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Our family's life changed greatly when Nadezhda Danilovna appeared. I'll begin with a story about Margarita Alekseevna, one of my mother's closest friends. My mother used to call her Margo. They worked together. Margo had no family. She would holiday in Sochi or Yalta. These were the most fashionable holiday destinations for government employees at the time. It seems she also had admirers. The photographs inevitably show a splendid Margo, in her thirties, standing in the foam of the surf with an armful of roses. It's well possible she didn't holiday alone. Margo was an easygoing person. She was always smiling, delicate, well-educated, pronouncing her «r» the French way. She'd evidently seen better times. Margo asked Lyuba and Yasha to help a distant female relative of hers. Perhaps she was not a distant relative but a close one, I don't know. There are many details that I don't know. In those years people knew to keep their mouth shut.
This woman was Nadezhda Danilovna. The only thing that is known about her husband is that he was a Soviet worker at some point; it seems he worked at the savings bank. He vanished before the war, disappeared in the basement torture chambers of the secret police that was so piously guarding the security of the first country of the victorious proletariat. He had evidently been a dangerous man. We don't know what would have happened to his wife and daughter had the war not started. The woman and her daughter, Lyusya, adolescent at the time, ended up under German occupation. They were put in a camp and deported to work in Germany. There, they worked on a farm. Naturally, the mother was afraid for her daughter. She dressed her in a shapeless garment, rubbed dirt and manure into her face and taught her to behave like an old woman. And so they spent the entire war in alien lands. Nobody saw that the scrawny, awful-looking old woman was in fact a pretty young girl. Then the war ended. Everybody returned home. But for those who had been interned in a German camp, new sufferings lay ahead. If you'd been interned that meant you were potentially an enemy of the working people. All of them were sent to the North or to the East for a long holiday in the resorts of the GULAG. The women returned to Leningrad. They wandered about, hiding somewhere, afraid of every policeman in the streets. They were obliged to register. Register and receive a «warm» place in a heated goods carriage going to the Kolyma. Returning citizens were guaranteed a warm welcome by the entire might of the victorious state.
Such a warm welcome the country prepared not just for former camp internees, but also for war invalids. The leaders didn't want to spoil their mood after the Great Victory with the sight of hundreds of thousands of armless, legless, despondent war invalids who were supporting themselves by begging in train stations, in trains and in the streets. How shameful! His chest is covered in medals but he is begging at the street corner next to the bakery. We need to get rid of them as fast as possible. In only a few months the streets were cleansed of this «disgrace». Out of sight, to the islands of Valaam Monastery. To the Kirillo-Belozersky, Goritsky, Aleksandro-Svirsky and other monasteries. So that they weren't in the way of the proletarian leaders building socialism. So that we could all sing together: «I know of no other country were mankind can breathe so freely.» The country of the Soviets punished its victorious invalids for their sufferings, their mutilations, their lost families and homes, for their villages burnt down by the war. Here come your war heroes: a food ration fit for a beggar, barracks, loneliness and complete hopelessness. And later peace and silence in a nameless grave, sometimes in a ditch, with no headstone, no inscription, no cross and not even a Soviet star. Forgive me for getting carried away, I couldn't keep silent about this disgrace of ours. And about the famous post-war toast of the Great Leader, «To the health of the Russian people!»
I don't know how my parents arranged this cover operation. I assume that my father, a war veteran who had distinguished himself before the authorities, somehow managed to get passports for Nadezhda Danilovna and her daughter and register them in our flat. Fact is that they were legalised and thus vanished from the field of vision of the vigilant powers that be. Alas, not for long. During these years, one could only hide for short, very short time from the long arm of those guarding the dictatorship of the victorious proletariat. This is how the women came to be in our room, 30 square meters in size. Nadezhda Danilovna was ten or fifteen years my mother's senior, a simple Russian woman. That's how I saw it. A simple woman with a village woman's headscarf and the intelligence fate bestows on those who are strong and wholesome by nature. And then her daughter. Dressed in simple and elegant clothes made by her mother's skilful hands. Not beautiful. But very pretty and very pure, and at that time very joyful. Exuding that special charm of immediacy and maidenly purity. Where Lyusya lived I don't know. Perhaps at Margo's. But she would often come to our house. And Nadezhda Danilovna moved in with us and became my nanny. At the very first day she questioned me in detail about what I liked and whether I already knew how to read (I wasn't going to school yet then but could read quite well). She cooked soup for me. The plate was large and I finished only half of it. She asked me whether I spat into the plate while eating. I was very surprised at the question – of course not! After that she finished my soup herself.
