this terrible life marathon, where everyone sought the best spot, best fate slice. But likely, God forgave them – as a mother forgives her infant, ruthlessly tearing her breast from thirst.

The most honorable victory was over a beautiful woman, regardless of breaking someone's fate. On this front, Gusakov wasn't first. By and large, he was first in boasting. Mark's parents were very close to the Gusakovs, and in the future, when they left the romantic town, the friendship continued.

Pavlik was then studying at the best university in Moscow. Vitaly wrote a dissertation on "Socialism's Victory in the Backward Uzbek Republic." Mark was also involved in that terrible marathon, more like a relay race for a better spot in communist society. And life rushed forward – to its reality, outpacing not only them but all fantasies, dreams, and hopes.

Pavel married not a Jewess, but a Ukrainian, a simple driver's daughter. From then, the Gusakov family dropped out of the life marathon. The rest of their lives, Lyudmila and Vitaly fought to free Pavlushka from this "mongrel Ukrainian," who had already been married. "Imagine, Joseph," Vitaly fumed, spraying saliva, "marrying a divorced woman, taking her from someone. How isn't he disgusted – a poor, pedigree-less one!" From then, the Gusakovs had no other conversation topics. All thoughts, hopes, dreams, the entire Universe converged to a point, gradually expanding, becoming a black hole in space and engulfing the family. Lyudmila was treated in a psychiatric hospital briefly before dying of cancer. Vitaly then drank and wandered, rarely visiting Mark's father. At fifty, he also died of cancer. His last words were: "Take care of Pavlik."

Pavel divorced, leaving his wife and daughter. The Gusakovs' goal was achieved, albeit posthumously. He married a medical professor's daughter, often visiting Mark – perhaps nostalgic for childhood. He loved boasting about his father-in-law, who, according to him, cooked Uzbek pilaf better than practicing medicine. "Like many local scholars," Pavel joked, "he earned a professorship by cooking pilaf for high-ranking leaders." Recently, only this served as his withered humor's theme.

Once, Pavel visited Mark with his daughter from his first marriage. Sixteen, she was a tactful, well-mannered girl, sharply contrasting with the life race participants. She seemed never to join it, but who knows? She treated her father with extraordinary tenderness and respect, despite him leaving her and her mother. Despite Pavel already being mentally ill. The last time he visited Mark, when his wife was home alone, she asked Mark never to leave her with him again. From then, Mark realized something serious was happening with Pavel's psyche and avoided his company, finding any excuse.

Six months later, they emigrated to Israel, where Mark accidentally learned Pavel died in a psychiatric hospital. (He would have turned forty, like Mark.) The terrible life marathon ended for this family, but for Mark, it still continued.



Chapter 3

But Mark left that distant time, returning his memory to childhood when Pavlushka still raced and was, as always, first. When the saved Gusakov slowly retreated with his limping wife into the golden-leafed autumn park. When the sun, tired from impressions, already touched the evening horizon, and the sky filled with pale, still transparent stars. But the brightest star already shone in dazzling beauty. It was Venus, illuminating the upcoming night full of love adventures and pleasures in this small town lost in space.

It was very warm, and the sweet scents of flowers enveloped the night air. Mark and his father headed to Semen Rosenberg – they were invited to a family dinner. Upon arrival, Semen's children were already seated at the table set on a large terrace surrounded by dense grapevines. In this warm season, dinners were usually outside.

Semen Rosenberg lounged on the couch, browsing newspapers. Their number seemed endless, but he skillfully selected the main points, smacking and grunting Jewishly. Seeing his friend, overwhelmed by political information, Semen joyously rushed to Joseph. – "Have you read this article, Joseph, or that one?" he asked incessantly. Mark's father, of course, had read it all – as a true communist.

– "What can be said?" his father grimaced disdainfully, then reverently, with professional lecturer skill, expressed the Party Central Committee's view as his own. Deep in his soul, Mark's father still believed in socialism, but Rosenberg never did. They often debated this topic, unbeknownst to anyone, evidenced by their continued freedom.

Semen's wife Lala began serving hot dishes. A woman of incredible size, she excellently cooked Jewish and Russian cuisine. Mark gazed at the sumptuous table, with plenty of greens, salads, rosy chickens blushing like brides, stuffed fish, and appetizing pies seemingly ready to devour themselves if people didn't hurry. "A human soul may never reach paradise, but the stomach has the chance," joked Rosenberg.

