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I remember the very first air raid. A siren screamed and Soviet planes appeared in the sky! The whole team of us rushed down to the shelter in horror, like a herd of frightened wild horses. But the scariest thing was that our native aircraft industry was bombing us.
Later, they explained to us that Iraq had bought Soviet fighter-bombers from the USSR as part of some kind of agreement even before it attacked Iran, and now it is using them. And now, although the Soviet Union has officially expressed its disapproval of Iraq for starting a war, it can no longer take away its weapons, as this would be an infringement of the treaty.
Less than a week later, Soviet boys from 5 to 70, instead of rushing headlong into an air raid shelter, first of all curiously lifted their heads into the sky and competed in recognizing patterns, as if they were playing airplanes. Here is the SU-7B flying, and here is the MIG so-and-so…
SU and MIG's relatives bombed us every day, interrupting only on Fridays, when both warring sides had «jumu’ah» — a day off and a holy day, fighting on which, according to Islamic concepts, is a terrible haram (sin). On Fridays, if such an opportunity occurred, Iranians and Iraqis could even sit down at the same table and have a peaceful meal. On other days, Tehran was bombed profusely. The heart-rending wail of a siren was heard almost every evening. The streets immediately resounded with the shrill cries of local boys «Hamush! Hamush!» («Turn out the lights!» — Persian), the electricity went out, so did the elevator, and all the residents of our tower ran down the stairs to the bomb shelter.
And soon everyone was going down to the bomb shelter at a lazy jog, making small talk along the way and exchanging jokes and compliments. With each new time, the fear was dulled, and the evening run to the bomb shelter with a flashlight became something familiar — like an evening exercise. And for us children, it soon became a separate entertainment altogether — on the way to the bomb shelter, we watched and learned about adult life.
My life from 1978 to 1982 was completely different from the usual image of a «happy Soviet childhood.» But I was quite happy and showed a healthy and cheerful curiosity about everything around me.
Now I know for sure that if a child is placed in another world at the age of eight, no matter what it is, they will easily accept on faith everything that happens there. I think this is the most «adaptogenic» period of personality formation. Up to the age of twelve, a child easily finds a home wherever their parents go. Is that why wandering gypsy children are so cheerful, despite the lack of a permanent roof over their heads? After all, they wander, holding on to their mother's skirt.
And I accepted the new reality quickly.
Pendyushka
As soon as my mother became a «bimarestani», having settled in Bimarestan-e-Shuravi (Soviet hospital or SOKK and KP — Soviet Red Cross and Red Crescent Society) for the only position that did not require medical education — the head of the emergency room, Dad and I found something like a nightly comedy program. At dinner, Mom entertained us with stories from the life of the ER. Her responsibility was to log the data of first visitors, as well as those whom the doctors referred to the hospital. The job was not easy. It’s not easy to, without knowing either English or Farsi, find out from the visitor their full name, address and what exactly they are complaining about!
Two Iranian translation assistants of Azerbaijani origin, Sarah Khanum and Rosa Khanum, were assigned to my mother. They were fluent in Farsi, Russian, and Turkic, but they could not always help — they also managed the archive, compiled and delivered reports to the Iranian Ministry of Health, and helped with the translation of Soviet doctors who conducted appointments. My mother herself learned German at school and in college and assured me that she still even remembers something. But she couldn't use this knowledge in the emergency room. At that time, shortly after the Islamic Revolution, many Iranians easily communicated in English, but they did not use German. The Russian-Persian phrasebook given to her by her assistants, which Sarah and Rosa made themselves, printed the most popular phrases in Farsi on the left in Russian letters, and their translation on the right. With the help of this homebrew dictionary, Mom was able to successfully fill out the emergency room journal — and at the same time communicate with many different people and explore the world.
