The Story of a Life

37

Leaving School

Final examinations began at the end of May and lasted for an entire month. The rest of the school had already been let out for the summer holidays. Our form alone turned up every morning to the cool, empty gymnasium, which seemed to be resting after the commotion of the winter months. Our footsteps echoed from floor to floor. The windows in the Assembly Hall, where the examinations were held, had been opened. Dandelion seeds floated around the room in the sunlight like little blinking white lights.

We were required to take the examinations in our dress uniforms. The stiff silver-braided collars scratched our necks. We sat in the garden under the chestnut trees, our collars unbuttoned, waiting our turn. The examinations frightened us, and we were sad to be leaving school. We had grown used to it. The future looked unclear and troubling, mainly because we would inevitably lose touch with each other. Our loyal, happy family was being destroyed. We called a meeting in the garden before the first examination. Every pupil was invited, except for the Jews. They were not even supposed to know about the meeting. We agreed that the best Russian and Polish pupils should make certain to get a mark of four or lower in at least one subject so none of us would win a gold medal. We had decided that all the gold medals should go to the Jews because without them they would not be admitted to university. We swore to keep this a secret. To our credit, we never spoke of it, neither then, nor later once at university. I am breaking this vow only because almost none of my schoolmates are still alive. Most of them perished in the great wars that my generation had to face. Only a handful of us have survived.

There was a second meeting. This was to decide which among us ought to help some of the girls from the Mariinskaya Girls’ Gymnasium write their compositions. I don’t know why, but they took the written Russian literature examination together with us. Stanishevsky was in charge of the negotiations with the girls. He brought back a list of the girls needing help. There were six names on it.

I was told to help a girl named Bogushevich. I had never seen or even heard of her. We wrote our compositions in the Assembly Hall. Everyone sat at their own separate desk – boys to the left, girls to the right. Monitors patrolled the wide aisle between us to see that we didn’t pass back and forth any notes, cribs or other suspicious objects. Each of the six girls needing our help took a seat along the aisle. I tried to guess which one was Bogushevich. Her name suggested a plump Ukrainian. One of the girls was indeed plump, with heavy plaits. I decided this had to be her.

The director walked in. We rose. With a loud rip, he tore open a heavy sealed envelope and removed a sheet of paper with the composition theme sent from the District Department of Education. Next, he took a piece of chalk and carefully began to write on the blackboard: ‘True education combines moral and intellectual development.’ A groan of horror swept over the hall – this was a deadly theme. I had no time to waste. I immediately set to drafting a synopsis for Bogushevich on a narrow strip of paper.

We were permitted to smoke during final examinations, but only one pupil at a time could go to the smoking room at the end of the corridor. The monitor there was the decrepit old Proctor Kazimir, the same one who had taken me to my preparatory form on the very first day. On the way down the corridor, I rolled the scrap of paper into a tube and stuck it into the hollow mouthpiece of my cigarette. After smoking the cigarette, I left the stub in a pre-arranged place on the windowsill. Kazimir didn’t notice a thing. He just sat there, chewing on his sandwich.

My job was done. Next up was Littauer. He smoked his cigarette, left the stub on the sill, removed my crib, and then dropped it on Bogushevich’s desk as he walked down the aisle. After him went Stanishevsky, Régamé and two others. Their job was harder than mine, requiring both sharp eyes and quick hands.

I had already started writing my composition when Littauer returned to the hall. I kept an eye on him. I wanted to see who he gave the crib to, and how, but he did it so fast I didn’t even notice. Only after I saw one of the girls begin feverishly writing did I know the operation had been a success and Bogushevich had been saved. It wasn’t the girl with the plaits, but a different one. All I could see was her thin back, covered with a white-striped pinafore, and the reddish curls around her neck.

We had four hours to write our composition. Most of us finished early. Only the girls were still sitting there agonising over their desks. We went out into the garden. The trees were full of birds, all of them singing; it seemed as if they had come from every part of Kiev. A fight almost broke out between Littauer and Stanishevsky. Littauer said that Stanishevsky had done a poor job planning the operation. Stanishevsky was livid. Basking in its success, he had expected our praise, not criticism.

‘What was wrong with it?’ he asked Littauer in a bullying tone that promised nothing good.

‘Namely, that there was no damned reason to know the girls’ names. Six girls, six cribs. It didn’t matter who got which one. Why did I need to know whether I’m writing for Bogushevich or Yavorskaya? It’s all the same to me! It only complicated matters when it came time to slip them the cribs.’

‘Oh my God!’ Stanishevsky shook his head in disbelief. ‘You’re a true cretin! You have no imagination whatsoever. I did that intentionally.’

‘Why?’