She soon became one of us. She spent a lot of time with me. And she sewed children's suits from old clothes. Very skilfully. My parents rented a dacha for the summer, and I went to live there with my nanny. My parents would come for Sundays or for the holidays. Nanny taught me many things. She taught me to love the forest and how to tell apart mushrooms, berries, plants and birds. She taught me and the gaggle of the neighbours' children games and tricks. She helped us organise feasts and stage plays. She baked treats for us little ones. When I finally turned seven she prepared me for school and took me there together with my mother. As an adult I often remembered her tactfulness, intelligence and natural wisdom. As if this simple, semiliterate woman had imbibed them from Moist Mother Earth herself. Sayings and tricks. Wisdom she had learned and deduced from her difficult, hard life. I never saw her read. That's how I decided that she must be illiterate. She only looked on from the side when I read my children's books, when I sometimes cried over the fate of the hero of a heroic tale who had died and then was miraculously resurrected with the help of holy water. Do you believe in god, nanny? Sasha dear, for me god is under every bush. The Lord hears my prayer everywhere.
Soon Lyusya passed her entrance exams for the Theatrical Institute on Mokhovaya Street with flying colours. She had prepared the role of an old woman for the exam, modelled in great detail after the years she'd spent in Germany. The selection commission did not doubt her talent. Lyusya became a student, received a stipend and a place and registration in a student hostel. Life was smiling at her. I sensed her good mood. She was always full of joy when she came. She would hug me; we laughed and played a lot. Later I found out that at the Theatrical Institute Lyusya had fallen in love for the first time. Everything was great. The young people planned to get married as soon as possible. Easier said than done. The groom-to-be found out that his beloved had been in a camp. He began to tremble, the fire awakened in the flaming heart of this juvenile heir to the young proletarian culture. He simply had to tell the leadership of the Theatre Institute that he, quite unexpectedly, had found himself right at the centre of an anti-Soviet, perhaps even international, espionage conspiracy. The maidenly dream of happiness crumbled. I don't know what explanations Liusya had to give the confidential, tender guys from the NKVD. Whether it lasted a long time. And what the cost was to her. In terms of energy, of apprehension. Anyway, she was asked to leave the Theatrical Institute. And she had to cut out her life all over again. Lyusya had a quick mind. She entered the Institute for Engineering and Commerce. After graduation she remained there as a lecturer. She had no desire to write a PhD dissertation. Everything worked out, more or less. But I've never again seen her joyful or happy since those days. Until the last day of her life her intelligent grey eyes remained pensive and mostly sad.
Lyusya's sensible mother advised her daughter how to build her life. She introduced her to a widower who had two children, a boy and a girl. Vladimir Petrovich, a bus driver and a stately, handsome man, became Lyusya's husband. He was simpler than her and more stupid. He loved her devotedly. And she allowed herself to be loved. However, apparently she was a good wife. And she managed to become a mother to another woman's children. But she never wanted children of her own. Nadezhda Danilovna decided to move in with her daughter and help her bring up the children. I had grown up a bit by then. I was going to school, year two or three. Before she left us, my nanny sent me to school on my own. For the first time. She asked me all the questions, how to cross the junction, at which light, where to look. When she wanted to attract my attention she would say «Sasha dear, look into my eyes». I looked into her eyes, answered all her questions and left for school by myself. And she tailed me, watching furtively – she wanted to make sure that I was really carrying out all her instructions.
This was not the end of my friendship with my nanny and her daughter. While I was at school I would spend the summer at our rented dacha together with Nadezhda Danilovna, Lyusya and her stepchildren, Vova and Galya, who were younger than me. Together we would explore all the forests, lakes and shooting ranges of the Vsevolozhsk region. We would go swimming and collect mushrooms and berries. Unfortunately, Lyusya went on to have problems with her stepson. When he was older, he started working at a factory and became a Komsomol leader. Vova was a good guy, very genuine and honest. His friends loved him. But then he was invited to work for the security services, something that often happened to Komsomol members at the time. And he found the offer tempting and flattering. Lyusya, on the other hand, couldn't forgive him for working for the security services, which she hated, and cut all ties with him. She didn't forgive him until the day she died. Much later, when Nadezhda Danilovna had passed away, her stepdaughter, Galya, had a daughter of her own. She was called Nadya (Nadezhda). In honour of her grandmother. Galya always considered Nadezhda Danilovna her real grandmother and Lyusya her real mother. Lyusya remained close to Galya and later to Galya's daughter. Such closeness isn't self-evident even between mothers and their natural daughters and grandchildren.