Mark's father groaned, anticipating pleasure: "Ah... Wonderful!... No words!..." No one else was expected that evening. Mark's mother stayed home, disliking Semen for his "lacy-amorous" escapades. Gusakov couldn't stand him for always leading in the life marathon, with women and party career victories.

The dinner was splendid. Picking their teeth (passing air through gaps with a "ts-ts-ts..." sound), two "ts-ing" communists sat in a green courtyard corner surrounding Rosenberg's house.

– "Where to find a million, Joseph," Semen groaned endlessly, "so many holes, not enough money." – "Despite your director's salary," laughed Mark's father.

– "Still, I don't understand," Semen continued, "we live almost in a bright future, where's the promised justice, where's this 'doctors-Jews' case from? Something's not right, Joseph."

– "Marx's idea is correct," Mark's father stretched words unsurely, "but people ruined it." Semen continued to protest: – "If swine can't understand pearls, why cast them at their feet? Create a system matching their human reason, one they can't spoil, leaving the rest to gods."

– "Yes, Semen, total socialism is premature," agreed Joseph, "but in the future, people will come to communist relations."

– "What's the future for," Semen fumed, "if there's no present? We're creating this future, and should live humanely, then it's worth building."

Dessert was served. Lala called: "Men, for tea." She loved saying "men," seemingly missing manly affection. (Semen held a responsible position, always busy, and if spare minutes came, he gave them to young, slender teachers.) "I'm a principled communist, but nothing human is alien to me," he joked, hinting at the great Lenin.

On the table, a magical airy castle – meringue cake. Indeed, why dream of paradise or communism when it's before your eyes: golden church domes baked from egg whites and sugar, gathered in an Egyptian pyramid shape. The first, best pieces always went to chubby Jewish children. Then everyone else fell upon these sweet, fluffy domes with passion, like Tatars on fair Russian women during Genghis Khan's invasions.

After dessert, no politics were discussed. But about something, something the men whispered, secluded together under a golden autumn maple. It was clear about what: their faces glowed with joy and happiness.

Suddenly, reality rudely intruded into the intimate, languid world of young Soviet teachers. Someone knocked sharply at Rosenberg's yard gate, urgently summoning the director. It was the school watchman. He reported that 10th-grade students were heading toward city walls – jackal caves, presumably to smoke marijuana. Rosenberg and Mark's father grabbed large flashlights, prepared for such events, quickly heading to catch the youth like wild animals.

Such occurrences were common in their pedagogical work – crawling through caves at night, catching hooligans, addicts, and alcoholics. That is, their school's students, who later became doctors, lawyers, even scientists. Many often visited their teachers – Mark's father and Semen Rosenberg – expressing gratitude for their holy work.

– "Yes, our fathers were once young, talented educators," Mark mused. "And despite the universal pursuit of a better piece, they managed to leave a small trace in that distant, dear life where I once was."

So, when Semen and Joseph disappeared through the gate, crickets suddenly sang under the warm breath of night freshness. Then clinking plates as the table was cleared.

Out of boredom, Mark wandered through Rosenberg's large house, finding a theater binocular. Aunt Lala brought it from Moscow, loving theater. After returning, she always felt impressed by Moscow, its Kremlin cathedrals and monasteries.

However, Aunt Lala always wondered, "Why did the Moscow architects 'squeeze in' this 'square-nested' Mausoleum into the brilliant Kremlin ensemble, where a now nearly bald Vladimir Ulyanov lies?" Aunt Lala had a keen sense of art, likely a beautiful soul. But her body! That evening, Mark accidentally wandered into the bedroom where she was changing and tried to observe her through binoculars from a close distance, but couldn’t adjust them properly.

He saw how giant blue tights hugged her belly, the size of a Kremlin tower. Inside it was another smaller Aunt Lala, and within that one, yet another, like a matryoshka doll. This repeated endlessly into infinitely tiny Aunt Lalas. Soon, this game bored him, and he moved to another room where Tanechka, Semyon Rosenberg's eldest daughter, was changing. She was already seven years old, and she had very beautiful white legs. Whenever Mark saw Tanechka, he would whine and ask her to take off her stockings and then sit him on her lap. This time, she was stubborn for some reason but soon agreed.