Her first working week was marked by a culture shock.:
— These Iranians are so strange! — she shared with Dad in her first working days. — An elderly Persian man comes in today, holds his stomach and explains something to me in his own language. I ask him, «Esme shoma che?» («Tell me your name» — Persian). And he says to me, «Nasrala!» And another one follows him, pokes his finger at his side and mutters: «Nasratullah, Nasratullah…»
— Nothing strange, — my dad, who knows Farsi, explained good-naturedly. — Nasrolla and Nasratollah are one of the most ancient and widespread male names in Iran.
To find out what and where the patient was hurting and put it in the journal, mom fully mastered pantomime and arranged a whole theater of facial expressions and gestures. Using Mom's example, Dad explained to me how important it is to know foreign languages in life. Therefore, my parents, although they didn't give a damn about the 3rd and 4th grades of the Soviet school, still sent me to English courses at the Armenian school on the next street. They were afraid that upon my return to Moscow, they would not take me back to my English special school, which, according to them, was like a theater college. The courses took me an hour twice a week, which was nothing compared to the six-day school schedule of 5-6 lessons per day. However, from the stupor of a Soviet straight-A student who is embarrassed to speak a foreign language (what if a mistake creeps in?!) the Armenian-English courses have successfully saved me. With or without mistakes, I chatted fluently in English without any embarrassment — I conveyed my thoughts to my interlocutors as best I could and somehow understood what they were saying in response.
And I had to talk in English every time I wanted to talk to the girls. The fact is that all the other Soviet girls, except for me, directly evacuated to their homeland, and there were only local girls left — the daughters of the supermarket owner on the corner where our doctors shopped. Everyone knew Romina and Roya well, so they let them play on the territory of the Soviet institution. But unfortunately, this did not happen often, because, unlike me, the girls went to their school every day. The rest of the time I had to communicate with the boys, who, like me, were hidden from the mass evacuation by their parents at their own risk and kept underground in the territory of Bimarestan. There were four of them: three, like me, were skipping school, and one was still not allowed due to his kindergarten age. However, we didn't have a kindergarten either. There was a lot of freedom: while my parents were working, the five of us — four boys and I — were left to ourselves in the hospital yard, which at that time seemed to me huge and incredibly interesting.
Seryozha, a boy my age, and I were considered the main ones by right of seniority, and the younger ones — first-grader Lyoshka and second-grader Max — obeyed us. Occasionally, only our youngest, five-year-old Sasha, who is also Seryozha's brother, rebelled. The poor guy was always left to his older brother: their mother was an operating nurse for their father, an obstetrician surgeon. Sometimes five-year-old Sasha could get offended by a slap on the back of the head from Sergei and tell his parents. But if Seryozha and I quarreled and fought, and this often happened, Sasha stood up for his brother all the time. Seryozha was generally an ideal for his younger brother, as they would say now — an icon of style. His younger brother repeated both good and bad things after him, such as swear words. And sometimes we didn't express ourselves in the most cultured way, especially when we were fighting.
Given the limited number of children, it is logical to assume that the obscene vocabulary was borrowed by us at home. The most intricate swearing was dragged into our narrow company by Seryozha and Sasha. Their dad was exactly the kind of surgeon I imagined surgeons to be from movies and books—a tall, strong man of few words, with big warm hands. And the adults told me that Seryozha and Sasha's dad was what they call a surgeon from God. It was said that he had no equal, both in the operating room and in terms of a strong word. As for his obstetric specialization, I didn't really understand what it was at the time. For us, all these complicated names of doctoral professions — otolaryngologist, dermatologist, urologist — were familiar, everyday names, but we were not very interested in what exactly they do there during working hours. We only knew exactly the scope of application of those specialists whom the local staff, who had picked up Russian words, called essentially — for example, doctor-skin (dermatologist), doctor-nose and doctor-eye. Lyoshka's dad was just Doctor Nose, Max's dad was a Doctor Eye, and the locals didn't call Seryoga's dad anything.