‘I thought that would make it more in-ter-es-ting!’ he said with great authority. ‘Perhaps this might ignite the flames of love between the saved and the saviour! Did you ever think of that?’

‘No.’

‘Well, you’re an idiot,’ Stanishevsky shot back. ‘And now let’s go to François’s for some ice cream.’

After every examination we squandered what little money we had by stuffing ourselves full of ice cream – four servings or more – at François’s café. For me, trigonometry was the most difficult examination. Somehow, I passed. The examination dragged on until the evening. We waited after the examination for the inspector to announce our marks, and, overjoyed that none of us had failed, we charged loudly out into the street.

Stanishevsky flung his bashed-up textbook high into the air as hard as he could. The pages sprang from the destroyed book, fluttering over our heads before drifting back down and covering the street. The rest of us found this marvellous, and so we each took turns to launch our textbooks skyward. Soon the street was white with paper. From behind, we heard a policeman’s whistle. We took off running into Fundukleevskaya Street, before ducking into narrow Nesterovskaya Street. Boys began breaking off to go their separate ways and after a while only five of us were left: Stanishevsky, Fitsovsky, Shmukler, Khorozhevsky and myself.

We headed for the Galitsky Market, where there were a lot of little cafés and taverns. We had decided to get drunk. The only examination left was Latin, and no one was afraid of that. We walked along joking and laughing. As the old saying goes, we were possessed by the devil. Passers-by stopped to stare. We went into a tavern at the market. The floors stank of stale beer. There were cubicles along the walls decorated with pink wallpaper that they called ‘private rooms’. We took one of these ‘rooms’ and ordered vodka and beef Stroganoff. The proprietor carefully closed the faded curtain of our cubicle, but we were making so much noise that every so often someone would come by and peep in. We treated every one of them to some vodka, and they were happy to drink with us and offer their congratulations on our finishing school.

Late that evening the proprietor came over, pulled back the curtain and, motioning with his eyes towards the door, said in a low voice: ‘There’s a snooper outside.’

‘What sort of snooper?’ Stanishevsky asked.

‘A policeman, from the Criminal Investigation Division. You need to get out of here now. Go out through the back door. You’ll find a passageway in the courtyard leading to Bulvarno-Kudryavskaya Street.’

We didn’t take the proprietor seriously, but still we left through the back door into a dark, smelly courtyard. Ducking our heads under the clothes lines, we filed past dustbins and woodsheds and reached Bulvarno-Kudryavskaya Street. No one had followed us. We ducked through a passageway into the dimly lit street. A round-shouldered man in a bowler hat was waiting for us.

‘Good evening!’ he wheezed menacingly, doffing his hat. ‘Have you boys had a nice little time?’

We said nothing and walked off down Bulvarno-Kudryavskaya Street. The man in the hat followed us. ‘Still wet behind the ears, but just look at you, already versed in making your getaway through back yards,’ he said, with malice.

Stanishevsky stopped. The man in the hat did too. Then he put a hand in the pocket of his long jacket.

‘What do you want?’ Stanishevsky asked. ‘Just bloody well leave us alone!’

‘Frequenting taverns,’ he said. ‘Pupils of the Imperial Gymnasium frequenting taverns! Don’t you know the punishment is expulsion with a wolf’s ticket?’

‘Let’s go,’ said Stanishevsky. ‘I’m not going to listen to this fool.’

We walked on. The man in the hat followed. ‘I’m not the fool. You’re the fools. I once attended the gymnasium too.’

‘That’s obvious,’ Shmukler said.

‘Why is it obvious?’ the man yelled hysterically. ‘I was kicked out of the gymnasium with a wolf’s ticket for drinking. And you think I’m going to let you get away with it? No! I’ll see you expelled with wolf’s tickets if it’s the last thing I do. Your exams won’t do you any good now – you can say goodbye to any hope of seeing the university. Were you speaking out against the government in the tavern? Yes! Were you making jokes about the imperial family? Yes! I can handle you all. And don’t try any tricks. No matter what, I’m reporting you to the Okhranka.’

We turned into a tangle of narrow streets leading to the Svyatoslavsky ravine. We thought the agent would be too afraid to follow us into this desolate, forgotten part of the city, but he stuck to our heels.

‘Couldn’t the five of us take him?’ Stanishevsky asked.

We stopped. The agent pulled a revolver out of his pocket and showed it to us with a laugh. We led him through the streets for a long time, being certain to avoid the large intersections patrolled by the police. Fitsovsky suggested that we disappear one by one. The agent would be sure to stick with the group, until only one was left. One of us would be caught, but at least not all five. We all thought this was a bad idea. We would stick together like true comrades. We mocked the agent. Each of us loudly recited a made-up biography for him, full of increasingly monstrous and insulting details. He was huffing with rage and was getting tired, but still he clung to us with the obstinacy of a madman.

