Everything Begins In Childhood

“But she’s an elderly woman,” Mama was horrified.

“That didn’t keep her from stealing.”

* * *

However, when Father trained his basketball players, he behaved in a restrained manner and rarely lost his temper. Most probably it was because he selected the members of the team very carefully. He had an amazing talent for recognizing whether a boy or girl had the makings of a good athlete. He harshly and ruthlessly filtered out those whom he considered lazy, clumsy or, in a word, without prospects. And then he persistently and patiently molded a united team out of his chosen players. He strived for proper teamwork and iron discipline. He made them understand that basketball was a team sport. And he had enough patience for it because he rarely lost his temper with them. And even his fits of temper worked here. When he punched someone who had broken his iron rules in the face, that student would either leave the team or remember the lesson for good.

Among the students he selected for the team were those whom other teachers were glad to get rid of. They behaved like hoodlums at school and on the street, drank alcohol, smoked weed. It was sometimes rumored about one of them that the thug was about to go to jail. The reputation of potential players didn’t bother Father. His conversation with such guys was short, simple and businesslike.

“If you stop being involved in all kinds of crap, I’ll make a good athlete out of you.”

* * *

He was good when he gave instructions during training. He was also good when he demonstrated moves. He would take the ball from one of the guys, dribble the ball three times, raise it over his head, squat a little, then straighten up gracefully, almost flying up, and toss the ball. The ball would glide through the hoop as if it were weightless, as if it weren’t a ball at all but rather a soap bubble. He did it one more time, and it worked again.

Training was what Father did best of all; it was his vocation. Even when he didn’t feel well, when his asthma overwhelmed him, if he could move around without having difficulty breathing, he would drag himself to school. He felt better during training sessions. He couldn’t talk loud enough, but he mostly gave instructions with his hands, like the conductor of an orchestra.

I still wonder how the players learned to understand those commands. He let neither the ball nor the players escape his field of vision, even for a second.

That’s how it was during basketball practice, but not in the classroom. Father didn’t stand on ceremony with his regular students. Classroom studies were not as interesting for him. Students in class gave him more grounds for irritation. And they developed hostility toward the rude, unfriendly teacher.

My Grandpa was usually called Yoskhaim, abridging his actual name which was too long – Yusup Khaim. Father used the first part of Grandpa’s name as his patronymic, Amnun Yusupovich. That’s how students addressed Father, but they referred to him differently among themselves.

The blood rushed to my face and my breathing became difficult when I heard Father’s nickname for the first time. I heard it from Emma. I was either hurt or ashamed, or a bit of both, but for whom? Myself? Father? Both of us?

Once I went to Father’s school and saw some graffiti written on the fence in the yard. It was written in big letters… I don’t want to write what it was exactly. One word was particularly insulting in that graffiti – Shushara. That was Father’s nickname.

In those days, we knew very well what Shushara was. Everybody knew the big, mean rat, a character from “The Adventures of Buratino” (Pinocchio) both from the book and from a recent very popular movie based on the book. I had to admit with sorrow that my Father’s students grasped quite precisely the similarity between him and that rat: both had a long nose and were quarrelsome and malicious.

* * *

Emma lay in bed with her outstretched leg in the cast talking nonstop. She loved to talk. In the heat of the conversation, she moved her leg awkwardly and moaned, biting her lip slightly.

“Does it hurt much?” I asked.

My sister nodded.

“Well, not all the time. It just aches most of the time. It’s important not to move it. It’s all right, but six weeks…”

My sister is a person in whom seemingly incompatible traits coexist. It’s impossible to predict which of them might manifest itself at any given moment.

Now, for example, I was struck by her patience. It seemed to be a time to be capricious, to cry and whine, and Emma could do that perfectly well. If someone dares to be unfair to her, in her opinion, Emma can bellow so loud that eardrums might burst. She could rebuff any boy who offended her or her girlfriend. And her rebuff would definitely be very loud. But here she had broken her leg – and no whining, no yelling.

Emma’s patience had struck me many times before.