Seryoga's dad once took him and I to do a caesarean section operation, probably for educational purposes, so that we could see how difficult a mother's life is for her child. We watched everything from the beginning to the end, and I was deeply impressed by the action. Especially when Seryozha's dad extracted a real, living baby from a bleeding wound on the patient's stomach, who was drugged and covered with a sheet, and it whined pitifully. And then Seryoga's dad cut off — as it seemed to me, from the newborn — some kind of bloody object the size of an egg and swiftly threw it into the urn in the corner of the operating room right over our heads. At the same time, I had the pleasure of listening to the vaunted strong «surgical» expressions. I've never heard anything like this before: at home, I've never heard anything scarier than «bastard.» But surprisingly, the strong words did not damage my perception.: I took them as folklore, marveling that ornate derivatives of well-known «bad» words can sound not obscene, but funny.
One evening, over dinner, mom once again amused Dad and me with stories from the life of the emergency room:
— Such a gorgeous lady joined our paid gynecology! — Mom shared. — I didn't even know that there were such beautiful and sophisticated Persian women! Probably from the local aristocracy. And what did she even see in the Red Cross?
— We have the best gynecologists in the city — Dad stood up for the honor of the hospital. — Especially after the British and American ones left.
My mother informed me that the new patient had gone for a checkup on the female side, and she began to describe with gusto her expensive silk robe, gold jewelry, proud posture, delicate features and refined manners. The descriptions were so vivid that I imagined this gorgeous lady in all colors. At the same time, my mother boasted that she had finally managed to apply her German, as the new patient spoke all European languages. Besides, the new lady was very happy to have the opportunity to talk to the first Soviet woman in her life, who turned out to be my mother.
«She told me that she studied architecture in Paris, — Mom told us over another dinner. — In the same „ecole“ (school) as Shahbanu Farah Pahlavi.
For several more nights in a row, my mother described how she had become friends with the gorgeous Persian woman and how much she had learned about her. The name of the beauty, Parizad Khanum— caused a sensation among my male friends, to whom (for lack of other news) I regularly passed on my mother's stories. Against the background of the monotonous bombings, the appearance of khanum «Paris-up-the-ass», as Serega immediately dubbed the new patient, became a real event.
«Such a beautiful woman, and such a… strange name!» — Mom said.
«It's not strange at all, it's an ancient and common Persian female name, translates as „angel“,» Dad explained patiently again, he always had an «A+» in Persian and the history of Iran.
It soon became clear that Parizad Khanum comes from a rich and noble Tehran family. As she told my mother, unlike most of her relatives and friends, her family did not leave Iran at the behest of her father during the revolution. He served under Shah Pahlavi, grieved over the flight of the monarch from his native country, but he could not leave himself — he loved his homeland so much. It didn't seem like empty words at the time: many rich and secular Iranians still hadn't found the strength to leave their homeland after the revolution. Some hoped that the Shah would return and everything would be the same, while others believed that the Islamic revolution would make their people happy.… And love for their native land is not an empty word for Iranians, but a tangible, concrete attachment. I had a chance to see this with the example of my friends: their father, who owned several shops in the center of Tehran, could have followed his relatives who emigrated to Paris and Los Angeles. But he told his wife, two daughters, and son, «We're not going anywhere, our home is here.» And the word of the father in the Iranian family is the law.
Parizad Khanum also told my mother that her family had managed to save one of their luxurious mansions in the foothill town of Darband in northern Tehran from nationalization.
I knew this expensive northern area: sometimes my dad would take my mom and me there by car to take a walk and get some air. It was much cooler in Darband than down in the city center, and the air was much fresher.
Mom said that through her, Parizad Khanum even invited our entire family to visit her house in Darband as soon as she completed the examination.
The new friend shared with my mother what brought her to the Soviet hospital. She said that at the age of 32, she was married for the tenth year, but she still couldn't get pregnant. This is a huge problem for any family, but for an Iranian family it is tenfold. Parizad Khanum knew that infertility is most effectively treated in Europe. But if the Iranians could still leave the country in the 80s, they would definitely not have let them go back — only this stopped Parizad Khanum from receiving treatment in Zurich, where she went during the Shah's time. There are no European doctors left in Tehran, except Soviet ones, and an acquaintance told Parizad Khanum that the Soviets weren't so bad. They said that although the hospital is a Red Cross hospital, the conditions are good, especially in the paid department. The building and equipment were provided by the shah, that is, at the European level. But doctors in the Soviet Union are taught conscientiously and receive high-quality, proven medicines from their homeland.