My memories of my nanny and her daughter have always been very important and dear to me. Whenever I told anybody of my beloved nanny I described her as a very simple person who was endowed by nature not only with goodness, but also with insight and a special kind of worldly wisdom. With Galya I was friends all my life. And ten years ago I bumped into Vova. He was an old-age pensioner already and had left the security services. We reminisced about Nadezhda Danilovna and Lyusya. I once again unquestioningly repeated my sacramental phrases about the wisdom of a simple Russian woman… «What simple woman?», he interrupted me, «she was a graduate of the Smolynyi Institute for Noble Girls. They only accepted girls from aristocratic families. Her family weren't simple at all. What do you mean, illiterate? She knew five languages. And her husband was a very senior member of the regional committee.» How do you like that? I was shocked. There goes your simple woman. Your illiterate woman. What a dimwit I was. And how the people of that time knew to keep their mouth shut. They were able to grow into a new skin. To live another's life instead of their own. And to never let the secret out. No to give themselves away with either a word or a hint. And my parents accepted the risk and kept silent. One thing offers comfort: we all genuinely loved each other, my parents, nanny, her daughter and I, the youngest. And was I really that wrong? No, I was right. She was full of goodness. And insight. And worldly wisdom. These things don't come from the Smolnyi Institute. But from a person's own heart. From the difficult life, the hard life that falls to the lot of every person, no matter where he or she lives in the vast expanse of our motherland. From the fields and forests of central Russia's nature. Some people find all this under every bush, as my dear nanny used to say – the goodness, the insight, and the worldly wisdom, too. Just as they find our father in heaven.
Post-war Romanticism
For Samuil the war meant work and more work. Every day, day in, day out. In the hospital there were the wounded, bandages, dressings, operations. The sick had to be fed. He organised a farming initiative farming on a personal plot of land. They had eggs, chickens, herbs and vegetables. There were melons and gourds. They listened to the summary reports from the front. The treated and discharged the wounded. The war subsided. The boys grew up unnoticeably. Antonina felt that her Syoma had developed a roving eye and decided to «strengthen» her family. During the last year of the war, when she was 42 and Syomochka approaching 50, she gave birth to her son Sasha, our baby. The parents were no longer young and Sasha turned out a weakly child. Like Nabokov's Cincinnatus, he was born into and lived his life in spheres not from this world. He pushed just a tiny part of himself out into our world. Which is why he was so fantastically thin that he appeared transparent. He wouldn't undress in the sun so that people wouldn't see that he was slightly translucent. In return his abilities were not from this world either. He knew by heart excerpts from hundreds of volumes, reference books and encyclopaedias that he had read. He would read anything he could get his hands on – prose, poetry, plays – in addition to studying painting with the help of art albums. He had encyclopaedic knowledge. He was a good pianist. All his mother's most romantic dreams for her children's future came together in Sasha. Antonina invested her entire soul into her youngest son. But Sasha was not from this world. Not of this world. Unsuitable for our rough and sinful life. Once he'd finished musical school he was sent to the regional central town to enter the conservatory. At that time Samuil had already been sent to the sanatorium in Zheleznovodsk as chief doctor. Sasha never made it to the conservatory. He spent the money. Got stuck somewhere in the back of beyond. Fell in love with an insolent, useless, simple girl. For life. Without reciprocity. All she needed was money and presents. That's why he sacrificed his marvellous library. Then he worked as a pianist in a restaurant. The other musicians brought him a tipple of vodka, then some more. Weak as he was, Sasha didn't need much. Random people would take him home. Once his parents had left this world he threw everything to the wind – the flat, the instrument, his mother's dreams, his undeveloped talent. His brothers were worried for Sasha and wanted to help and support him. They tried to remonstrate with him. What could they have done, far away as they were? They had no choice in the matter. They had to work. They only met up during the holidays. Sasha had no strength to fight. He let himself go. Ended up in prison for a silly matter. When he got out he vanished. Perished at the hand of a random passer-by. Our dreams are in vain. Our highflying impulses are in vain. Our world is no place for highflying impulses. This is a world for those who are strong and full of vitality, and even more for those who are cruel, greedy and merciless. This is no world for Antonina, «Our Lady from Zheleznovodsk», or Sasha, the Cincinnatus from the North Caucasus. But all this is for later. For the time being Sasha was a child. His parents, advanced in years, worshipped him.