During summer vacation, I usually visited Grandpa Yoskhaim in Tashkent, and Emma went to Grandma Abigai’s. To tell the truth, I didn’t envy my sister. When Aunt Rosa, Mama’s sister, had a daughter, no sooner did Emma arrive than she was “appointed” governess, nanny – call it what you will. That was not an easy task. It was especially difficult with Mira.

The world had never before seen such a reckless mischief-maker.

Sometimes, as we approached the house, we would hear her squeals, laughter, and even the crash of furniture. I remember how this five-year-old scamp once jumped from bed to bed in the bedroom, messing up and scattering all the sheets, blankets and pillows. That was Mira’s favorite entertainment. There was down flying around the room – one of the pillows had burst. That happened when Mama and I went to visit Emma. As we opened the door of the bedroom, we covered our ears right away for Mira’s squealing was unbearable.

But there was Emma, walking unhurriedly from bed to bed trying to catch the prankster by the hand and repeating with her tranquil smile, “All right, that’s enough, you’ve been jumping too long. You’ve played enough. It’s time to calm down.”

That was some “playing,” I thought, looking at my sister with sympathy and surprise. If I were Emma, I would pull this brat off the bed, shake her properly and give her a good spanking on her little behind. But Emma endured it, and not for an hour or so but from morning till night, day after day.

I thought it was patience. But was it perhaps kindness?

At that time, I didn’t have an understanding of such things, and Emma’s displays of kindness still amazed me. That’s why I remember them.

She had a friend, Vika Stepanova, who lived in our building. She was a clumsy girl, tall and thin. She walked unsteadily, almost as if she might fall down if someone blew on her. She wore glasses with thick lenses. I don’t know why she had no other friends either in our building or at school but Emma. That speaks for itself: the majority of children are conformists. They prefer to act like everybody else, but Emma was different.

Boys often mistreated clumsy unattractive Vika both at school and near our building. Emma was her main defender and comforter. The friends had different interests. Vika liked to read. Emma preferred playing with dolls to all other pastimes and entertainments. She had just two of them, and they were well-cared-for and well-dressed. In a word, we all knew that Emma treated them with maternal tenderness. They slept with her, and she groomed them more thoroughly than herself. Nobody was allowed to touch them. Vika was an exception, though Emma had many girlfriends.

Once Vika came running to Emma in tears. As they whispered to each other in a secluded corner of the living room, I eavesdropped: Server, a bully from our neighborhood, had snatched Vika’s eyeglasses and teased her for a long time before giving them back. Emma immediately devised a clever plan for revenge. Vika calmed down and was about to go home when Emma leaped to her feet, “Just a minute.” She ran past me to her room and returned to the living room with a doll in her hands, her most beautiful favorite doll. “You may keep her overnight.”

* * *

However, my sister wasn’t always so kind. Sometimes, she was an absolutely unbearable egotist. Suppose Mama and I are going to the bazaar. My sister expresses a desire to accompany us. “Will you help carry the bags?” I ask, for I’ve already learned from bitter experience what her promises mean.

Emma nods, which supposedly means “Of course I will.” But from the beginning to the end of our visit to the bazaar, Emma’s help consists of exclaiming now and then, “I want this, Mama! May I have this?” Neither raspberries, nor peaches, nor ice cream, nor another twenty tempting delicacies escape her greedy glance. She tosses her hair, which falls onto her shoulders and is no longer red but jet black, her pleading almond-shaped eyes stare at Mama, and she almost coos, “Mummy, please.”

And Mother’s heart gives in…

When, after buying everything we need, we set off for home, our small family detachment looks approximately like this. Mama and I walk to the bus stop, which is ten minutes away, bent over under the weight of the bags. After taking twenty or thirty steps, we stop to rest and set the bags on the sidewalk, but we continue holding them for it takes too long to pick them up again. So, we stand hunched over the bags, even though we very much want to rub our red, swollen palms. And our dear Emma, graceful as a young fallow deer, stands beside us waving her little paper bags of cherries, apricots and raspberries – everything she has managed to coax out of Mama.

No, excuse me, that’s not all. Emma holds a vanilla ice cream cone in her other hand. She licks it with her long, narrow tongue, chasing it down with a cherry or raspberry.