It began to grow light in the east. It was time to act. We made a plan and then circled through several small alleys before coming to Stanishevsky’s house. A high stone wall, with a ledge running along its base, faced the street. On the count of three, we ran straight at the wall, jumped on the ledge, and then launched ourselves up and over. Our school gymnastics lessons had come in handy. A pile of bricks lay at our feet. Soon they were raining down on the agent on the other side of the wall. He let out a scream, retreated to the middle of the street, and fired his revolver. The bullet flew harmlessly over our heads.

We tore through the forecourt into an inner yard and then bounded up the stairs to the Stanishevskys’ flat on the third floor. Within minutes we had undressed and were stretched out on the chairs and sofas listening for sounds from the street. Stanishevsky’s father, a silver-haired lawyer with bristly whiskers, was pacing from room to room in his dressing gown. He shared our fighting mood, but implored us to calm down, stay where we were and keep away from the windows. At first we could hear someone frantically yanking the gate and cursing the porter. Then we heard the voices of the agent and several policemen down in the yard. We were lucky that the yard belonging to the Stanishevskys’ house had a back entrance, and the porter was telling them that the boys must have run straight through and out into the next street. Making a good deal of noise, the agent and the police eventually left. We slept the sleep of the dead until noon the next day. To be certain the coast was clear, we sent our own agents – Stanishevsky’s sisters – out into the street. They reported seeing nothing suspicious, and we all went home. Strange as it now seems, we had in fact narrowly escaped a serious danger: unavoidable expulsion and a wolf’s ticket just two days before graduation, a fate equal to civic death.

Finally, the marvellous day arrived when the director, standing behind a green baize table in the Assembly Hall, handed out our diplomas and congratulated each of us on graduating. The gymnasium was all lit up, little coloured lanterns hung from the trees in the garden, an orchestra played.

Before the dancing began, Suboch gave a speech:

As fourth formers I could barely tolerate you. In the fifth form, I began to educate you, although the odds of moulding you into true men were slim. In the sixth, I made friends with you. In the seventh, I became truly attached to you, and in the eighth, you even made me proud of you. I am an unhappy father. I have too many children, no fewer than forty. Moreover, every few years my children leave me and new ones arrive. So, you might say I have forty times more disappointments than most parents. And forty times as much bother. This is perhaps why I have not been able to pay you all the same amount of attention. It makes me sad to part with you. I have tried to mould you into good people. You, for your part, have given my life meaning. You kept me young. I hereby forgive you, now and forever, all of your ridiculous idiocies, even your fights with Section One. Everything is forgiven. I am not being generous, but I challenge you to become generous yourselves. Heine said that there are more fools on this earth than there are people. He was exaggerating, of course. But what did he mean by this? He meant that every day we meet people whose existence brings neither them nor those around them any joy or benefit. You ought to fear being useless. Whatever you may end up becoming in this life, remember the wise old counsel: ‘Don’t let a day go by without writing at least one line.’ Work hard! For what is talent other than work, work, work? Learn to love work, and may you always be sorry to put it down. May your journey ahead be a happy one! And don’t think unkindly of your teachers, who have gone grey in their battles with you.

We threw ourselves at him, and he kissed each and every one of us.

‘And now,’ said Suboch, ‘a few words in Latin!’ He waved his arms and broke into song: Gaudeamus igitur juvenes dum sumus! Let us rejoice, therefore, while we are young!

We joined in the chorus of our first school song. Then the ball opened. Stanishevsky was the master of ceremonies. He directed the saviour-boys to invite the saved-girls onto the floor for a waltz. It was then I became acquainted with the thin girl with joyful eyes – Olga Bogushevich. She wore a white dress. Lowering her eyes and pale with embarrassment, she thanked me for my help. I told her it was nothing. We danced. Then I brought her some ice cream from the buffet. We escorted the girls home after the ball. Olga Bogushevich lived in the Lipki neighbourhood. I walked with her through the dark night under the leafy green canopy of the trees. By the time we parted, we had become friends.

From there I went to Fitsovsky’s, where our circle was spending the rest of the night. We had pooled our funds for a supper with wine and invited Suboch, Selikhanovich and Johanson. Johanson sang songs by Schubert, brilliantly accompanied by Suboch on some empty bottles. We made a lot of noise and went home after the sun had come up, but before the streets had lost their long, cold shadows. Upon parting, we gave each other warm hugs, and then each of us went his separate way filled with a strange feeling of happiness and grief.