The war was over. Victory. The first postwar years in Zheleznovodsk. Soldiers were returning home from the front. Everybody was doting on them. Every boy dreamed of serving in the army. Vova joined the infantry school. They didn't let Misha go. His father wanted him to become a doctor. What were they talking about? You can't hold back a mischief maker. He was dreaming of becoming a sailor. He travelled to Baku to apply to the Naval Institute. His elderly father followed him, picked up his documents and returned him home. But all the efforts were in vain. Misha ran away to Leningrad and entered the Frunze Higher Military Naval Institute. He passed the entrance exam with ease. And he was a good student. No problem with mathematics and physics. What he needed was physical training.
Misha's dream had come true. He was a student at one of the country's best naval institutes. Well-built, smart, sinewy. The uniform fitted him perfectly. As if he'd been wearing a sailor's cap all his life. Joyful and mischievous. A brilliant storyteller. A master at various tricks and pranks. Prepared to do everything for his friends. To give his last shirt. Misha was popular straight away and became part of the inner circle of those who were lording it over the others. The centre of their friendship group was Volodya Maslov, naturally. He was older than the others and had been at the front. Later he had been a commander of the Pacific Fleer. The others were… friends. No friends were closer than them. Friends for life. Friends to the grave. The fleet and his friends. These were the most important things to Misha. More important than wife and children. The sailors' brotherhood was the highest thing.
He came home on a visit. Friends and neighbours came to have a look at the naval student. The girls would whisper to each other: «Did you see? How handsome Misha has become!» His parents were proud. His father loved seeing him in uniform. Vovka also came home on a visit. Infantry! A good-for-nothing and a scoffer. Sailors were the military elite. Vova was preparing for a rendezvous. Too embarrassed to buy condoms. Don't be shy, Vova. Misha went into the pharmacy. «Miss! There's a young man here, he needs condoms. Choose a fashionable style for him. They must have a black heel!» The salesgirls giggled, charmed by the dashing student. Vova was so embarrassed that he wished for the earth to swallow him up.
Misha loved witticisms, and he loved to make an impression. During the exam on the high bar – «I'll show you how to do turns!» One turn, another, a third… he lost his grip, flew into the rows of seats and broke his arm.
1950. The fourth, final year of study. They were due to graduate soon. A sailor needs to have a family. I'll only marry a girl who was born on the same day as me. Well, Mishka, you tell them. That way you'll never find a wife. Girls would come to the Institute to join the Frunze students at their dances. They'd buy a ticket and enter. To dance. To meet young sailors. Three pretty friends turned up. Wearing felt boots. They took off the felt boots and put on shoes. Misha approached them. But what were these two youngsters from year two doing here? He was almost a graduate, a fourth-year student. He whispered to them: «Well, rookies, quietly, I haven't seen you here». The second years were gone in a flash. Mishka carried three pairs of felt boots and three coats to the cloak room. One of the friends was Vera. An unassuming beauty, two years Misha's junior. She was wearing huge shoulder pads under her dress in accordance with the fashion of those days. Misha swept her off her feet, the quiet Vera, who was simple and unpretentious despite living in Leningrad. The sailors could have Sundays off if they had finished all their work. Misha was a good student, and so the two young people would meet once a week. Vera had no telephone at home. They would write letters to each other. The post worked well in those days, not like today. Vera would sign her letters «your mischievous Vera».
Vera was mischievous yet meek. Misha wrote to Tanya, his favourite aunt, that he planned to get married in a few months time. His parents still didn't know a thing. Vera was about to finish technical college. In spring she was due to go to Petrozavodsk on an assignment. Naturally she didn't want to go. And Mishka was a dashing sailor, incredibly handsome, about to become an officer. The first man she had kissed. Of course he was not to her taste. She would have preferred a more sedate, serious guy. This one was… such an idle talker. On the other hand, she didn't want to go to Petrozavodsk. Later, when she was old, Vera confessed to her daughter: «I wasn't the wife Misha needed. He should have found a light-hearted, cheerful woman, not one like me.» They went and got married. Two couples, Mikhail and Vera and a friend of his from the Institute with his girlfriend. Mikhail and Vera handed over their passports. And gasped – they were born on the same day. That's Mishka for you. As if he'd known. It is possible that there had been no such conversations beforehand, that he hadn't foreseen anything. Mishka was a master at spinning a yarn, a practical joker. Perhaps he made this story up after he got married and told it so many times that in the end everybody believed it. There is a reason why people say «make sure to uphold your image, use every opportunity to warm up interest for the reputation you've acquired.»