That’s her help. And when I can no longer stand the heat and the smacking of Emma’s lips, I ask, “Let me have a lick.” She answers unhappily, “I’ll leave some of it for you.” And she steps aside quickly.

“She’s just a girl,” Mama sighs as she calms me down.

I don’t argue, but I think about something else: the point is not that she’s a girl, the point is that she resembles her father sometimes. Fortunately, only sometimes. Besides, perhaps due to similarities in their personalities, the older Emma became the more often she expressed out loud her indignation about Father’s behavior and gave free rein to her feelings.

I remember the day when I rebelled against Father for the first time, with her help. Father, Emma and I were at home. I was doing my homework in my room when I heard shouting coming from the kitchen – first Father’s enraged voice, then Emma’s shrill shouts.

It turned out that as my sister was applying green liquid antiseptic to a scratch, she accidentally knocked it over onto the kitchen table. The table was new, and now it would have an indelible green spot. Father was ranting as if it were nothing less than a stain on his fate. In response, Emma was squealing for everybody to hear.

When I ran into the kitchen, she was standing in the corner by the sink, and Father was waving his fist and yelling, “Don’t shout!”

Now, he had forgotten about the stain and tried to quiet Emma, and the only way he knew how to do it was with the help of a slap.

Emma had grown up, and it had been a long time since Father had allowed himself to spank much less slap her. He loved Emma and treated her with particular kindness. He was proud that his daughter was a member of his special basketball group. But now he was in a state of blind rage.

“Don’t beat me!” Emma screeched even more loudly.

That’s when I stepped between them.

“Put your hand down,” I said. I said it calmly. Surprisingly, I felt calm at that moment, for the first time ever.

Father and I looked into each other’s eyes for a few moments. His eyes, absolutely mad, and his mouth widening more and more. “He’ll now yell and punch me,” I thought. But Father said in an almost normal voice, “Move away.”

I shook my head. Father was panting, but the rage in his eyes disappeared. Suddenly, he chuckled, lowered his hand… and left.

He was gone. Emma and I looked at each other without saying anything. She sniffled one last time and, bending over the sink, began washing her tear-stained face.

Chapter 60. Something Has Changed

There was a very simple thought that didn’t cross my mind for quite a long time. I was already a teenager, but adults still seemed a somewhat alien and quite dangerous tribe. Defend yourself, hide, adjust to different situations – that was the basis of relations. Of course, there were exceptions: Mama, for example. But Mama was Mama, and age was not the point. Or a queer bird like the artist at the movie theater whom we had visited when we were kids. In such cases, we would forget that they were adults. We separated a person we liked from the group of people. We considered such a person an exception, and that made the person one of us. But that rarely happened. On the contrary, the older we got, the… However, is it really necessary to explain how teenagers think of adults?

But sometimes our notions can change in a matter of minutes.

I was home from school. There was Mama, sitting with an unfamiliar woman at the kitchen table.

“Meet our relative from Samarkand,” Mama announced joyfully. What’s there to be joyful about? We had plenty of relatives, and here was yet another one…

“The new relative,” the stranger said with laughter, as if she had guessed my thoughts. She held out her hand to me and introduced herself, “Zoya Koknareyeva.” Naturally, I smiled, pretending I was pleased to meet her, but I wasn’t pleased at all. Instead of eating peacefully and attending to my affairs, I would have to sit listening to boring stories about relatives I didn’t even know. And this Zoya had an intense, piercing gaze, like a teacher. Would she begin to ask questions about my school progress and grades? Was it her business?

But Zoya asked me something quite different. She asked me whether I had ever been to Samarkand. I remember that I soon forgot about my soup, which was getting cold, and listened to her talk about excavations near Samarkand where archeologists had been searching for the remains of the ancient capital. And I was asking her questions, one after another… The next day – our new relative stayed overnight – Zoya and I became friends. I didn’t notice how it happened. I didn’t feel awkward or bored; I didn’t have to pretend or lie – all those things that usually happened when talking to adults. Zoya talked to me about rock-n-roll, about the Klondike Gold Rush, about books it turned out we both liked and reread often. And she talked about it all with such interest that it seemed that she was also fifteen, not between thirty and forty. We both cursed our irksome teachers and gossiped about parents who considered their grown-up sons and daughters to be little kids.