Finally, the day came when my four friends and I saw the vaunted Parizad Khanum with our own eyes.
We used to skateboard around the hospital yard.: we called them «boards», and then they just appeared on sale. Tehran sports shops managed to buy them in large quantities in the States during the Shah's time, and Khomeini found nothing objectionable in them.
With nothing better to do and good weather, we quickly mastered skateboarding and performed the most unimaginable pirouettes on them. Only five—year-old Sasha didn't have his own «board», although he could skate — his mother just wouldn't let him. When Seryozha was in a good mood and their mom wasn't around, he let Sasha ride. And when Mom wasn't looking, but Seryozha wouldn't let him ride anyway, the sly Sasha would start to roar deliberately loudly and shrilly. Until the adults came running to his heart-rending howl and started asking, who had hurt such a good boy?
Sasha looked really angelic: white curls and huge blue eyes which he could bat so that he immediately got everything he wanted. The Iranians simply could not calmly pass by our Sasha: they were extremely touched by the blonde and blue-eyed children. Seryoga and I had dark hair, while Lyoshka and Max had brown hair and brown eyes. Besides, we were older, so the locals enthusiastically pinched the chubby cheeks of only the unfortunate Sasha, who hated it. But they explained to him that it was rude to push away Iranian adults who were trying to cuddle him. Iranians do not see anything wrong with kissing someone else's child, and pinching cheeks is for them an expression of admiration of the highest degree. Sometimes I even felt a little offended that no one was hugging me: at nine, I was considered almost an adult among the locals, and the Iranians even added the respectful «khanum» to my address. And little girls aren't treated like that.
And only we, his friends, knew that the angelic Sasha could be different — scream like a banshee, stomp his feet, slam his fists and swear like a sailor…. and maybe his parents knew that too. Although Seryozha and Sasha were both extremely afraid of their father, and threatening to tell their dad brought them both to their senses in an instant.
That morning, as always, we skated around the fountain in the hospital courtyard, and Sasha, as always, whined, begging Seryoga for his board. At that moment, she appeared in front of us — Parizad Khanum. I recognized her immediately, despite the fact that I had never seen her before: by her chiseled profile, a thick brown braid wrapped around her head (women could not wear a headscarf on the hospital grounds), a silk robe with dragons and fine jewelry — as my mother described it all so colorfully. The gorgeous Persian woman was clearly a little bored sitting alone on a bench near the fountain and wanted to chat: She put down the glossy magazine she was flipping through, got up and went—of course, to the angelic Sasha! Moreover, everyone else was running back and forth on their boards, and this cute boy was standing alone and whimpering pitifully.
Of course, the magnificent Parizad first grabbed Sasha by his adorable cheeks and cooed something sweetly in Farsi. Sergei noticed this from afar and quickly realized that the situation was about to get ugly.
— Let's get to them quickly! He shouted at me. — That idiot's going to blurt something out!
It should be noted here that with all of us, parents carried out regular preventive work on the rules of communication with locals.
In principle, it was impossible to forbid us to approach foreigners: we simply did not have any other place for walking, except where patients and their visitors go out for fresh air. But we knew that you can't ask or take anything from foreigners (except when you're in a store with adults and the owner gives you something, and your parents let you take it).
If the foreigners themselves ask you for something or ask for it, you should immediately inform your elders about it.
We also couldn't describe ourselves as Russian, only Soviet.
Our parents told us that we should never be rude, snap back, or in any way discredit the proud title of a Soviet child. Otherwise, they said, patients could complain about this to the «Rais» — that is, the director of the hospital («rais» means «chief» in Persian). And our parents would be sent to the Union in 24 hours for not educating their children properly. This was what we were most afraid of: it was scary to even imagine what the moms and dads would do to us if their Volga cars, cottages and other grandiose plans for a well-fed life and a full house in the Union were disrupted because of our behavior.