How to celebrate the wedding? They didn't celebrate at all. Where could he have taken his young wife? Not to the room she shared with her mother and sister after all. Dusya, who wasn't even 50 yet, had become old before her time. She was huge and gloomy, her grey hair covered by a scarf as worn by country women. The newlyweds had nowhere to go. They strolled along the embankments and went each their own way. Vera returned home and Mishka to the Institute. They didn't even feel that they were husband and wife now. Nothing had changed in their lives. Mishka the student was sent on a training voyage for three months. Afterwards he went to Liepaja to begin service. Together with his young wife. Now a lieutenant, he received a room to himself. And went off on a voyage again. Thus they lived an unreal life. In some sense they were husband and wife, but they were hardly ever together. After a year they had a daughter. Then came service in the North.
Misha loved his young wife. But his naval service he loved even more. He loved the sea, his submarine, the prolongued autonomous voyages, his sailors and officers. He quickly rose through the ranks and became an officer early in life. The crew idolised him. He was generous, attentive and prudent. There was order on his boat; the boat was always in good standing. The firing exercises were all flawless. Once the big brass came to inspect the ship. No blame found with the ship's management. What about physical training? Let's start with the commander, Mikhail suggested. Without taking off his tunic, he stepped towards the high bar and did 20 chin-ups. OK, OK, 'pass' for the entire crew. The young commander was considered one of the best belayers in the North. When he was at home, he was often called to make fast other vessels during the night or in bad weather. Sailing was his vocation, no doubt. But his tongue did him no favours. He loved to make up ditties and jokes that made fun of the high brass. This did evidently not help his progress through the ranks. But everybody loved him. He was a master of nautical tales. Later, much later, he became closely acquainted with Viktor Konetsky, the author of «Between Myths and Reefs», stories about Barracuda the Cat. People say that many topics from Mikhail's oral tales later found entry into Konetsky's stories. I don't know whether this is true, but I had the chance to hear Misha's tales. They always kept his audience riveted. Naval romanticism. We'll talk about that later.
How to become a Cosmopolitan
In 1949 there was the Leningrad Case, the straggle against the cosmopolitans; in 1951 the Minister for State Security, Abakumov, was arrested on a charge of organising a large-scale «nationalist Jewish conspiracy». In 1951 and 1952 there was the Doctors' Plot, directed against those looking after the health of the country's top brass. They were searching for cosmopolitans everywhere. It looks like my father ended up in this group in 1951 on his own initiative, at least partly. You see, he was a man of principle. The leadership were committing some kind of abuse. Somewhere they were doing something for their own profit. And he criticised this, naturally. What should those poor sods have done? They began to show interest in my father's work. He was in charge of the staff. It was him who chose people to work on new building sites. He would visit these building sites and organise the huts for the new workers to live in, sort out social matters. It turned out he'd sorted them out badly. That he had enabled «staff pollution». There really was such a term. He had hired a certain Movshovich. A cosmopolitan, that goes without saying. An enemy of the public. Nothing happened to this Movshovich. But my father was excluded from the party. A few days later he was fired from his job. He went to the regional committee. Tried to show them he was right. «Don't you know», the secretary of the regional committee said to him, «that the European part of the Soviet Union is no place for people of your nationality? They are preparing some territories in the Far East for you. Perhaps even further away. We don't understand what it is you're unhappy about.» My father wrote letters. To the district committee, to the Central Committee. He wrote about his military feats. He wrote to Comrade Stalin in person. It did no good. We expected them to arrest him. Any day now. When you could hear brakes screeching outside at night, my mother would rash to the window. Were the «visitors» coming to us? The light would come on in many windows at once. People were looking who they'd come for. The black police car didn't come. But we had to live. Nobody wanted to hire my father. My mother taught him to draw. She hoped to find him a job as a draughtsman. My father was good at drawing. He produced wonderful graphic script. We still have some sheets on which he practiced his letters. This is what he wrote: «The Party is always right. The Party must cleanse itself. The Party must strengthen its ranks. If you hew trees chips must fly. Each case may contain errors.» He couldn't get his head round the screaming injustice and baseness of what was happening.