Everything Begins In Childhood

Chapter 17. A Gulp of Life

The caterpillar tracks of tanks rattled, booming shots rumbled, the barrels of cannons gave off smoke. It was just another exercise underway on the training ground of the tank school. We watched the “battle” with agitation, ecstasy and envy from the roof of our building.

We were really lucky to live in this building. We were so lucky that all the boys in town envied us. A huge plot of vacant land began behind our building and stretched for a few kilometers up into the hills. The tank school was located at the edge of that plot. The training ground where the tank exercises were carried out wasn’t far from the school. Well? Is it clear now why we were lucky? We could watch that wonderful spectacle – which was sweeter for us than any movie about war – from the roof of our building, as if from the stands of a stadium. Were we capable of simply watching? Actually, we were not on the roof but on a hill from which, as representatives of General Headquarters, we directed the battle.

“Where… Where the heck are you going? Get in position to intercept them! C’mon!” Vitya Smirnov yelled, peering into the distance through field glasses formed by his curved fingers.

We heard muted submachinegun shots… then single pistol shots…

“That was a Kalashnikov… Now it’s tracer bullets…” it was Kolya Kulikov explaining what was going on as he sat with his eyes closed. He was a real expert. Kolya rocked to the rhythm of the shooting, hugging his knees and straining his hearing till he had a sharp pain in his ears. It was as if he were sitting somewhere in a concert hall, enjoying classical music… “Three… four… five…” he counted. “They’ll be done shortly.”

A sixth revolver shot rang out, and a short period of silence fell, both on the training ground and on the roof, but the events continued unfolding in our imagination. Here was an officer lying in a trench. He was wounded, and he was outnumbered. He had no more bullets in his pistol. They were surrounding him… and…

“That’s the end,” Kolya exhaled. He wasn’t rocking any longer. There was suffering in his eyes. “That’s the end. He’s been killed.”

But still we were listening, waiting… what if…

There it was! Bang-bang-bang – single shots were heard.

“No, he hasn’t been killed,” Vitya declared triumphantly. “He was changing the cartridge clip. Kolya, you always panic.”

Yes, of course, we were representatives of General Headquarters on the hill. But we’d rather have been down there, on the battlefield, dashing forward in pursuit of the enemy, or seated at the levers of military vehicles. Forward, always forward!

Sweet dreams…

Many boys in our town dreamed of becoming military men. They were a special caste in Chirchik, held high in our esteem. They were full of merit, both inner and outer. They knew how to show off their bearing. An officer would walk, clad in his impeccably ironed tunic with stars sparkling on the epaulets, his shoulders thrown back, his chest well-developed, his feet moving springily and rhythmically as if he were marching in formation. He certainly knew that children’s shiny eyes, and perhaps girls’ eyes too, followed him closely. But his strict gaze was fixed on the distance. He absolutely did not notice anyone. Of course, he noticed those of senior rank, and he saluted them precisely and handsomely.

It would be nice to befriend a military man’s son. Such a boy’s life was far more interesting that ours. Now and then, his father would take him along to a military school where he could get close enough to tanks to touch them, or he might even get to hold a submachinegun in his hands.

The exercise came to an end. The tanks, one by one, turned their turrets toward the hills and headed back to their encampments. We were also about to disperse.

The roof of our building was flat with a slight incline. It had no railing around its perimeter. Only a few brave boys dared to approach the very edge. They knew how to adjust a television cable or knock down icicles that were a danger to pedestrians. My knees would begin to tremble at the very thought of going near the edge of the roof.

We were about to leave the roof when the Oparin brothers came through the door leading to the stairs – Vova, who was my age, and Gennady, who was older. Their father was a military man, and Gennady had already decided he would enter military school after he graduated.

“What are you doing here?” he asked angrily, in surprise. “Get out of here!”

“The leaves have already dried!” Zhenya Andreyev shouted and was the first to dart to the door.

The roof was an observation post for us, but it served as a kind of production area for older boys. Hand-made cigarettes rolled from cherry tree leaves would be hung from the antennas to dry. Hemp, secretly grown behind the garage, was often dried on a secluded corner of the roof. Was it possible that Gennady thought that we, the younger boys, didn’t know about it? And why did they, the older boys, skip watching the exercises, those fascinating spectacles? We discussed this for a long time before we split up to go home.

Father was sitting on the bed, breathing hoarsely. He had once again suffered a severe asthma attack. He was so weak that he couldn’t leave “the concrete coffin” – as he called our apartment – to sit on the bench near the entrance. He called to me in a barely audible voice.

“Do you remember where the hospital is? Go there and get some oxygen…” and he gave me the oxygen pillow with its breathing tube. “I called them… The doctor is expecting you.”

One could get to the hospital by bus, but I decided it would be faster to walk. As I was walking, I remembered with annoyance that the entrance to the hospital grounds was at the far end of the fence. That meant that it would take me at least half an hour to get there. At last, I arrived. I found the doctor on duty and held the pillow out to him. The doctor looked at me over his glasses, with an expression of great surprise.

“Who are you with?” he asked. “Where did you get this pillow?”

“My papa gave it to me for you to fill …”

“What papa?”

“From Yubilayny settlement,” I answered, scared now.

Father had told me, “The doctor is expecting you,” but this one didn’t expect me at all. What if he was the wrong doctor and wouldn’t fill the pillow?

“It must have been your father who called an hour ago,” the doctor figured out at last. “Yes, he said ‘My son will come over.’ But I thought his son was an adult… How old are you, kid?”

“Six,” I answered, with no inkling that we were practically reenacting the dialogue from a famous poem by Nekrasov.

The doctor was silent. Then he cleared his throat.

“Your mama must be at work now, right? And your papa… You see I don’t have a car at the moment… Nurse!” he suddenly shouted, “Fill it quickly, but not quite all the way.”

Oxygen began hissing into the tube. The doctor squatted and gave me the pillow.

“Here it is… You don’t smoke, right?” he stroked my hair. “Carry it carefully. Remember – it’s a gulp of life for your papa.”

I grabbed the pillow and rushed home as fast as I could.