"What was that?" Mark pondered. "What is this painful feeling that God placed in me back then? And why did it grow with me into such a gigantic 'poplar blazing with passionate down'? What did the Almighty want from me? From all of us? To constantly perpetuate the human race? But why with such painful passion? Or perhaps we are all so lazy that he had no other choice? But what about my soul?" Mark continued to think. "It was imprisoned in this jail of desires all its life and withered there. What is more important to the Almighty — the soul or the continuation of the human race? The answer was still not there."

Mark remembered the fierce struggle in that distant life between the wild passions of satiating the flesh and the soul. Then he recalled another divine gift. He received it that same evening when he went into the yard, already satisfied by Tanechka’s sweet touches.

In the yard, the crickets continued to sing, accompanied by the breathing night wind, and instead of the clinking of plates, high, drawn-out violin sounds joined this orchestra, gradually transforming into an amazingly beautiful melody. It enchanted his heart, then his soul, promising captivating future beauty. They performed "Solveig's Song" by Edvard Grieg. His music played on the radio all evening. Mark was stunned. Such beauty he could not grasp, understand, or fit into his tiny world. But one thing was clear; God gave us this too: for Edvard Grieg to create, and for Mark to understand the highest matter that cannot be enclosed in words.

Mark began to smile, recalling the silly Soviet musicologists trying to do just that. They didn’t know that it wasn’t about the flesh of sound, but something else, something not spoken of or even thought about. They wrote dissertations on the music of E. Grieg, lectured on J.S. Bach, professors wheezed, arguing and bickering to exhaustion. But they understood nothing. Mark felt a bit sorry for them.

Yet he didn’t want to think about them anymore and again plunged into that wonderful night when, after dinner, they slept in the yard under the open sky.

Lying in bed, he looked at the black tops of tall poplars. His imagination ran wild! He became scared! It seemed that up there, something unknown, terrible was hidden! He didn’t yet know that the terrible was not in the unknown, but quite the opposite: in what is nearby, in what is known and done by all. But when the clouds cleared, he saw the Universe: the eastern night sky, studded with stars — nothing can compare to this!

The fear disappeared — it was no longer needed. But it was unclear how such a tiny particle, like their city, even smaller — himself, Mark, could see this infinity and at the same time be a part of it? It was unclear where the end was, where the beginning was, why all this existed, and where it was going? Yes, this is the highest unknown! But he was not afraid of it. On the contrary, everything became clear and calm.

"We can only see, feel, and be happy about all this," Mark thought then. "We can approach the stars and touch them. We can destroy all this if we want. But we are not given to understand! We cannot even comprehend the simplest thing: why beauty, for example, has such power over us, but we can destroy it; or where existence ends and something else begins, what's the difference?

We all leave, come, we all do the same thing. And the only thing we can really do is either love all this or hate it; it is all fragile, tender, easily destroyed, but it is eternal, and we die."

It was clear and simple to Mark. His mind and soul freed themselves from the earthly gravity in which the body remained. Harmony and peace played with him, enveloped him, tossed him into space, making him soar.

This was the last night, the last autumn in his still-beginning life: when the soul, mind, harmony, and peace intertwined in a clear, simple polyphony — like in Bach’s organ fugues. They sounded in four voices, solemn and beautiful — and for the last time before entering that world of passions and races, where proud, insatiable children of God lived.

And after this autumn — the last cold and long winter. And those who were wiser, of course, were gathering not autumn mushrooms but winter poison — for the future spring. And those still happy — like Mark — were building snow castles for the last time (which melted in the spring) or sledding on the white, fluffy cover of God’s world.

And beneath it, the last spring — hot, red, like communism. But with black flags everywhere: on houses, on roads, in the blue sky, on the bright sun, everywhere possible in the Universe.

Mark walked with his mother through the streets, and she cried again, but now not alone — everyone cried that early spring. They cried in the streets, in homes, stores, institutions, cars. They approached and wept, embraced, and asked, "How will we go on without him, what will happen to us?" Mark asked his mother, "Why are all the people crying and why are the flags black?"

"Dead!... Dead!... Grandpa Stalin," she sobbed.

Mark didn’t understand then what "dead" meant. It seemed to him that he had just gone somewhere for a while, which upset everyone. His father and Rosenberg didn’t go anywhere that day — in the evening, they awaited a mourning meeting at the city party committee, and the entire country of communists — that bright future they so begged from God.

And for Mark — a long and confusing road among all the diversity of God’s face, which is called "life."

Soon they left that small, dear town where the smallest and purest part of his life flowed by. And moved to a big one — the capital, where already the larger — dirtiest part of it trudged along like in a swamp.