Everything Begins In Childhood

Chapter 7. Coal

As Mama and I were coming back home from the kindergarten, I suddenly saw a big black pile, almost as high as our neighbor’s house, at our gate.

“They’ve brought coal!” Mama exclaimed.

Trying not to get soiled, she took Emma and me down the narrow passage to the gate. Coal dust stuck to the soles of our shoes.

The yard was empty. Only Father was sitting near his favorite apricot tree.

“They brought a ton and a half,” he reported. “They wanted thirty rubles to transfer it to the storage room.”

Thirty rubles was a worker’s weekly salary.

“It’s all right, Papesh. We’ll manage ourselves,” Mama said.

Mama was eleven years younger than Father. She always addressed him very respectfully. “Papesh” was a respectful form of “Papa.”

Naturally Mama was concerned. It wasn’t easy to transfer such a huge pile of coal single-handedly.

But, as always, she did her best not to let anyone notice. She was a master of hidden feelings. No matter what blows life inflicted on her, no matter how hard and painful they were – and it happened often – she tolerated everything with dignity, without a word of complaint. And only when her patience was completely exhausted, did she cry quietly in a corner.

We bought coal once a year. It was kept in the storage room near the apricot tree.

Mama brought a few pails and a shovel, and we set to work. Mama carried two pails filled to the brim with coal, panting and walking heavily. I followed her carrying the two or three pieces that I could lift.

Coal dust stuck to everything – the sides of the pails, the walls of the house, our clothes, our skin. It penetrated our nostrils and got under our eyelids. The black trail made by our footprints traced our path from the coal pile in the lane to the storage room.

The pile diminished very slowly. The sun was setting. The long shadows of the trees grew paler, merging with the gathering dusk. The pigeon coop grew quiet. Cats began running around the attics, their green eyes sparkling here and there.

No one came to help us. A few days earlier, Father had quarreled with his mother yet again.

The quarrel was, as always, baseless and stormy. All the inhabitants of our yard took part in it, dividing into two camps.

When it happened, Grandma, as an experienced “military leader,” inspired her supporters, mostly her own children. As soon as they showed up, she gathered them together around the table, setting forth the reason for one more quarrel and distorting the facts without any pangs of conscience.

Grandma understood perfectly well that her stories added fuel to the fire and made the atmosphere of our community, which was far from friendly, explosive. But that was exactly what she delighted in.

Grandma Lisa was a virtuoso of squabbling. After stirring up trouble, she would step aside to watch innocently as the uproar developed. After enjoying it, she would take on the role of peacemaker and act as if she had nothing to do with it. In other words, she also somehow attempted to ennoble herself.

For precisely that purpose, she brought dinner for Papa to our place only two days after she had quarreled with him.

Mama understood perfectly well what fuss Father would raise on seeing the plate. That was why she put it at Grandma Lisa’s window.

Retribution followed right away.

“Mama!” Father’s younger brother Robert yelled. “This swine has brought the dinner back!”

“Where is this bitch?!” Father’s sister Tamara yelled as soon as she entered the yard. She had already been informed about Mama’s “crime.” “Where is she? I’ll…” And obscene cursing followed.

Aunt Tamara loved to use foul language. She kicked up a row with someone almost every day.

“Hey, you ignoramus!” Uncle Misha called to Mama with disdain.

He was a schoolteacher. He taught physics, while Mama was a common factory seamstress.

They all quarreled with Father, but it was impossible to understand why all the hatred was vented at my mama. She had no place to hide from them.

Even during the hardest times, she didn’t egg my father on. She didn’t influence him against his mother, brothers or sister. She kept silent when she found herself between the devil and the deep blue sea. She was quiet and patient.

That’s how she had been raised. She was calm and reserved by nature, even withdrawn. She was not in the habit of and didn’t care to interfere in the private lives of those around her, to denounce anyone, to gossip. She didn’t find it interesting. Besides, she had no free time.

Her husband’s illness didn’t allow her to have a normal life. She had to take care of him, to look after him, to feed him. In other words, she had to work from early in the morning till late at night. There was never enough money and she had no help.

It was past midnight. The moon, clear and bright, was high in the sky. All the houses shimmered silvery in its light. Every unevenness, every small detail in the yard was clearly revealed.

It was a splendid night, and it was very, very quiet.

Only Mama broke the silence. The shovel continued its scraping. Chunks of coal rattled as they fell into the pails.

One last batch, and we finished our work. Sweat, thick and fast, was streaming down Mama’s face. Her face, hands, legs, dress, apron – all were coated in a solid, heavy, coarse black armor.

We had to wash ourselves at home. A visit to the bathhouse would come the next day.

Mama began to heat water. She had to do it as fast as possible because tomorrow – actually, it was already tomorrow – early in the morning she would have to go to work, and I to kindergarten.

I think I fell asleep sitting on a chair. I don’t know how my poor mama managed to undress and wash me.