Yes, it happened very fast. It seemed that, for the first time in my life, I wanted to learn about an adult, an unfamiliar woman, Zoya, what she was, how she lived. And I also wanted to tell her everything about myself and my friends… But when could I do it? She might leave the next day. Fortunately, the new relative promised to stay with us for a week. I was glad, and I was also surprised that Father had nothing against it. I didn’t remember anyone staying at our place for even a day… It meant that Zoya had managed to find common ground with him…

When I learned that she wasn’t married, I was upset for some reason. At first, her face and her intense gaze seemed unpleasant. Only a bit later did I notice her slight sweet smile and the big birthmark near her nose, just like Mama’s. I also had two of them on my left cheek. It meant that there were similarities in our faces. In a word, I now thought that our Zoya deserved the greatest love, but she lived with her sister and mama, who was old and blind.

We sat talking into the evening. Zoya was telling me something funny. She was laughing, but I felt anxiety mixed with surprise and pity. She was unhappy, I thought. Her life hadn’t turned out right, and what is life without love? Women like her were called “old maids.” Then why was she so bubbling with life?

I couldn’t contain myself any longer and asked, “Why aren’t you married?”

“Somehow it didn’t work out,” Zoya answered. “Mama’s been ill for many years, and now she’s blind. It keeps my sister and me… very busy. Do you see?”

I nodded. Very busy – that was easy to understand. My compassion for her became even stronger. Now, I was absolutely sure that Zoya had been deprived of happiness. From what source did she draw that joy and energy? What an amazing woman!

As I was pondering her fate, the “amazing woman” tapped me on the shoulder.

“Look here… Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No… Well, yes, but… We don’t even go to the movies together.”

And here I lost control of myself. I told her everything about my long, very timid and strange love. I had never told anyone about it. I had never been so frank. And after I had done it, that barrier collapsed. After I had revealed everything, I asked this person who had become my friend, “Why is it like that? Why?”

Zoya was silent for a while, then sighed and said softly, “You know, I don’t dare to judge. Perhaps, you both were very timid, two very timid kids… And then you got used to it and couldn’t change it. You couldn’t overcome it. It happens. Ah, it’s not simple. It happens to many people. Believe me, Valery.”

I did believe her, but how could I forget about the boys and girls for whom it worked out just fine?

Here, my new friend tapped me on the shoulder again.

“Listen, perhaps you need to figure out whether you’re still in love with Larisa or if it has just become a habit for you… If you’d like, I can introduce you to a girl, a great girl… You’ll like her… Her name is Ella. She’s also my relative. You can become friends. That would be nice. Shall I?”

Well, such “matchmaking” would be considered indecent in the families of Bucharan Jews who were more orthodox than our family. In Orthodox families, young people were introduced to each other by adults with the sole purpose of marrying them off. But our family didn’t stick to the old traditions. And Zoya obviously understood that.

“Well?”

I was a little scared but glad. Even though I didn’t like any girls but Larisa in our class, girls, I must admit, engaged my imagination all the time. And now, I was about to meet a girl… if Zoya wasn’t deceiving me.

Zoya didn’t deceive me. In a few days, we approached the house where Ella lived.

I stepped through the gate into the yard and felt as if I were in our old yard in Tashkent. It was just as cozy and green. A small dense grapevine was spread over a grate above the cement courtyard. Green and dark red grape vines wound around the rods of the grate, hanging down from them. There was a clay duval, just like Grandpa’s, in the yard with tables and benches near it. A dog barked at us, just as Jack would… And the sounds of a piano could be heard from the one-story house at the far corner of the yard.

We entered the veranda, which also served as the kitchen. A young woman standing at the stove exclaimed, “Zoya!” and rushed toward her. Her face was very familiar… I remembered right away, “Oy, but she is Sveta, the hospital nurse, Sveta.”

A few years before, when I was in fourth grade, I had had to spend about two weeks in the hospital. It was called Akkavaksky Hospital after the Chirchik neighborhood. By the way, it was a nice hospital mainly because it was located near a small grove of trees. The hubbub of birds could be heard in the crowns of the trees from morning till night. When I had an agonizing headache, I would go there and made myself comfortable on a bench… At the beginning, it seemed to me that the birds, especially the sparrows, were singing, chirping, making an unbearably loud racket, so loud that I thought my head would burst. But it didn’t. The more my head was filled with that chirping, the less pain I felt; it abated, calmed down. The moment came when I noticed that the pain was gone, that my head, filled with the birds’ songs, felt light and pleasant…

I felt much worse in the ward that I shared with four other boys. One of them, Igor Savchuk, was my age. By the way, we later became good friends. The other three were high school students, the kind of overgrown blockheads that teachers can’t wait to get rid of. That trio didn’t leave us in peace day or night. What happened in our ward is what they would call “hazing” in the army. We made their beds in the morning. When they washed themselves, we had to stand by and hand them their towels. We shuffled the cards when they played. We constantly experienced fear and tension but were afraid to complain. Once Igor refused to obey their order, and they beat him up. And Igor had bad kidneys. That’s when I couldn’t bear it any longer and went to see our registered nurse, Sveta. She had been friendly and attentive, and I decided that I could trust her.

“Why have you kept quiet?” Sveta was upset.

“Lousy bastards, they’ve also harassed the doctors. All right, I’ll get them… Don’t be afraid, they won’t bother you anymore.”

Sveta gave us injections twice a day. She used a thin needle and was very skillful, so it didn’t hurt at all. The next morning, when she came to our ward, she inserted the thickest needle into a syringe, the kind used to draw blood from a vein, and approached one of the blockheads.

“Bare your butt…”

And a hoarse cry sounded right away, “Ee-ee-yoo-oo!”

Now, I don’t think it was just the size of the needle because one could also choose a very painful spot.

Sveta’s treatment proved to be very appropriate. The blockheads came to the conclusion that they should leave Igor and me alone.

* * *

That’s how Nurse Sveta rescued us once. It was amazing how we met again five years later – she was Zoya’s relative and mother of the very girl Zoya wanted me to meet.

We chatted, reminisced, and laughed, and we no longer heard the music that had accompanied us as we walked from the gate to the house. As I suddenly turned around, I noticed a short thin girl leaning against the doorpost.

“Ella, why are you hiding? Come meet Valery,” Zoya said.

Ella came up to me and shook my hand, looking aside timidly. I turned out to be bolder and even made out the color of her eyes. They were brown… I liked her eyes, her short brown hair, and her supple slender figure. And I also liked her timidity – apparently, such modest girls were to my liking. Perhaps, since I had been prepared for a “romantic” encounter, I felt… well, that it was love at first sight. And a bit later, when Zoya talked Ella into returning to the piano, I couldn’t take my eyes off her hands.

She played –it seemed to me then – amazingly softly, tenderly, easily, as if barely touching the keys, as if just stroking them. And the sounds of the music – she was playing “The Moonlight Sonata” – were so special, flowing, really like the moonlight… I had never felt before what a magic sonata it was.

“Why did I quit playing? Why?” I thought, watching her hands with admiration and envy.

* * *

It had happened long before, as I was just starting first grade. One day, Mama came running home with news: they were enrolling new students at the music school on Yubileynaya, not far away, near the Spring store next to the library. So why shouldn’t we try to get in? Her suggestion didn’t make me happy, but Mama insisted.

The small corridor was crowded and stuffy. Parents and children hung about together, waiting to be summoned. I was mostly struck by how quiet it was. Some whispers were exchanged, but they were absolutely noiseless. The door to one of the rooms opened from time to time. Someone would come out, and a voice was heard: “Next, please.” Suddenly, Mama lightly shoved me toward the door, and she remained in the corridor. I was placed on a stool and given a pencil. A short woman with curly hair sat down across from me and said, “I’ll beat out a pattern, and you’ll repeat it. All right?”

I nodded and dangled my legs, which didn’t reach the floor.

“Tap, tap-tap-tap…” I repeated the first combination of beats effortlessly, and the second one. The third one seemed long and boring, but I repeated it as well. Then the curly-headed woman said, “All right… How about this one?”