The curricular about «requests and questioning» was not very relevant: in any case, the foreigners around us did not know Russian, and we did not know Farsi or English. Of the five of us, I was the only one who spoke a little English, thanks to the schools, both Sokolniki and Tehran Armenian. When I started attending school at St. Sarkis Armenian Cathedral, and my dad was paying for it, he even told me to take every opportunity to practice my conversational skills. For example, if one of the hospital patients suddenly wants to talk to me in English during a walk, I should not run away like a savage or be impolite and quiet as a mouse. It is quite possible to tell them your name and age, tell them what a beautiful city Moscow is and how wonderful it is that Soviet doctors treat Iranian patients.
— Just don't accidentally say monkey or dog to anyone, because for Iranians these are offensive name-calling, — my dad joked. — They will immediately run to the rais to complain!
Apparently, Seryoga was afraid of rais's «complaints» when he saw that his younger brother, extremely upset by the lack of a skateboard, was left alone with a foreign woman who was squeezing him. Five-year-old Sasha, although he did not speak foreign languages due to his young age, could speak Russian beautifully, like an adult, when he wanted to. But in this case, Sasha did not want to communicate, he wanted to ride. And the foreign lady, clutching his cheeks, was in his way. Sasha wanted only one thing — to take the board away from his brother, and he apparently had a plan. And exactly at the moment when Seryoga and I rolled up to Parizad Khanum, who was holding Sasha's rosy cheeks in her manicured fingers, the cunning Sasha tried to kick the board out from under his older brother, for which he had to push Parizad Khanum away rather sharply. At the same time, he loudly and articulately uttered a gem from the folklore repertoire of his dad, the surgeon — in the printed version, let it sound like «pendyushka.»
Supplemented with a diminutive suffix, the swear word sounded funny and surprisingly accurately reflected the essence of what it was applied to. At least, in the performance of Seryozha and Sasha's dad. He called annoying women «pendyushka», and at the same time, annoying circumstances that complicate life. For example, a harsh one: «This pendyushka has exhausted me!» would be about a pesky patient. And the contemptuous «It's all pendyushka's tears» would be about making a mountain out of a molehill.
Detaching the annoying Parizad Khanum from his cheeks, little Sasha chose the first tone, harsh:
• Go away, pendyushka! — the angelic boy spelled out clearly in the deathly silence formed by the fact that the surprised Parizad Khanum stopped chirping.
Perhaps something like «Excuse me!» could have been said in a similar tone, for example, when you push away someone who is blocking your exit from the tram at your stop, and you’re running late.
— What did this pretty kid say? — Parizad Khanum asked in English, looking at me for some reason. She probably thought I was an adult too.
Seryoga poked me painfully in the side, implying that the situation needed to be saved. I understood him. And I myself was polite enough to guess that the true meaning of what was said by the «pretty kid» should not be translated to a foreigner.
— He said that you’re very beautiful! — I got off with a simple phrase.
Then Parizad Khanum’s face broke into a satisfied smile and, to our horror, began to wail joyfully in all sorts of ways:
— Oh, pendyushka! I am pendyushka! What a nice Russian word! Such a polite Soviet boy!
The boys giggled into their fists and ran away. And for the sake of decency, I stood for another half minute, then respectfully, like a good girl, said «Bye bye!» and also ran off to my friends to giggle.
The next day, we tried not to catch the eyes of Parizad Khanum, hoping that without seeing us, she would forget the «beautiful Russian word» that she had learned so inappropriately. And after a couple of days, we completely forgot that we had taught Parizad Khanum bad things.
But on the third day in the evening, mom came home from work shocked and began to share with dad.:
— Can you imagine, this intelligent Persian woman, Parizad Khanum, comes to my emergency room today to treat me to some peaches and suddenly declares: «You, Irina Khanum, are a pendushka!» Don't tell me that this is just another ancient common Persian name! — Mom raised her voice warningly and continued: