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\markboth{\quad \small \sl Ilya Kogan \hfill}{\hfill\small
\sl This is how it was\,... \quad }
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\title{THIS IS HOW IT WAS\,\dots \footnote{\,\uppercase{T}ranslated from the
 \uppercase{R}ussian by 
\uppercase{R}oman \uppercase{K}. \uppercase{K}ovalev, \uppercase{T}he \uppercase{C}ollege
 of \uppercase{N}ew \uppercase{J}ersey, \uppercase{D}epartment of \uppercase{H}istory,
\uppercase{E}wing, \uppercase{NJ} 08628, \uppercase{USA}; e-mail: kovalev@tcnj.edu.}
\\[2mm]
I\lowercase{n} F\lowercase{our} P\lowercase{arts}}


\author{ Ilya Kogan }


\address{
Even Gvirol 37/22, Givat ha' More, \\ 18625 Afula, Israel}


\maketitle

\vspace{5mm}

\tableofcontents




\newpage

\section*{Part I -- End of Childhood}
\addcontentsline{toc}{section}{\protect Part I -- End of Childhood}


\begin{flushright}
\hfill
\vbox{
\hbox{\small
To whom can I call,}
\hbox {\small With whom can I share}
\hbox{\small That sad and joyful fact,}
\hbox{\small That I remained alive?}
\vspace{1mm}
\hbox{\hspace{1.2cm}\small\sl Sergey Esenin}
}

\end{flushright}



Oh, what a jump that was! Alik screamed out something in a warlike 
chant and jumped from the highest \textit{skalka} or ``little cliff,'' 
which was perhaps some four meters high. It is interesting that 
in Zaporozhye in southern Ukraine they call them ``little cliffs'' 
-- not just cliffs or rapids. He leaped up, stretched out like 
a swallow, and faded away. Yes, he faded away in the air and 
winked at Yura and me! We also screamed something out and began 
to climb up the \textit{skalka}. Suddenly, Alik smoothly spun around 
in the air and very slowly descended, closer and closer to the 
water, and entered it hands first, then his head, then all of 
his body -- and not one splash\,\dots 

``Alik, it is wonderful!'' -- I cried out again and began to climb 
up to the top of the \textit{skalka}, but for some reason both Alik 
and Yura disappeared. I turned my head around, but could not 
find them anywhere. Then something prickly began to scratch my 
neck and I found that there were no guys, no Dnieper, no \textit{skalka} 
and, little by little, as an image develops on photo-paper -- 
as one comes out of anesthesia -- God, so this was only a dream?! 
My God, so there is no Khortitsa, no Dnieper, no sun, no guys 
-- there is nothing, nothing at all -- only this frightening awakening 
inside this haystack and the faint moan of my Mother -- as it 
was yesterday, as it was the day before\,\dots 

\subsection*{Chapter 1 -- A Thousand Years Before Our Era.\\ June 15, 1941}
\addcontentsline{toc}{subsection}{\protect Chapter 1 -- A Thousand Years Before Our Era. June 15, 1941}

Ha! Show me a guy from the 6-B class who would refuse to walk 
with Yura and Mikhail Fedorovich\,\footnote{\,The polite way of addressing a person in Russian is by the person's first name and {\em patronym}.
The latter is a derivative of the  first name of that person's father. For instance,
Mikhail Fedorovich means Mikhail the son of Fedor. -- Editors' note.}
along the dam to the right bank  of the Dnieper!

Well, okay, I do see Yura almost every day -- we go  to 
the cinema together, to the cliffs, to see the ships, and generally do 
everything together. But it is something else with Mikhail Fedorovich!

Alright, of course, my father is very special. When it turned 
out that it was only I who could solve both of the problems in 
Physics: ``\,\dots it pours into pipe A and pours out of pipe B\,\dots '' 
-- do you think that it was really I who did it all by myself? 
Yes, sure -- it was Father's work!

And when I beat everyone in class in chess with only my left 
hand, so to speak, even when I play with Tolik and even Ruvka 
Gutarovich -- do you think that it was Botvinnik or Capablanca 
who taught me how to play? No, bollocks to you -- all Father's work! 

Who bought me my first real bicycle? Who tuned it up and taught 
me how to ride it in just one hour? -- Father, of course! And 
what about the books from the library -- Jules Verne, Migne Reed, 
Jack London, Walter Scott, Alexander Dumas, H.G. Wells, K. Doyle. 
Who do you think brought them for me -- Pushkin? No, Father. Almost 
everyday he walked to the library of the ``Club of Busy People,'' 
because I swallowed books -- I read them avidly\,\dots  Believe me, 
I have a wonderful father -- even Ruvka Gutarovich said so! Have 
you ever heard Ruvka praising anyone before?\,\dots 

But, Mikhail Fedorovich\,\dots  He is a kind of another father, you 
see. Well, first it's the door, or, rather, it's not the door 
but the yellowish, glittering plaque on it (probably made of 
copper!) with the inscription: ``Engineer-Technician M.F. Leshchinski.'' 
Not bad, hey?

I did not know what the word ``technician'' meant, but the word 
itself was enchanting. This word probably somehow describes what 
is done with that slide-rule which I saw on Mikhail Fedorovich's 
desk. It has a little glass piece that slides up and down. Yura 
told me its name, but I forgot. Lo-ga-ri\,\dots , no -- I forgot. 
Well, never mind. Yura said that one can count anything one wishes 
using this slide-rule, but he did not know how to do it. Well, 
the slide-rule is not the point. You'd better tell me -- how many 
people have such plaques on their doors in Zaporozhye? Well, 
maybe one can find such a plaque on Dr. Galperin's door, but 
of whom are we talking about here? -- Dr. Galperin, a person known 
throughout Zaporozhye! And you thought what\,\dots ?

What about the evening when the three of us -- Mikhail Fedorovich, 
Yura, and I -- went to the circus? I had never attended the circus 
in the evening before -- I was allowed to go there only during 
the daytime, on Sundays.

``Mikhail Fedorovich, will they let me in?'' -- I asked.

``Of course, they will!''

And they did. The arena was flooded with light -- no, not with 
the sun rays that used to seep in through the windows of the cupola 
and reveal the millions of dust particles dancing in the beams. 
No, it was the electrical light of projectors, which also lit the 
red carpet ablaze in their rays. What about that fellow in the 
black suit -- he wore the same outfit during the day, but this 
one was different, of course, since he would not wear the same 
one during the day as at night!

``The flight in the air! The acrobats under the cupola of Circus 
 Albi \,\dots '' -- the black suit would announce. And then 
Krivorebrenko's jazz would play: 

``Ta-ta-ta-ra-a-ti-ti-ta!!!'' And nine fellows in  red tights 
under the cupola -- and here, and there, and here and there again, 
and everywhere; and then Krivorebrenko's jazz:

``Ta-ta-ta-ra-a-ti-ti-ta!!!''

``Bouncing acrobats on the tossing boards -- Ingo -- 4!!!'' -- the 
black suit would exclaim. And then Krivorebrenko's jazz:

``Ta-ta-ta-ra-a-ti-ti-ta!!!''

Well, how can one forget this? And, the third act -- French wrestling! 
Only in the evenings! Parade -- allez! You should have seen this 
-- never again would champions like Ivan Poddubny, Frank Good 
(who was as black as the top of a boot), Yartsev, Kalishevitch, 
Zagoruyko, and others step out into the circus ring\,\dots  All the 
boys of Zaporozhye raved about ``double nelsons'', ``touch\'{e}'', 
``tour des bras'', and other magical words which touch the soul 
oh so much! Well, I am just rambling, never mind\,\dots 

But how about the ships? What would you say about the ships? 
You see, Mikhail Fedorovich was just that person who called Yura's 
and my attention to the warships: we began to collect all their 
pictures, drafts, descriptions, all sorts of data on different 
kinds of navies -- oh, how interesting it was for me! 

It turned out that each of the French battleships Dunkirk and Richelieu 
had four naval guns per turret -- can you imagine this? And those 
fools -- the Japanese -- had just one gun per turret on their Kako 
cruiser: is it not enough to make one's sides split with laughter? 
What can one ask of the Japanese\,\dots ? And then in spring when 
that fascist scum, the Bismarck, sank the beautiful British battlecruiser
 Hood, Yura even cried. But I understood him very well 
-- first you look at that Hood and then you just try to say something\,\dots 

Overall, life is beautiful when you are thirteen; when the water 
in the Dnieper is warm enough to swim; when you have to return 
to school only in September; when Lora did not transfer to School 
\#24 but remained in my School \#50; when you may just walk a 
couple of hours along the dam with Mikhail Fedorovich; and when 
you know for sure that he will tell you about something truly 
interesting! If I were born a beautiful girl, like, for example, 
Ira Kucherenko, who lives in apartment \#34, I would definitely 
fall in love with Mikhail Fedorovich and marry him! He is such 
a fine fellow! White pants, white shoes, white shirt in the Ukrainian 
style, and the little mustache -- the kind found on Charlie Chaplin's 
face -- not bad, hey!

He was already waiting for us near the Tankman -- do you know 
that monument to the Pilot and Tankman, located on the corner 
of Lenin and Enthusiasts Avenues? This is not a ``Maiden with 
an Oar'' for you! Tolik said that he had not seen such monuments 
even in Moscow -- and do you know how many monuments there are 
in Moscow? Be sure of it, there are many of them there! The heroes 
stand there wearing helmets, their overalls, leggings -- they 
are tall and snow-white (whitewashed before every May Day celebration). 
One look at those heroes and the song
\begin{center}
\,\dots If war begins tomorrow, if tomorrow we have to battle --\\
We are ready for it today!
\end{center}
comes instantly to mind.
\,\dots Mikhail Fedorovich was not very jolly today, and while Yura 
and I were arguing about the guns on the Marat -- were they twelve 
or thirteen inches -- Mikhail Fedorovich was constantly thinking 
about something, something quite gloomy. Then, as we walked up 
to the dam, he suddenly put his hands upon our shoulders and 
embraced us as he said or asked:

``Well, boys, are we going to war?'' 

We just about stumbled over 
at these words.

``What war? With whom? -- ``Boys!'' He always called us ``guys,'' ``kids,'' 
even ``brothers,'' but now ``boys''\,\dots ''

``With Germany\,\dots '' -- he said.

But this is just something ridiculous, ludicrous\,\dots  Ribbentrop 
-- over here, Molotov -- over there, holding hands with Hitler; 
``Alexander Nevsky'' and ``Professor Mamlock''\footnote{\,This is
 a play by the German playwright Friedrich Wolf; it was
 written in 1933
in France where Wolf found  temporary refuge from Nazis. Wolf himself adapted the
play and co-directed the production of a 1937 Soviet film which is considered the
first dramatic film on the subject of Nazi anti-Semitism to be made.
The story centers on the persecution of a great German surgeon Professor Mamlock. -- Editors' note.} were prohibited and 
were not shown in any movie theater; one could not check out 
Karl Brunner from any library. And now we are speaking of war?! 
Well, if we should talk about war with Poland or Finland -- no 
problem: with only our left hand we will take them out; Lithuania, 
Latvia, or Bessarabia -- we will take them out without a shot 
being fired. But, war with Germany?!

``And so, Mikhail Fedorovich, the treaty, the Comintern,\footnote{\,The Communist International, otherwise known as the Comintern, was an association of national communist parties founded in 1919. Though its stated purpose was the promotion of world revolution, the Comintern functioned chiefly as an organ of Soviet control over the international communist movement. -- Editors' note.}
 and the  German Communists, they will be behind us, yes?''

Mikhail Fedorovich sighed, grunted, and said: ``Alright, brothers, 
let me  tell you about an American writer -- named O. Henry\,\dots ''

Do you know the Dneproges Dam? 800 meters across, you don't have to 
measure it, it is a scientific fact -- it has already been calculated. 
And for all of those 800 meters Yura and I had died of laughter -- 
in that story there is this guy who placed a piglet on its four 
legs, aimed and kicked it so that the piglet flew for 10 meters 
before the sound of its own squealing arrived! Only the name of the story 
I have forgotten -- it was something swinish\,\dots  And another story 
-- there, a cowboy loved a girl and there is something about 
pancakes -- also very amusing! Mikhail Fedorovich was a great 
storyteller! When we returned in the evening and were saying 
farewell, I asked him: 

``Mikhail Fedorovich, did you joke \,\dots  well, when you spoke of 
the war?''

``Oh! Ilya, Ilya, my dear, who jokes about such things?''



\subsection*{Chapter 2 -- Farewell Childhood! August 18, 1941}
\addcontentsline{toc}{subsection}{\protect Chapter 2 -- Farewell Childhood! August 18, 1941}

Who could have thought that in a month and a half the Germans 
would have come up to the Dnieper! Where is our legendary 
invincible army? -- that which is strongest of all from the taiga 
to the British seas?! Where are you looking, what are you thinking 
-- Voroshilov and Budennyi, Timoshenko and Kulik, Shaposhnikov 
and Zhukov? Why are you standing, as fools, Pilot and Tankman? 
Was it you, Stalin's hawks, who knocked out flocks of Messerschmitts 
and Caproni in the sky above Madrid and Guadalajara? Was it you, 
the three tankmen, the three merry friends, who beat the hell out
of the Samurais at  Hasan and Halhin-Gola, kicking their asses and wringing their necks! Was 
it you who broke the line at Mannerheim and took Vyborg! It was 
you -- ``if war begins tomorrow, we are ready for it today'' -- bang-bang, 
boom!! Or was it not you? Or was it not you who shot, knocked out, 
and blew up\,\dots ? Of course, I could not even imagine that the 
war was so badly botched -- totally, forever. Well, if not forever, 
then for some time -- even if the fascists strolled along the 
dam for only a month or even a week -- does it get any easier 
to think differently? The only widespread word of the day was 
``evacuation!'' People are leaving in droves as fast as possible; 
factories are dismantled down to  the last screw\footnote{As the 
Germans advanced
on the great industrial area around the  city of Kharkov much of the vital
 heavy machinery
was dismantled and moved out by train   to the east where
 it was rapidly re-assembled
and soon turning out military equipment again. -- Editors' note.}; 
and troop trains are 
being loaded -- in the warm cattle cars, on the platform -- everywhere
 workers 
with families, bundles, suitcases, trunks, tears, cursing -- fun\,\dots 

Timoshkov offered a place to Mother as well on the troop train, 
although he knew quite well that this is all baloney; the 
director of ``Koksokhim'' knew that Yakov Efimovich Shapiro, the 
former Chief Bookkeeper, is dying and is almost unable to get 
out of bed: in 1932  the Chekists\,\footnote{\,Forerunners of the KGB.
The Soviet acronym  for the name of the secret police at that time was 
NKVD. The Soviet secret police has changed acronyms like a chameleon. 
It started out as the Cheka, and then became the GPU, the OGPU, the 
NKVD, the NKGB, the MGB, and finally the KGB. In   colloquial
language people often simply referred to the  secret police as ``the Cheka'' 
and the secret agents as ``the Chekists." -- Editors' note.}  
knew how to beat what they wanted out of irresponsible Jews\,\dots 
Chekists  wanted gold\,\dots  While 
Mother was collecting money from the relatives -- who could give 
what -- Father slept for a month in winter on the ice-cold floor 
in a prison cell. The Soviet state rewarded my father with 
good tuberculosis for his good labor! And Timoshkov -- what? Timoshkov 
-- a good fellow, gave my father leave for rest, rations in the 
hunger-year of 1933, and awards. When Ordzhonikidze came to the 
``Zaporozhstal'' and swung on by ``Koksokhim'' -- all of the \textit{udarniks} 
and \textit{stakhanovets}\,\footnote{\,Semi-mythological selfless workaholic ``builders  of socialism.'' -- Translator's note.} were assembled, and Father was there and 
Sergo shook his hand. However, tuberculosis cares little whether 
you are Anton Pavlovich Chekhov or Yakov Efimovich Shapiro or 
some young woman in a painting hanging in the Tretyakov Gallery\,\dots  
So, here lies my father, coughing into a jar, and there cannot 
even be any talk about an evacuation. And Father's eyes are sad, 
and he cries when he thinks that no one is looking\,\dots  And always 
asks Mother -- God forbid that you hear of such requests! Mother 
scolds him, and assures him that God will provide -- that Father will 
get up and we will all leave together! Perhaps, it would not even 
be necessary to leave anywhere, since the Germans may be stopped 
on the Dnieper and will be pushed back! On this they ended their 
jolly chat.

\,\dots On July 28$^{th}$, perhaps 29$^{th}$, Yura came early, at about 
9, and he looked like he'd got a B:

``Today, we are departing -- Father took tickets on the passenger 
train\,\dots ''

So, here it is -- now Yura is leaving\,\dots  I knew, of course, that 
Yura would be leaving very soon, but it was still unexpected. 
The longing became even stronger, and a desire to weep came over 
me\,\dots  Well, yes, that is the last thing!

``Are all of you leaving?'' -- There is a question for you! Now, 
of course, Yura will say something like ``No, only Father and 
Mother, while I will stay to fight the Germans\,\dots ''. No, not quite:

``Mother and us. Father will travel in the troop train when the 
blooming (mill) is loaded.'' 

I already knew that blooming is not Blumin, or Blumkin, or 
some Bluminfel'd -- this was a huge machine, perhaps weighing 
1000 or maybe 10000 tons, so very long and some sort of metal 
parts are made with it. This blooming is the only one of its kind in all 
of Zaporozhstal and Mikhail Fedorovich is the supervisor of this 
blooming. 

Mother hugged and kissed Yura and I went to see him off. We walked 
in silence and only at the very ``round house'', where Yura lived, 
we stopped. Perhaps we understood -- had a premonition that we 
were parting for the duration. Probably we understood -- we had grown up a great 
deal during the last month and a half. So we parted as adults 
would: awkwardly embraced and split up without looking back, 
parted for the next 34 years\,\dots  Oh, War -- what have you done, 
you scoundrel\,\dots 
The morning was just the same as any morning -- an excellent Zaporozhye August 
morning -- just the time to go to the Dnieper and it is such a 
pleasure there! I had not been to the sea once, but I simply 
knew that the beaches there are of different kinds -- some better 
than others. I would bet that some have small sea cliffs -- only 
the water is salty and one cannot see the opposite shore\,\dots . 
But, the one thing that is clear is that better water than that 
flowing in the Dnieper cannot be found anywhere else! I had a 
chance to swim in many other water-bodies later -- in the Black 
and Red Seas, the Volga, Don, Neva, and the little-known Cheptsa, 
and even Lake Michigan -- but none of them are akin to the Dnieper! 
That water smells of youth -- that carefree and barefoot childhood 
-- and this smell will never be aired out\,\dots .

The air was so clean, transparent -- why is it that I had not 
noticed this earlier? Having only looked more attentively the 
day before yesterday at the factories -- and they can all be seen 
as if on the palm of one's hand, for real -- I suddenly understood: 
the factories had died. The huge chimneys no longer belch out 
smoke, nor do the high twin chimneys of the ``Koksokhim'' which 
stood in a pair, nor the Aluminum Factory, nor Iron-alloys. No longer 
is the sky half lit with flares of red, no more casting of iron\,\dots  
The factories had died\,\dots  It again became sad, and the desire 
to walk to the Dnieper had disappeared. In addition, Father's 
health had turned for the worse -- he scarcely could get out of 
bed and the radio -- best not to listen: ``\,\dots after long and heavy 
battles, our forces left\,\dots  '' or ``\,\dots with the aim to even the 
lines of our front, our forces left\,\dots '' cities, cities, cities 
-- large and small, familiar and some I heard of for the first 
time. How much more can be ``left''?? When will we start to ``take''?! 

A very upset Stepanida Ignatyevna entered -- ``have you heard? 
They say that the Germans have landed their marines on the right 
bank -- can you hear the shots?'' True, one can hear  shots -- 
at some distance, but one can hear them! Incredible -- marines 
on the right bank -- and the Dneproges (electric plant) is there! 
Slavka yelled  from  outside: ``Ilya! Let's go to the roof!'' 
The three of us ran up -- Slavka, Shurka from building 87, and 
I. On the roof, there was a multitude of boys all of whom were 
staring somewhere, pointing at something, but what can you see 
there? It is about two kilometers to the right bank from 
here -- but one can see some sort of explosions. Shurka is messing 
around with his pearl-colored theater binoculars -- what's the 
use of them? And from the side of Khortitsa Island, across the 
bridge, there is an endless stream of people, cattle, cars, combines, 
mowers, flayers of all types. From the top, one has a good view 
--  some 500 meters of the stream and the end  is not 
in sight\,\dots  Suddenly, among this stream -- explosions, blasts! 
One car was ripped open into shreds and people scattered\,\dots  
Boys were dumbfounded -- wow! -- the marines are being destroyed! 
The shells were getting closer and closer -- now exploding inside 
the city, near buildings, between houses, in homes! Like peas, 
the boys scattered from the rooftop -- and I flew into the apartment, 
dumb from fear. Mother stood near my father's bed, calmly, as 
it seems to me. Her eyes were dry and somehow empty as she said:

``Ilya, son, listen carefully! Father is dying and he is no longer 
conscious\,\dots '' Only then did I notice that Father, kind beloved 
Father, is in bed his eyes closed and breathing fitfully\,\dots
  ``You will help me move Father into 
the kitchen, only first we should place something on the floor 
there since the bed will not fit through\,\dots ''

``Why in the kitchen?'' -- I asked.

``Because they are shooting from the right bank -- it seemed so, 
didn't it?''

We removed everything from my mother's bed and went to the kitchen 
to lay out a makeshift bed. But the bedding was not necessary\,\dots  
The blast was frightening. Instinct works well -- Mother and I 
immediately found ourselves under the table. This saved us from 
the falling debris of plaster -- but we were okay\,\dots  Dust had 
not yet settled when we ran into the room, but the room was already 
gone -- no wall with the window, no large part of the floor, all 
was covered with brick, plaster, and glass. And no Father! No 
more. No need for the bed, no need for the broth, which was cooking 
on kerosene in the kitchen\,\dots  And there are no tears. Good that 
they are absent since there is no time to weep; it is necessary 
to bury Father somewhere, for the attack seems to have subsided 
-- this is not for long, however. Perhaps the Germans' soup had 
also come to the boil -- lunch break has come\,\dots 

We ran to the bomb-shelter under building 88 and a light is burning 
there! Electric! But not for long -- while we were searching for 
a stretcher, it went out. It went out for a long time, for years -- there 
was Dneproges but it had come to an end\,\dots  We asked the janitor, 
Mustafa, to help and place Father on the stretcher. Where to 
take him, good people had shown: nearby, in the lot of the hospital 
there is a large pit -- now it is a mass grave that is not yet 
full. To carry a body some 100 meters is very difficult -- yes 
and with the bombs still exploding in the distance -- but this is 
the time for a burial\,\dots  We arrived. Yes, there is still some 
space. On the top lies a young soldier, but positioned somehow inhumanely 
-- with face downwards\,\dots  Mustafa turned him over, said something 
in Tatar, poured some earth over him, placed Father on top, again 
said something in Tatar, and the three of us began to put earth 
over him -- faster and faster, since the shelling was coming closer. 
Having almost covered him, only the tips of his home shoes are 
partially visible, here come the bombs, let them be damned! We 
ran away, determined to return and complete the burial\,\dots  When 
we came back about two hours later there is nothing more to do. 
The burial was completed without us -- the pit was full and only 
a small mound of earth could be made on top. We returned to the 
bomb-shelter and it was here where I could no longer restrain 
myself. Never in my life before nor after had I cried so much. 
I wept for all -- for the wrecked childhood, for Father whom we 
could not even bury in a decent human fashion, for the sorrowful 
land of ours which had been so despoiled, for the Dnieper water 
which has been mixed with blood, for our beautiful Zaporozhye, 
for Mother's suffering -- for all, for all\,\dots  At age thirteen 
my childhood was over while 1941 was only just beginning\,\dots 



\subsection*{Chapter 3 -- And They Came, Scourged By the Sun\,\dots \\ Germans.
August 1941--June 1942}
\addcontentsline{toc}{subsection}{\protect Chapter 3 -- And They Came, Scourged By the Sun\,\dots  Germans. August 1941-June 1942}


Mother and I spent a couple of days in the shelter of building 
88, came to our senses a bit, gathered some of our belongings, 
bade farewell to Father and neighbors, and went to the factory 
to catch the troop train. We left at dusk, it was just getting 
dark -- a time when there was little shooting. It was also not 
so hot outside, and we had to walk for some 3-4 kilometers to the 
factory. Halfway en route, we sat to rest. We were silent\,\dots  
Suddenly, the earth trembled. I looked west and was in awe: somewhere 
near the Dnieper silently arose a huge mushroom\,\dots  The dam! 
They've blasted the dam!

``Mother, open up your mouth!!''

``What?''

``Open! Wider! Mouth!''

And it blasted! Oh, how it exploded! Our pride, the beautiful 
Dneproges! With what pain your mortal wound resonated in our 
hearts. It will not heal soon! But, how many more wounds like 
this will be ahead? Here it is, death -- how it swings its scythe 
-- swinging it for real, without holidays or weekends -- the count 
is rising in the millions. Who is next? -- Step up! And they went 
scourged by the sun, watered by the rains, blown by the winds, 
covered by the snows -- on wagons, cars, freight trains\,\dots  This 
is only on the geographic map -- here is Zaporozhye for you, here 
is Voroshilograd for you, half a day's  travelling with a layover 
in Volnovakh. And in this half day of travel by the front lines 
there are also the bombings, and hospitals, and sleeping in the 
open field, and much, much else. \,\dots Oh, it will be a long time 
until Mother and Aunt Nina will embrace and cry their guts out, 
I will warm myself by the hot Holland stove, eat the indescribably 
delicious borscht, and lie down to sleep on a white, crisp bed 
sheet. It will be a long time until I will fall asleep while listening 
to the incomprehensibly old clock -- Uncle Grisha's pride, reconstructed 
by him down to  every screw and bolt -- make its ticking sound, counting 
out the first minutes of December 1941. God, how good it is! 

Our suffering seemed to be over! The Germans were stalled 
near Moscow! To the south we retook Rostov-on-the-Don and Taganrog, 
and in Donbass -- Lozovaia and Barvenkovo. In the Crimea -- Kerch 
and Feodosiya! Under Leningrad -- Tikhvin (who knew of Tikhvin 
before this?). Now, only ahead! Although von Kleist stands with 
his tanks in Debaltsevo some 70 kilometers or about three hours 
away, it's okay -- his turn will come too! In the same way they 
came here, the same way they will run away. We will make a decent 
burial for Father and we will stroll along the rebuilt dam! The 
schools reopened and I went to 7$^{th}$ grade, sitting behind the 
same desk with my cousin Musya. I could not even imagine earlier 
what happiness it would be to sit behind a desk and solve various 
problems, and even study 7$^{th}$-grade English,  having not yet 
learned  5$^{th}$- and 6$^{th}$-grade German well. If it is necessary 
-- we will learn it! So, I finished 7$^{th}$ grade, but only in the 
spring and summer of 42, it did not turn out quite so well. More 
correctly, not well at all\,\dots  I surely never reckon, could not 
even guess, that this year -- yes, what a year of Voroshilov -- 
Red-bannered Voroshilovgrad, they will surrender without giving 
battle! In the spring,  tremendous booming began in the west. 
It was very alarming. From all sides people began to talk about 
the possibility that they were blasting ice on the Donets River 
-- what a pleasure it was to believe this! The front, after all, 
was very near and it was attractive to think and wish that soon, 
very soon, the front would move, booming ahead. Well, it moved, 
but not in the direction we hoped for\,\dots  And what a fine spring 
it was! How warm and radiating the earth was then! How fragrant 
the acacia! It was so cozy in the evenings at home with the open 
windows, behind which squeaked the cicadas. How slumbering was 
the voice of Grandpa Aronson who popped in for evening chats 
and with diligence described the dignity and civility of the 
German occupation of 1918: 

``They gave white bread, as if made of gold -- if I could live so 
now!''

This is how you lived, Grandpa, until November 1 of 1942\,\dots  Oh, 
the Russian concept of ``perhaps,''\footnote{\,Famous \textit{`avos'}. -- Translator's note.} how much misery, past present and future, you have caused.
It was time to leave, but how? There were no troop trains; passenger 
coaches were not running; and, the timid offers of Dora, Musya, 
and myself to leave by foot were only waved off. Indeed, go where, 
if there is shooting somewhere in the east\,\dots ? Probably on July 
12$^{th}$ there was a frightening bombing of the station. It seemed 
as though the bombs fell just nearby -- since we lived on Olkhovskaia 
Street. On day two, the petrol depository behind the Artem factory 
burst out into flames. The sky above the city turned black while 
the city died out and the streets were empty. 

Our neighbors -- the Shustermans -- who just recently returned from 
evacuation, came to prefer and speak kindly of Tashkent which 
they so recently derided. And Grandpa Aronson is nowhere to 
be seen. And here they are, the Germans  
on both sides of the street wearing their helmets, green tunics, 
their sleeves rolled up, carrying their automatic guns in their 
lowered arms, walking, talking, and laughing. This is not ``Professor 
Mamlock'' for you, nor ``if war begins tomorrow\,\dots ''. Real-life 
fascists are strolling along our Olkhovskaia.  



\subsection*{Chapter 4 -- Hell. Third Month in Hell. June 17, 1942 -- \\ October 
31, 1942}
\addcontentsline{toc}{subsection}{\protect Chapter 4 -- Hell. Third Month in Hell. June 17, 1942 --  \\October 31, 1942}


So it began\,\dots . Well, Grandpa Aronson, where are the generous 
Germans, where is the bread, as of gold? Do you know what \textit{peich} 
is Grandpa? Grandpa is silent\,\dots  I saw this \textit{peich} in practice. 
Thank God, I did not experience it myself, just saw and will 
never forget it. Several days after the German arrival, amongst 
the many posters, leaflets, orders, and appeals there appeared 
a decree on the mandatory registration of Jews -- for disobedience:  the
firing squad. How much longer will we live? All of the furniture 
from the home of our uncle and aunt, where the six of us lived, 
was confiscated. At the threat of firing squad, we were ordered 
to wear armbands with the Star of David. Unbridled anti-Semitic 
propaganda: from the posters glare repulsive mugs of Yids -- bloodsuckers, 
calling in frenzy -- beat, beat, and beat them\,\dots  And how they beat. 
They beat well. Order: to be at the labor exchange -- \textit{arbaitsbergerd} 
-- each day by 8 in the morning. ``Work-providers'' select 5 or 10 
people, as many as they need. The very first day I found myself 
engaged in picking up trash in the yard of this very exchange. 
Sometime between 10 and 11, I saw something that I will not forget 
until the end of my days. A group of officers headed by  Commandant Zoffner
walked out onto the high porch, as if onto a podium. 
A person wearing rather elegant attire was pushed out into the 
middle of the yard -- clearly he knew not where and for what reason 
he was being led there\,\dots  At a distance of some 10 or 20 meters 
from each other, coachmen were ordered to stand holding their 
riding-crops (just a bit earlier some wagons entered into the yard  
with furniture, hence the coachmen). The entire episode was supervised 
by the manager of the exchange -- Stetsenko, apparently. He said 
something to this terrified person who ran, limping along, 
to one of the coachmen. The latter hit him with his riding-crop, 
but not hard. The person yelled out and ran to the other coachman\,\dots  
The frightened coachmen beat him with obvious displeasure. The 
enraged Zoffner shouted out something to Stetsenko and tossed 
him his \textit{peich}. A \textit{Peich} is a long whip covered with 
leather.\footnote{\,A bullwhip. -- Translator's note.}
God knows how it is made, but that it's a 
serious device, this I saw immediately\,\dots  Stetsenko grabbed 
the \textit{peich}, the Pole Stas, one of Zoffner's lackeys, seized 
the coachman's riding-crop  and then began the real work -- a 
multitude of direct hits\,\dots  I recognized the unhappy fellow 
-- this was the barber from Lenin Boulevard. He had once cut my hair\,\dots  
The clothes of the poor fellow turned into bloody rags, he fell 
on the ground, screamed something out in Yiddish, and fell silent. 
They trampled him with their feet a bit and dragged him away. 
The spectators departed laughing. I stood there half-conscious 
-- having seen for the first time in my life the beating of an adult. 
Passing by, the heated Stetsenko barked out:

``Why are you not working, Yid? You want a whipping too?''

``No\,\dots '' I breathed out and resumed waving my broom about the 
ground.

So the days passed by, frightful in their hopelessness, despair, 
and hungry existence, full of horror from the waking hours at 
dawn, agony and torment\,\dots 

There is one more day I will never forget. Fifteen men and teenagers 
were counted out, placed inside a huge truck, and taken to the 
outskirts of the city. On the rail-line stands a trolley, a regular 
trolley fitted with an automobile engine. Two Germans -- an 
officer and a private -- stand next to it. Order: dismantle the 
trolley and load it into the truck. Understand? Do it!!! And 
the order was carried out. Toward evening, the trolley was loaded 
-- I only hoped that I would survive until evening\,\dots  Beautiful 
lads these Germans, charming -- similar looking types appear on 
posters:

``Drink Soviet champagne!'' ``Fly on planes of Aeroflot!'' ``Save money 
in {\em Sberkassy}!''\footnote{\,The Soviet Savings Bank. -- Editors' note.} 
But, in the hands of these ``charmers'' there 
are sticks a finger thick.

``Left -- right, left -- right, don't speak''-- and on the head, on 
the shoulders, on the hands, on the backs -- but not to death, 
no! The trolley has to be loaded! Mother looked at me in the 
evening and she felt sick\,\dots 

Otto, Willy, Hans, Hubert -- here, this person is old enough to 
be your father, and this one -- wearing the glasses -- your grandfather; 
they did not do anything bad to you, why are you so against them?! 
Do not judge God based on what is found on Earth, since Earth 
is not His best creation\,\dots 

Well, another day passed -- how many remain? Tomorrow is Sunday 
-- at least we will sleep in late\,\dots  We dined late, under the 
light of a kerosene lamp. Steamed beets were not so bad, if some 
salt was sprinkled on them. Soon even this ran out, but we tried 
not to think about it too much. The door was not locked, so a 
police officer entered without knocking: he walked in business-like 
-- did not call us Yids -- sat down, and unfolded on his laps some 
sort of papers with lists of names:

``Turoki and Shapiro live here?'' -- and then he called out Uncle 
Grisha, Aunt Nina, Dora, and Musya and then me and Mother. Without 
waiting for an answer, he said: 

``Tomorrow, November 1, at 6 in the morning come to Voroshilov 
Stadium. Take your most expensive possessions -- get it? You will 
be sent off to a ghetto, to Stalino\,\dots  See to it that you are 
not late. Otherwise, I have to run around and gather you all! 
Well, farewell \,\dots  those Gokh\,\dots  how is it\,\dots  Gokh-ler-ne-rs 
live in apartment \#24?'' Then he left.

``I have ruined you, my dear son -- forgive me, forgive me!!!'' -- said Mother.

Aunt Nina in frenzy began to kiss the girls and also bade forgiveness. 
Uncle Grisha was running around the room and was shouting out 
something in Yiddish. This lasted probably about two minutes. 
The first to come to her senses was Aunt Nina. In general, she 
was great. 

``Quickly, get dressed -- we are leaving before the curfew hours!'' 
Suddenly, she had a revelation -- ``Dora, grab Musya, and run to 
the Italians -- perhaps they will save you! My God -- run fast!''

We grabbed what we could and ran in all directions: Aunt Nina, 
Uncle Grisha, Mother, and I ran through the settlement of Budennoe 
to the Krasnodonskoe highway; while Dora and Musya ran to the 
Italians. Ordinary Italians -- from Italy\,\dots  May you be blessed 
for centuries, beautiful Italy, the country that  sheltered 
and saved my sisters! 

These Italians were stationed as some sort of irregular division 
in the city, perhaps a garrison, maybe on leave, or something 
else. Charming fellows -- no one looted, no one killed anyone 
-- fine lads: Bersaglieri with rooster feathers inserted in their 
helmets; Carabinieri in pre-``Great Flood'' three-cornered hats, 
promenading in pairs, showoff officers in their elegant light-gray 
tunics; combat pilots, I even once saw a sailor. From morning 
to morning they sang their Neapolitan songs and drove the girls 
of Voroshilovgrad crazy! In the movie theater ``October'' they 
had something like a club and they felt it necessary to bring 
some order to it. So they came to the labor exchange and five 
women were counted out to them. Dora turned out to be amongst 
this group of five. They swept and washed the floors, and during 
the break Dora sat down at the piano. Dora was a student of the 
Kiev Conservatory and played so well that they wrote about her 
in the ``Pravda''  newspaper. So, she sat down at the piano and 
began to play. After that, the Italians fell in love with her. 
They made her the official cleaning lady in ``October.'' 

When Dora and Musya came to them that frightful evening, the 
Italians sheltered and hid them, and Capitan De Beni managed
to send them off to Italy, to his family, to Signora Iza. There, 
the two girls lived as members of the family until the end of 
the war, and then returned home. Captain De Beni and his wife 
Iza  have been placed posthumously into the Yad Vashem Museum and granted 
the title ``righteous of the World.'' 

I, together with Mother, Aunt Nina, and Uncle Grisha came
to the outskirts of the city and waited until dawn in a revoltingly 
untidy tram stop. With sunrise, we came out on the road and walked 
east -- in the direction of the rising sun. The highway was teeming 
with people -- city folk were going to the villages to barter 
what they had for provisions: a suit, gramophone, a piece of 
cloth, a watch\,\dots  Many people were on the road, it was joyful 
-- so we melted into this stream of people. We walked all day 
long, walked just so, simply, without any aim -- we just did not 
want to die. We spent the night sleeping in a haystack. In the 
morning, Aunt Nina and Uncle Grisha returned to the city to get 
news of what had happened to the girls. They 
did not find the girls,of course,
 but they were able to save themselves. They survived 
thanks to the neighbors who harbored them -- Liudmila Fedorovna 
and Ivan Nikolaevich Anosov -- for this they will not be forgotten, 
may the earth be like down to them!\footnote{\,The Russian equivalent
of ``may they rest in peace". -- Translator's note.}


\subsection*{Chapter 5 -- Third Day of the New Era. Policeman.\\ November 
3, 1942}
\addcontentsline{toc}{subsection}{\protect Chapter 5 -- Third Day of the New Era. Policeman. \\
November 3, 1942}

\,\dots What a wonderful morning it was, and what a dreadful awakening! 
We climbed out of the haystack and came out onto the road. The 
road was already boisterous -- many people were walking along 
it, pushing carts with all sorts of junk from the city, with 
produce from the villages. We walked in silence. I tried not 
to look at Mother; her face was\,\dots  No, I better not tell you 
what kind of an expression she had. After that frightful evening, 
she no longer asked for my forgiveness. We simply walked, as 
yesterday, as the day before -- east, facing the rising sun and, 
as yesterday, as the day before, somewhere deep-deep inside a 
sensation of hope came over me -- well, we should not die, when 
we face the sun so! Well, dear God -- well, dearest -- well, You 
can do anything. Perform a Miracle! Can it really be that the 
eighteen people buried in Mariopol are too few?! How many more 
do we have to surrender? Grandmother, Aunt Ginda, and Aunt Lida, 
and Uncle Yasha, and Mosya, and Eva, and also Mosya, and also 
Eva -- how much more lamentation can be expected from us -- God?! 
Why do You also need us -- for a round number, yes? God, how much 
I want to live! Do You hear, God, I do not want to die! Dear 
God, dearest, You have saved me so many times before -- do You 
recall, in Zaporozhye, when I was drowning? And when the bomb 
exploded above our apartment and killed Father -- do You recall? 
And in Voroshilovgrad when the bombs were falling next to us; 
on the railroad station -- You had saved us then, right? Then 
save us now too -- You are the All-Powerful, Compassionate, Great\,\dots 

We sat on the side of the road having lowered our legs into the 
trench. Behind our backs walked ordinary lucky people -- Russians, 
Ukrainians, Greeks, and others who did not have to worry about 
the possibility of being shot right here, on the road\,\dots  Lucky 
people who do not even suspect how lucky they are\,\dots  

\,\dots Suddenly, Mother embraced and pulled me to her; with an almost 
alien voice, low and coarse, she said, no -- she squeezed it out 
of her self:

``Do not be frightened my son, it will be quick\,\dots ''

What will be quick? I glanced left, then right -- and saw a policeman 
approaching us\,\dots  Policeman, how can it be a policeman? -- wearing 
a cheap frayed grayish suit and boots which had long since smelled no 
 wax; a worn cap and a washed-out shirt\,\dots  Shabby policeman, 
overall -- but he can do whatever he wants with us, since behind 
his back he has our\,\footnote{\,I.e. Soviet. -- Translator's note.} rifle, 
on his arm he has a  white band with a fascist eagle, and he 
is authority -- small, 
stinking -- but authority. And we are Yids, having been sentenced 
to death we have no right to live, and probably in five minutes 
he will walk away
 along the road having finished smoking,
 while on the side of the road Mother and I will lie 
still\,\dots  Simple as that, Eva Solomonovna\,\dots  Later on I tried 
to figure out how frightening this was; did I understand that 
these may have been my last seconds on Earth -- God knows, I still 
have not figured it out\,\dots  

``Hello\,\dots '' 

``Hello\,\dots ''

``Who may you be?''

``Well, we are going to trade some clothing, perhaps we can get 
some produce in exchange\,\dots ''

``Jews -- are you?'' -- God, will he really kill us?! He did not 
say ``Yids,'' nor ``Kikes,'' but ``Jews!'' He had recognized us (and 
what was there to recognize? -- one could see that from a mile 
away!), but did not remove the rifle from his back! God, can 
it be that we will survive?! He said in a seemingly non-malicious 
way:

``Jews -- are you?'' 

``Jews\,\dots ''

``So then why are you sitting here, like some kind of\,\dots ? ''

``We don't want to die\,\dots ''

 ``So get away from here for Christ's sake -- go wherever you can. Your brothers and sisters
are piled in huge heaps at High Grave\,\dots '' -- and he stood
with his hand above his head and said:

``The heaps are this high!''

 ``If you are such a good person, I beg you,  tell us where to go?'' -- said 
Mother.

``Where to go, where to go\,\dots  go to ``ours,''\footnote{\,I.e. behind the front line to the Soviet side.  -- Translator's note.} below Stalingrad\,\dots  But, maybe it would be best for you to go to the 
Cossacks, beyond the Donets -- the areas there are very remote, 
and there are few Germans there. From Krasnodon it is not far, 
it would be some 20 kilometers. Go through Shakhtar, Glukhovo, 
and the rest\,\dots  Be careful walking, and look out -- do not fall 
prey to  bastards like me!''

``May God provide more  bastards like you'' -- this was me  joining 
in the conversation.

``And you, kid, be silent -- you know nothing; `ours' (Soviets -- 
tr.) will come, and I will get the first bullet\,\dots '' 

He looked at us for one or two more seconds, turned around and 
marched off towards the city\,\dots  I do not remember his face 
-- it was rather ragged, an unremarkable face on this not-so-young-man; 
but the eyes -- these I will never forget! They were filled with 
sorrow, terrible longing, and unforgivable guilt. It is probably 
not an easy trade -- shooting Yids. Letting us off -- I bet, wiping 
off sin? And, maybe, he did not shoot anyone, but watched how 
others shot innocent people.

\,\dots Maybe, there is another life up there,
and when my hour has come I 
will ask the Lord to arrange a meeting with that policeman and 
I will forgive him the blood of my brothers and sisters. I will 
bow low, very low to him for not killing us and for telling us the 
correct route to take: we took that road via Krasnodon and swung 
 left -- we remained alive. For this generous present I give 
my gratitude -- for 60 years I have been happy, for the beloved 
wife, son, grandchildren, for my interesting and beloved occupation 
that brought me many years of joy -- for everything. If  only  I 
could see him, recognize him there among the billions\,\dots 


\subsection*{Chapter 6 -- Happy Holiday, My Son! November 7, 1942}
\addcontentsline{toc}{subsection}{\protect Chapter 6 -- Happy Holiday, My Son! November 7, 1942}

Lord God granted us five passable days. Warm -- not one cloud 
in the sky -- first-rate Indian summer. We walk slowly towards 
town -- it makes no difference to us where we go, since there 
is no hope and we are simply playing hide-and-seek with the unknown. 
Perhaps we will live one more day\,\dots  We look and suddenly see 
Germans riding bicycles with their helmets and automatic guns 
-- on their chests appear huge plaques -- field-gendarmes -- field 
police\,\dots  there were six of them. Now they will check our papers 
and that will be the end of the comedy. Here now\,\dots  Here\,\dots  Can it be that 
they passed? They passed! They tossed around some words in their 
filthy language, but were too lazy to get off their bikes -- again 
we escaped\,\dots  And, on the sixth day, we get out of the haystack 
and see that it is curtains for us. The sky is gray like lead 
and it is raining, dreary cold rain. Towards evening, there was 
not one thread on us that was not wet, but the rain had stopped. 
Instead, however, there was frost and a wind that blew right through 
our haystack so that our clothing turned into an icy chain mail, 
it crunched\,\dots 

The night was frightening, but we survived; only our toes were 
frostbitten. But is this really a disaster? Toes -- this is a 
trifle; if we can walk, it's okay... As soon as it was dawn, 
we walked out onto the highway, Mother embraced and kissed me 
with her shivering, cold lips she said:

``Happy holiday, my son\,\dots '' -- I was petrified, can it be that I 
had gone crazy? Oh, yes, today is November 7$^{th}$...\footnote{\,The 25$^{th}$ anniversary of the 1917 Bolshevik revolution. -- Editors' note.} 

``Happy holiday, Mummy\,\dots ''

``Tell you  what, my dear -- I have no more strength\,\dots  Let us go 
and surrender? On arriving in Krasnodon, we will walk into the 
police station\,\dots  It will be quick\,\dots  You will see -- it will 
be quick\,\dots  Let's go, son, hey?''

``No, I don't want to! I want to live, God -- I want to live! I 
do not want to die, Mummy -- lets live a little more\,\dots  Perhaps 
in Krasnodon we should go left, to the Cossacks, as that policeman 
said?''

``Sure, they are all waiting for us there, already have supper prepared 
\,\dots '' -- and after a pause, in an acquiescent voice said 
-- ``well, okay, let's live a little longer\,\dots ''

And so we went across Krasnodon to the left via Shakhta, Glukhovo, 
and other farmsteads\,\dots  No, we were not destined to slumber 
in any more haystacks -- had enough of that! Thank God that we 
are still alive, not frozen and had not caught pneumonia.
We have not forgotten that 
terrible night  for the rest of our lives. 
And not one soul would let us into a hut overnight without permission 
of the village elders: the Germans had decreed a special order 
that all violators would be shot immediately. Mother decided 
that there is nothing to loose and made a desperate move -- on 
approaching the first farmstead, she went to the village elder. 
She told him that she had lost her papers, that she was with 
her son, looking for work, that she is a good tailor (Mother, 
indeed, sewed excellently), and that perhaps Lord Elder would 
issue her a document that would permit her to stay overnight. 
In gratitude, she would give him her husband's watch which was manufactured by Pavel 
Bure -- ``perhaps you have heard of them? It's a good watch -- wear it 
and prosper\,\dots '' And the elder gave her the document. He earned 
it honestly -- perhaps the first watch he ever had in his life.

\,\dots It was at first embarrassing to stretch out my hands for a handout, 
to remove my hat and cross myself; it was painful, but later 
we grew accustom to it, only at first I made the cross with my 
left hand (I am left-handed\,\dots ). They gave modestly, but 
they gave -- there was almost no sense of hunger. Thank you, good 
people, for your kindness. You also did not have it  so sweet\,\dots  Our 
first night was spent in a rather poor but clean hut. Earthen 
floor. The lamp was made out of a mangled spent shell. Our hosts, 
an elderly woman of some fifty years of age and her son Ivan, 
a lad of twenty years -- light-haired with blue eyes -- blind since 
childhood. God, how happy he was at our arrival!

``You see Mother, I had a dream -- that we will have some good 
fortune! Here come some guests!'' -- said Ivan. 

My God! Two of the most unfortunate people in the world, destitute, 
convicted to death, escaping from death, hungry, homeless, deprived 
of all emotions and feelings except one -- the feeling of fear, 
filled to the brim -- and we are ``good fortune''? And we are ``guests''? 
Oh, Ivan, Ivan, it would have been better if Dr.~Aibolit\,\footnote{\,
Dr. ~``Ouch-It-Hurts'' -- a character from a popular children's book by Korney Chukovsky. -- Translator's note.} had 
knocked at your door and given you a magical pill so that you 
would see how good the world is, even under occupation\,\dots  The 
hostess served us pumpkin porridge with wheat! The Tsar was probably 
 served all sorts of beef steaks and the like  for dinner -- 
he was the Tsar after all -- but, undoubtedly, pumpkin porridge with 
wheat was presented as a side dish! And, I -- fool -- turned up my nose at it  before the 
war \,\dots  Later, Ivan and I talked or, more 
accurately, I became talkative and told him the story of \textit{Mysterious 
Island}.\footnote{\,One of Jules Verne's novels. -- Editors' note.} 
Before the war, this was my favorite table book. So I 
strolled along the paths of Lincoln Island, through the ``Woods 
of the Far West'' to ``Snake Peninsula'', along the shores of Washington 
Bay, visited the Granite House, recalled Engineer Cyrus Smith 
and his loyal friends. I did not even forget Top and Jup, visited 
captain Nemo, and waited until the arrival of the sailboat ``Duncan''. 
Ivan strolled along with me across the island -- and, may lightning 
strike me, he saw it all, I swear to God, he saw it all! He was 
wildly happy when Engineer Cyrus Smith was saved; or when a box of quinine was found near 
the dying Herbert; and shaken 
with excitement when the pirates seized the noble Ayrton. I have 
never had nor ever will have such a grateful listener!

In the morning, we thanked the hostess, said farewell to the 
sad Ivan, and walked ahead into the unknown\,\dots  


\subsection*{Chapter 7 -- My Dear Grachiki! November 13, 1942}
\addcontentsline{toc}{subsection}{\protect Chapter 7 -- My Dear Grachiki! November 13, 1942}

Donets -- stern, gray, inhospitable. What awaits us Zaporozhians 
beyond the Donets? A boatman carried us across the river and 
we walked along Cossack land, on a path through a wood -- but 
where? Well at least there was just one path. Otherwise, who 
knows which one to take? This path led us to Gundorovskie Grachiki 
farmstead -- let there always be God's blessing upon you, our 
cherished farmstead, which harbored, warmed us -- saved us during 
the harsh days of occupation! And it is not our fault that our 
salvation was paid for with the lives of fifteen Jews half a year 
earlier. It so happened that already in the autumn of 1941 three 
Jewish families had arrived at this farmstead. They were peasants 
from some sort of a Jewish state-commune farm: fifteen people 
-- elderly folk, women, and children. They lived in friendship 
with the Cossacks and the children played together. But, this ``Friendship 
of Peoples'' did not last for long. In the summer of '42  Germans came 
-- someone had informed on them. So,  the punishment party came and 
all the Jews were shot right there in the yards -- why transport 
them some 25 kilometers! One youngster, however, they did not 
finish off, but the Yid did not get far away \,\dots  They tracked 
him down by the blood trail and corrected the mistake\,\dots  This 
shook  the Cossacks. Of course, it seems that all is right: 
``beat the Yids and save Russia!'' All is clear and understandable, 
what's there\,\dots  Suddenly, however, it is revealed that these 
people aren't so bad, these Jews -- see how they work their fingers 
to their bones in their peasant tasks! Their kids are also agreeable! 
And right before the eyes of the farmers, the SS shoot Grandpa 
Moisei, his daughter Anna, and the three-year-old Lizochka\,\dots  
What is going on, good people? What for? When Mother and I came 
to the farmstead, many told us about this tragedy. But, no one 
ever asked us who we were and no one ever asked us for papers 
-- not the hetman\footnote{\, The local Cossack military commander. -- Editors' note.}, nor the village elder, nor the policemen (there 
were two of them) -- it was a forbidden subject. But, even if not everyone 
knew, very many did. Mother sewed, we were fed, and concerning 
the forbidden topic -- it was all hush-hush. 

For two months we lived like this. Two months -- every day, every 
hour, every second we lived in fear. Will we be betrayed or not? 
Will we survive or not? Will ours (Soviets -- tr.) come or not? 
Despair changed to hope and hope to despair. When it became totally 
intolerable, I recollected the sun rising to greet us\,\dots  My 
poor mother, my dear, beloved mother -- I stand before you on 
my knees, kiss your overworked hands. How was it for you during 
such a frightful time, to carry twice the burden? How did your 
heart withstand it, and what about your senses! In what Neo-Platonic 
debt I am to you! Only when `ours' came, the farmers began to talk 
-- people with whom we were and were not acquainted came up to 
us, clapped us on the shoulder and were joyful that we survived. 
Perhaps they were fulfilling their promise that they would save 
at least these two? I do not know, they did not say. They saved 
us and that's all. My dear little farmstead Gundorovskie Grachiki, 
Glubokinskii region, Rostov oblast -- you are always in my heart!

Ours, the liberators, came on January 17, 1943 -- wearing worn cotton 
jackets and greasy coats which were once white; they came cursing 
in the appropriate native tongue, with front-line chaos and bombing, 
which nearly brought our attempts at survival in this meat-grinder 
to nothing\,\dots  The Germans bombed our miserable farmstead for 
two days; and we have news! Mother has come down with typhus! 
 Six bombs fell around the house -- six craters now; the porch 
is torn off, a piece of shrapnel burst through the wooden wall, 
but Mother lies there unconscious! But, God helped again -- the 
bombing ceased and Mother recovered. Here is the sun -- rising 
to greet us!

The front is near, just behind Voroshilovgrad, some 50-60 kilometers 
away. But, another misfortune befell me -- sickness, delusion 
of some kind probably. Jack London has a story, I think  it's called ``Love 
of Life''. A fellow walked through a snowy desert, 
walked until his last bit of strength; then he crawled, rolled 
over\,\dots  He finally made it to the shore and he was spotted from 
a ship and saved. When he came to his senses, it suddenly ``came 
to him'' -- he was afraid that there would not be enough to eat. 
He hated everyone who sat at the table -- they ate, they depleted 
the reserves of food! Everyone told him that there were plenty 
of products, took him to the storeroom, galley -- but he did not 
believe them. He begged for crusts of bread from the sailors, 
stole bread crusts -- his whole cabin was packed with dry bread. 
The doctor said that this would all go away -- and it did. He 
became well again. Something similar happened to me. I was afraid 
of the Germans' return to the point of sickness, to cold sweat, 
to awful dryness in my mouth. I slept very badly and could not 
wait till morning. Then began the everyday ritual: 

I walked about the farmstead and encountered every single soldier 
whom I saw with a single question -- how are things at the front? 
Had the Germans returned? I was calmed down, but I did not believe it\,\dots  
When the front moved ahead, there were no longer any soldiers 
at the farmstead. Thus, my suffering strengthened. I came to 
myself only in March when Mother and I moved east, towards Stalingrad. 
We were sent off with great warmth -- goodbye, our precious Grachiki, 
God protect you! And you, my fifteen brethren in blood, I will 
never forget you. May there be eternal memory of you and our 
eternal gratitude!


\subsection*{Chapter 8 -- Mikhailovna and Pronya. Kettle. March 1943}
\addcontentsline{toc}{subsection}{\protect Chapter 8 -- Mikhailovna and Pronya. Kettle. March 1943}

We are alive! We survived! And so, Zoffner, Bekker, Krauze, Laich 
--  Hitler's dogs, you vile fascists -- did you take us?! Maybe 
you are now rotting in the soil of Russia, while we are walking 
on this beautiful ground east to Stalingrad. The sun is rising 
to greet us! Oh, You, my God, how good it is! How the earth radiates! 
How high up in the sky sings some sort of bird -- a skylark probably! 
How gorgeous is the endless Don steppe -- our winter clothes are gone to rags 
and  we are too hot in them but no matter,
we shouldn't chuck them out -- that's the last thing we should do! 
It doesn't matter that the only other thing we own is
 a twisted soldier's kettle 
which was given to us in Grachiki by Sgt. Kostin. It doesn't matter that
we still have to walk  some 300 kilometers to Stalingrad. It's okay -- we will 
make it! 


On the first day, we walked some 25 kilometers and came to Glubokaia. 
We spent the night somewhere near the station and quickly left 
early in the morning. Good thing that we did! \,\dots  Some 3 kilometers 
away, we sat down on a mound to rest and suddenly saw above us 
three groups of Junkers, 60 planes, flying north without resistance 
 in perfect formation, probably towards Millerovo. Some 
5 or 6 of them separated, quickly reformed into a ``carousel'' and 
began to dive on the station. Everything is on fire and in smoke. 
Again, our lucky star had shielded us\,\dots 

 We became quite engaged with our journey. In one day, we would 
walk some 20 to 25 kilometers. Sometimes we walked while at others 
we got a lift. Our destination was the station at Tatsinskaia from 
where trains ran to Stalingrad. More specifically, these were 
freight trains -- passenger trains were not yet running. We have 
to hurry\,\dots  but one link in our journey muddled up all our plans. 
That day, we walked for some 42 kilometers. There were no villages 
or farmsteads on the way and we walked as though through a desert. 
In the evening, we wobbled towards the Titov farmstead, walked into 
the nearest hut, Mother sat down on the bench, but could not 
get up -- her legs gave way. Her legs had done their utmost\,\dots  What 
luck it is that on our miserable journey we came across kind 
people! A neighbor walked in, perhaps for some salt, maybe to 
chat, and became engaged in a conversation with Mother. 


``And, lad, who are you\,\dots  -- Ilya? Ilya, let's carry her to our 
place!'' -- she said without questions, discussions\,\dots  

Two women lived on the farmstead -- a beautiful and graceful Cossack 
named Pronya and her mother-in-law Mikhailovna, a middle aged 
woman who  was probably also quite something in her youth. Pronya's 
son, a student at Leningrad University, was fighting somewhere; 
her husband was killed in 1941 -- she received the notice\,\dots  The 
second son, Kolka, was about fourteen and was helping around 
the farmstead. God -- what wonderful people we encountered! They 
lived so calmly and beautifully amongst themselves; how they 
loved and adored each other! 

Mother related to them one allegory:

``There stand, they say, two chairs -- one for the mother-in-law and 
one for the bride, for those who lived on Earth with love and 
in harmony. These chairs stand vacant till today, awaiting the 
two of you!''

And they both bellowed with laughter at this: 

``Oh, Semenovna, Semenovna, we would be happy in paradise, but 
our sins don't permit that! But, thank you for the tale!''

So these two miracle-workers began to nurse Mother back to health. 
For 22 days they steamed, mashed, rubbed her legs and gave her 
special herbal drinks. In this way, they restored my Mother to 
health and put her back on her feet!

Oh, if only I could be God for a couple of days! I would bring 
order to Earth, reduce the Evil, increase the Good -- I'd work
from morning till night, but  in this whirlpool would not have forgotten 
about Mikhailovna and Pronya. I would have set aside several 
minutes to make sure that they would not land in an inappropriate 
place, but somewhere they could take their chairs!

The time came to depart. The women wept a bit, we said farewell to 
Kolka -- and hit the road.

Here is Tatsinskaia, a tiny, tiny station. Who had ever heard of it?
 A passenger might glance out of the 
window at the warehouses to read the station's name, and then 
return to eating their chicken\,\dots  There are thousands of people 
near the station. Passenger trains are still not running (Germans 
were here just two months earlier -- there were furious battles 
here, burnt tanks stand in the steppe with charred tankmen still 
inside -- I saw it myself). So, people are taking the freight trains, 
platforms, and warm cattle cars by storm -- all waiting for many days 
to depart. During the Battle of Stalingrad, the Germans deported  some 60000 civilians
from the city to farmsteads and stations in the Stalingrad and 
Rostov regions on just such freight trains, as well as trucks! So, now this mass is all trying to get back 
home, to their totally demolished  houses. And it does not 
bother anyone that there are still quite a few corpses hidden 
in the ruins; the city is a forest of black smokestacks and a 
sea of iron beds. There are so many  beds available all around 
that one could open a furniture store\,\dots  Home, home, like fish 
swimming upriver to spawn -- home! We also flowed into this massive 
stream, climbed onto the coal carrying railroad cars  and dozed off to the 
sound of the pounding wheels\,\dots  There are people on the platform 
as far as the eyes can see, but no one ponders on the possibility 
of a German air attack (and they make their raids often). 
Another problem is tormenting me: when the train stops at some 
post, which now can hardly be called a post (there was one track 
but now there are four, scorched buildings, smokestacks, and 
the steppe with no beginning and no end stretches to the horizon) -- what 
happens then? According to the unspoken rule, men go left and 
women right\,\dots  And there is also the engineer -- a prankster 
-- who will sound off the locomotive whistle (and it is possible to 
understand this person -- the entire trip he leads the engine 
with one hand while with the other is on the lookout in the sky 
for Junkers or Heinkels). How can one not joke around when gazing 
out of the engine cabin and seeing hundreds of people in the 
most interesting way running to catch the train and ascending 
the cars' high platforms? One could die laughing at the thought! 
They say that at the Oblivsk station one such prankster was pummeled 
a bit\,\dots  

So, this is how we travelled for two days. Towards evening we 
arrived in Beketovka -- this is one area of the city where there 
were no Germans. We descended from the car and entered the station. 
Hello Stalingrad! Receive new residents! We ate our few 
remaining morsels of food and lay down on the ground to rest. 
We were terrifically tired and fell asleep immediately. I awoke 
to the sound of Mother crying. It was not often that Mother 
cried. And she cried hard. The reason was serious -- our kettle 
had been pinched -- the very same one that Sgt. Kostin gave us in Grachiki: 
it was our only possession, and now we had absolutely nothing. 
A soldier ran up:

``Why are you sobbing, woman?'' I answered:

``Our kettle has been stolen\,\dots ''

``Whaaat? Tfu, mother of\,\dots  !!!'' -- the soldier tossed around 
several curses and ran off further to attend to his duties.

Mother calmed down a bit, and the two of us began to climb through 
the crowd towards the exit.

``Hey, woman, wait!'' -- that same soldier yelled out, and shoved 
into my mother's hands a new, green aluminum kettle, half filled 
with some sort of kasha, a half loaf of black bread, and ran 
off -- we did not even have time to thank him.

So began our life in Stalingrad.



\subsection*{Chapter 9 -- The Last\,\dots }
\addcontentsline{toc}{subsection}{\protect Chapter 9 -- The Last\,\dots }

Here, I put my last ``\,\dots'' in my notes and started pondering again
 -- why did I really write all of this?
For many, many years I have felt something like guilt before 
the people whom I had not thanked, whose hand I had not kissed, and before whom I 
had not knelt. I do not remember and 
in part do not know their names. So, let God, who knows everything, 
tell them that I remember them\,\dots  Maybe someone will read my 
notes and conjure up a kind thought for these people -- and this 
would be true joy for me. I dedicate my ``confessions'' to the 
bright memory of my mother and father, to the bright memory of 
my six million brethren, the  bright memory of all the righteous of 
the World, to those for whom the trees in the Yad Vashem Museum 
were dedicated, and to those who have not received that honor\,\dots . 


\begin{center}

\textit{Dixi et animam meam livavi}.\footnote{\,I spoke and lightened 
my soul. --  Latin.}

\end{center}


\newpage

\section*{Part II -- Stalingrad}

\addcontentsline{toc}{section}{\protect Part II -- Stalingrad}

\setcounter{footnote}{0}

\begin{center}
 {\small \dots  An Iron wind blew in their face, but they strode and strode 
ahead,\\
 And the enemy wondered with fear and confusion -- are these people, immortal are they?}
\end{center}
%\vspace{1mm}
\begin{flushright}
{\small \sl V. Grossman }
\end{flushright}



``Are these people? Immortal are they? People are mortal... And 
how  they are\,\dots .'' I do not know when these words of Grossman 
 entered into my soul and came to rest there. Perhaps it was 
during one of his field reports from the front during autumn 
or winter 1942 or maybe from his novel \textit{Life and Fate}, which, 
in the light of  circumstance, I had never finished reading 
and now probably never will\,\dots . I read these words on the memorial
at Mamay's Kurgan\footnote{\, A hill holding a commanding position over
 Stalingrad which became the focus of the Red Army's resistance in 1942 and which never fell to the Germans. -- Editors' note.}
 and I stood there for a while mystified with 
the precision and laconic nature of this question-epithet, which 
recollected a question I first had in that distant April of 1943: 
how You, my people, could endure -- where did all the strength 
come from?!

Our ``Drang Nach Osten'', our ``leap to the east'' had ended. The 
battles in Zaporozhye, the demise of my father, flight, tribulations, 
bombings, Voroshilovgrad, occupation, firing squad, and Grachiki 
-- my love until the coffin's lid, my outstanding debt\,\dots  Grachiki!

And here is the final leap forward to Stalingrad\,\dots  Of course, 
God could have filled these years of mine with something quite 
different. But, I am not grumbling. In the main, he did not abandon 
us -- we are alive, we are among ours -- we even had two bread ration 
cards for 800 grams per day. A whole 800 grams! What is 800 grams 
of bread in '43?

However, let us turn back a bit to Beketovka\,\dots  Beketovka, Sarepta 
-- a small part of town -- at its outskirts -- an area where the 
Germans had never penetrated. Many buildings here escaped ruin. 
Among them were the factories of STALGRES. They operated during 
the siege. All of the administrators of the city and oblast
were stationed here. So it was into Beketovka that our coal 
train crawled  that warm April evening. The next 
day, a commuter train took us to the center of the city, to the
Stalingrad 2  station. Mother had in her pocket an order indicating her 
place of work as the Nizhne-Volzhsky River 
Steam-Shipping   construction agency.

\dots Have you ever had the chance to be in this city, which even 
before the war stretched a good 50 kilometers along a fine 
stretch of the Volga? In spring and summer, when glancing out 
of the train window somewhere at the bend between Beketovka and 
Elshanskaia, you will gasp with awe! The Volga is amazing in 
its width and turns some 90 degrees. Look south -- you will see 
Sarepta, Beketovka, and smoke billowing from the chimneys of 
STALGRES. Look north -- you will see the entire city, as if on the 
palm of your hand; and, behind it -- the factory chimneys and the factories, 
``Red October'', ``Barricades'', ``Metizny'', ``Tractor'' \,\dots And the 
train is bent like a bow -- one may get the urge to tie the locomotive 
to the last car with sinew! The locomotive is sparkling green, 
 and the wheels are red; it seems as if it stands still 
while the city moves on by. One can see how the levers and pedals 
are moving like mad around the wheels, and the cottony chunks 
of vapor escape from the pipes -- puff-puff-puff! And on the 
Volga, up and down, here and there -- one sees steamships, barges, 
towboats, tankers, rafts with cabins and fires, wet logs soaked 
through with tar and tied together with stump-root cables, and 
steamship smoke!

\dots Today, behind the car window, it is April 29, 1943 and we are 
beginning to live once again -- with a clean slate. The living 
Beketovka came to an end; now begins dead Stalingrad. What is 
there to Vereshchagin's\,\footnote{\,Vereshchagin, also spelled Verestchagin, 1842 -- 1904, Russian painter noted for his war scenes. -- Editors' note.} 
``Apotheosis of War!'' A pile of sculls 
and two thousand crows, that's all -- nothing to look at. There 
are about 30 kilometers from Petrov to the Tractor factories, 
but the scenery behind the window is all the same -- one can see 
the hand of one ``great builder.'' War, may it be damned now, in the past, 
and for centuries to come! Wreckage and ruins -- looking at the 
exterior, one may not even understand what it was -- a school? 
A home? Perhaps a hospital? And this building made of brown brick 
was built to withstand centuries -- not a missile nor bomb nor 
mine could topple it\,\dots  I bet that when the German Gerhard was building
his mill before the Revolution he never
 imagined that he would enter history, that he would stand in 
the center of a city which changed its name thrice. This monstrosity, 
which vaguely looks like a building, is a monument to edify those who followed 
 (but these descendants don't want to learn from 
the mistakes of others -- only from their own experience). Everything
around has been rebuilt, but Gerhard's mill still stands as it did 
sixty years ago -- and the charred smell endures\,\dots  However, 
I've got carried away a bit -- to the end of the century! Behind 
the window it is the year 1943.

\dots Hurray! Life goes on! I am in Lomakin's brigade while Mother  is
in Samsonova's brigade. We have a ration card for provisions -- bread, 
meat-fish, pasta, and even sugar, even soap\,\dots ! Hurray!

\dots Many years later I stood in a tiny museum at the Piskarev 
cemetery in Leningrad, in front of a stand which displayed Tanya 
Savicheva's diary. I was barely able to hold my tears when I 
read ``Grandmother died'', ``Uncle Leka died'', ``Mother died'', ``all 
the Savichevs died, only Tanya remains\,\dots '' She also died. I 
believe she was twelve\,\dots  I looked at this diary and at the 
famous Leningrad scales which had a weight with 125 grams in 
one cup and a tiny piece of something that looks remotely like 
black bread in the other. This morsel of bread was the daily 
ration of a resident of Leningrad during that frightful winter 
of 1941-42. It was painful to think that in '43 I could not pinch 
off a piece from my rations and give it to Tanya Savicheva. Then, 
considerably later, to this pain was added shame for my country 
which I was so proud of  for so long and believed  to be 
the best in the world -- for all that,  it fought so selflessly 
but still could not defend tens, hundreds of thousands of such 
Tanyas\,\dots  Next to me in the museum stood a very elderly gray-haired 
man\,\dots  Our eyes met and he said to me, painfully squeezing out 
his words, with just as painful pauses:

``And yesterday\,\dots  there were\,\dots  Germans here, maybe Austrians 
-- hell knows the difference\,\dots  Tourists, maybe\,\dots  And they laughed\,\dots '' 
We stood there a little while longer, shook hands and parted.

Back to 1943. The  NVRP construction agency\footnote{\,Nizhne-Volzhsky 
River Steam-Shipping. -- Translator's note.} provided all the infrastructure 
for the dockers and sailors who ran the river traffic;
 their homes, hospital, kindergarten, port facilities and wharfs.
The first days of work -- the brigade of Lomakin, what was his name\,\dots ? 
Nikolai? Petro? Yes, Petro. Lomakin was not an old man,  but demobilized 
due to a wound. He was a good man --  he took pity on us, protected us 
and did not load us with overwhelming work. ``Us'' were Volodya 
Krasnoperov and I, each about fifteen and a bit. Lomakin's brigade 
-- this is the ``transport-shop'' of the construction agency: a wagon 
with nine ropes with loops tied to it. Everyone has his ``personal 
loop'' -- like Repin's\,\footnote{\,Ilya Repin (1844--1930),
a famous painter of the Russian social scene known for the power and drama of his works.
 His treatments of Russian subjects tend to be grim in tone, sharply drawn, and boldly composed.
 The powerful ``Volga Burlaks", barge haulers  
in pre-Revolutionary Russia (1873), epitomizes the stark realism and socially critical 
cast of much of Repin's work. After the Bolshevik revolution in 1917 he lived and worked
 on his estate Penates in Kuokkala, Finland. -- Editors' note.} ``Burlaks''  -- and go straight ahead! A ton 
of cement from the wharf? Done! Two U-beams \#20? We will do 
that! Logs from the timber agency? Well, if need be\,\dots  Need 
to bury the Uzbek from Girchenko's brigade? What, no one else 
to do it? Fine, I guess that the guy shouldn't just lie there 
in the heat\,\dots 

So many years have gone by, but even today I still think of these 
kids with such warm sadness! Times were not easy, but we never 
quarreled! The ever-smiling Volodya Krasnoperov; the never annoyed, 
calm Sharip Matveevich Beleulov, a hereditary Volga dockworker 
who had a perpetual ``goat''\footnote{\,A primitive device for carrying heavy objects.
 -- Translator's note.} on his back. A grand 
piano could be mounted on this ``goat'' before the war. I saw how 
he could haul two sacks of cement: Volodya and I placed them 
ourselves on his ``goat'' -- 160 kilograms! He hauls, groaning a 
little! \,\dots Joker Vasya Iakovlev, there are no limits to his 
pranks! And the great lover of pre-war \textit{chibriki} Mitia Kuznetsov 
(by God, I have no idea what \textit{chibriki} are -- bread rolls, 
perhaps?). During his endless recitals of tales he consumed 
them in unbelievable quantities, from morning to night. This 
theme was boundless, for all circumstances of life -- he would 
begin with the start of the war in Kursk, but would end with \textit{chibriki}.

\dots We worked from 7 to 7, with a one-hour break for lunch. Lunch 
-- this is speaking rather grandly. I will never forget lunch -- 
record breaking (by price, of course!) -- 7 (seven) kopeks! Stalingrad, 
1943 -- and lunch for 7 kopeks (a loaf of bread at the bazaar 
at that time cost 250 rubles)! Lunch was like this: a plate of 
warm, opaque-grayish sludge in which floated 4 (four!) pieces 
of rice. But, overall, we  managed somehow: something from the 
ration cards, something from the bazaar, and something from the 
cafeteria garbage bin. We held on, otherwise where would the 
strength have come from -- to chop up by hand, using smithy mallets 
and sledgehammers, one of those iron U-beams \#20 which we carried 
ourselves? And we chopped them up not in one minute, and not 
in five, but we did it; then we had to drag the parts up two 
or three flights. We also did much else\,\dots  The key is not 
to loose the ration cards and to remain sensible and not get bread 
for several days in advance. Otherwise, it is the end, as was 
the case for that Uzbek from Girchinko's brigade\,\dots  It is very 
tempting to eat to the fill and later be as it may\,\dots  God, how 
I wanted to eat! Many lost self-control and only God knows how 
they got out of the mire\,\dots  Thanks to Mother -- probably her 
iron will saved us. We never indulged ourselves -- one  day at a time! 


Mother, of course, was also not sitting with her arms crossed. 
She worked at dismantling the ruins under the scourging sun and 
in the dust. Once she came home with an empty face. All night long 
she was turning inside out with thoughts. Some bricks and fragments 
of a house fell away from under her feet and there was a German, 
or what was left of him\,\dots  

Our home was a stack of broken bricks. On August 23, 1942 hundreds 
of Junkers and Heinkels turned a beautiful city into flaming 
Hell. That day, our six-storey building became a mountain of broken 
bricks with a surviving corner, on the third floor of which stood 
a decent cupboard. At one time, people even called our building 
``the house with the cupboard.'' The basement of the building survived 
because it was covered by wreckage. It was this basement that 
sheltered us until the fall. Just imagine a giant basement room, 
lacking windows, light, toilet and with an uneven earthen floor and
gaps in the ceiling through which you can see the stars and rainwater 
dribbles. Can you imagine such a picture? Have your eyes got 
used to the dark? Now fill these ``apartments'' with
iron beds (there were lots of burnt iron beds everywhere),
 any one you like, take your choice! 
Put on these beds some boards or plywood or an iron sheet, or pieces
of conveyor belt, then a mound of rags and you're done, that's where
you'll live -- Happy Housewarming! 
How many people lived there -- who knows? Perhaps forty, maybe 
sixty\,\dots  Elderly, children, ill, drunk, love, fights, songs, 
tears, cursing, cooking, brawls, and even death -- in a word -- 
``Friendship of Peoples.'' Despite this frightening cocktail made 
of fear, despair, hunger, sickness, dirt, lice, and homelessness, 
there was one ingredient which in the most trying, terrifying, 
uncertain minutes did not permit total submersion in the mire and 
helped us to stay afloat. This was elation from knowing that we 
remained alive, whole -- we climbed out! It's okay -- we will swim 
the rest of the way! Here, from afar, faintly-faintly, one 
could begin to hear the distant sounds of the Victory Fireworks! 
The Kursk Bend! Orel! Belgorod! The first firework displays, first flares 
in the sky -- not a signal to attack, not a light for illuminating 
the battlefield, not a show of direction for aim -- no, these 
were flares of victory fireworks! How many more
 of these fireworks  will there be 
 on the road to those Ultimate  Fireworks in May?

Stalingrad did not miss a single victory -- congratulated them all, 
gave them all honor -- for two years the cannons remained on Bazaar 
Square. I also had a bit of personal good news -- Volodya and 
I were transferred to a woodworking shop as apprentices. Even 
today a supply of pine shavings is like wine! Volodya was trained 
by Boris Moiseevich Gikher, a very old, very sad man, a joiner 
of the highest rank, a master with golden hands -- one could admire 
his work for hours\,\dots  Perhaps during that other, pre-war life 
he was a lively, happy person -- now there was no time for fun. 
In 1941, he was taken to the ``labor front'' while the family remained 
somewhere outside  Vinnitsa\,\dots  Sometimes he questioned me 
about the occupation. But, as a rule, he practically never spoke 
to me\,\dots  I was trained by Luka Stepanovich Izhko who was a joker 
and very kind person. The harshest words he ever sent in my direction 
were ``From the Devil, Devil's hand!'' -- this was when I, a lefty, 
adjusted his frame-saw for my hand. He taught me the art 
of joining, taught me to love wood, various woodworking techniques 
-- he knew his craft exquisitely.

There were two dreadful events in that distant 1943 which even  
today throw me into a chill when I recollect them. The head of 
our shop was fixing up the circular saw. He  put it together all by himself, 
 every bolt and screw, and was very proud of that. Having 
done so, he sawed very narrow planks out of a thick board which 
was soaked through with water and totally frozen -- ice mixed 
together with wood\,\dots  the wildly spinning saw threw this board, as if 
it were a sling,  directly into our Ilya Nikolaevich's 
forehead -- right before my eyes\,\dots  We buried him and, several 
days later, I was ordered to go out at night to shave some boards 
on the joint-machine. I am working alone, not a soul in sight. 
Suddenly there was a blow on my right hand. My glance immediately 
falls on two developments: my arm, in the serrated sleeve of my 
cotton coat, was clamped very hard to the table of the saw, while 
the flat belt which connects the electric motor to the saw was 
wildly whirling around like a snake\,\dots  When I understood what 
had happened, I was horrified. Apparently, I passed out for a 
very brief moment. God, what luck that the belt jumped off! I 
forgot to sprinkle some rosin! The loose rags coming from one 
of the sleeves of my not-so-flashy coat were swallowed up into 
the machine that caused it to stall, choke, and throw off the 
loosely fixed belt. I came to my senses when I heard the running 
of the motor without the saw. Having managed to free my hand 
by hook and by crook, I began to vomit\,\dots  Very many years have 
gone by since then, but even today I shudder at the thought of 
what happened that frightening night; from the idea of what would 
have happened to me if the belt had not been so loosely fixed 
-- even now I feel ill at the idea. Needless to say, Mother found 
out nothing about this incident\,\dots  

So it is winter\,\dots  Where are we residing? Obviously, not in 
the basement\,\dots  The ``mansion'' is a little brighter; it welcomingly 
threw open its doors to the same forty or sixty people with the 
same charred beds, with the same problems but now increased twofold 
(it was winter after all!), the same cursing, tears, fights, 
love, drunkenness. This crowd, the so-called ``collective of builders 
with families,'' relocated into a huge hall in the renovated section 
of the hospital of water-workers, at one time one of the finest 
hospitals in the city. However, it was still a room. Two 60-watt 
light bulbs rather adequately lit our ``apartments'' in the evening. 
During the day, these bulbs were assisted by the windows, ``glassed 
in'' by greased paper! We took great pleasure in the light, we 
revelled in it, and we swam in it!

\dots As a rule, the first to awake was the darling of the room 
-- the seven-year-old Zhora Veleulov. He came to the window, poked 
his finger through it, and declared: ``Comrade Stalingradians 
-- it is winter out there, cold!'' -- and  laughed joyfully. \,\dots His 
Mother, of course, slapped him around and the old women grumbled, 
but without anger. Firstly, it did not get any colder in the room 
from Zhora's tricks. Secondly, it was impossible to get angry with 
Zhora -- he was simply too charming a kid!



\dots Two large-bellied brick stoves swallowed up raw logs in boundless 
quantities, but could hardly maintain a room temperature of +8\ensuremath{^\circ} 
\!C, at best +10\ensuremath{^\circ} \!C. We put on all the clothes that we 
had and began the new day. We suffered from furunculosis, various 
pests and the like unclean things, but we lived, listening in 
and reading the reports of Sovinformbiuro (Soviet Information 
Bureau) and catching rumors, believing in the good and distrusting 
the bad\,\dots 

The city was rising out of the ruins. Slowly, with difficulty, 
but it was rising. The first freight trains carrying new cannons 
passed through  Stalingrad 2 station -- courtesy of the now-operating 
``Barricades'' factory. The first chimneys of ``Red October'' began 
to belch out smoke; ``Marteny'' produced the first steel; and, in 
 ``Stalingrad Pravda'' there flashed reports about some sort of an 
Ilgner motor and the start-up of a blooming (mill). There was 
talk of the first tractor from the ``Tractor'' factory. The cranes 
began to nod decently with their heads over the piers. Day and 
night the locomotives and boats conversed with each other with 
their whistles. River taxis ran across the Volga ceaselessly. 
The beaches were full of people  on Sundays. The docks were crowded 
with white beauties -- steamships: a wide red line on the chimney 
-- a passenger vessel; a wide blue -- express. Oh, that wide blue 
line on the snow-white chimney! Hawaii or is it not Hawaii, or 
is it the mystic Yalta, as seen on the pictures of pre-war magazines; 
no, no -- what comes into the mind of a sixteen-year-old\,\dots  \,\dots Somehow, 
unnoticeably,  the stands displaying mines disappeared from the city 
streets. During the spring and summer of 1943, such stands could 
be found along the streets and squares. Dummy mines were displayed 
on these stands, since there were countless examples of real 
ones throughout the city\,\dots  Here is a ``saucepan'' for you, a 
German anti-tank mine; here is an anti-infantry ``frog,'' which 
jumps up and explodes a meter up in the air. And this wooden 
box is our anti-tank mine, while this wooden object is the handle 
for a German grenade -- just pull the little knob and it will 
be the end\,\dots  Quite a few people died because of these mines. 
I will never forget the shriek of one soldier who died after
stepping on one of these mines right before our eyes in May of 
1943. Volodya and I went to the Volga with buckets to fetch some 
water (there was no working plumbing yet). The path was marked 
with signs -- no veering off to the sides! We suddenly see a soldier 
overladen with flagons strolling right through the entrance to 
the Volga-Don docks -- walking towards sure death! We yelled and 
waved at him and he waved back to us with a flask, made a few 
more strides, and a mine went off\,\dots 

\dots ``We will renew you, our dear Stalingrad!'' -- was perhaps the 
most popular slogan in the city. It stared at us from all
the ruins. My God! With what pride in 1943 (and in 1975) I looked 
at the little two-level house, the first kindergarten in Voroshilovgrad 
region -- for it was I, after all, who hauled on my own back those U-beams 
\#20, it was I who chopped them up with the smithy mallets, it 
was I who dragged them to the second floor, and it was I who 
cut my first frames and doors in the wood-shop for this kindergarten! 


\dots In the area of the Voroshilov regional city administration building 
stood a piano on a rather small, hastily built wooden platform. 
The platform was encircled by people -- all workers who were filthy, 
covered with grime, and certainly hungry. They all came directly 
from work, since they were notified too late of the event. They 
were standing, sitting, and half reclined on the ground. The 
majority were novices to this type of concert, if not novices 
to any kind of concert. Two performers came out. The one who 
was taller went to the piano -- he came out first and introduced 
himself as Mikhail Kusevitskii, and then introduced his companion. 
How he sang! And how the crowd listened to him -- celebration 
of the soul, rebirth of the heart! Hello to you, dazzling Neapolitan, 
from the grateful Stalingrad! 

\dots One more piece of good news -- the first cinema theater opened 
its doors among the ruins. It was a bit later that every club 
endlessly screened  various relics -- Tarzans for anyone's taste. 
But our theater was the first! And let us remember ``George From 
Dinka -- jazz,'' and ``Lady Hamilton,'' ``Waterloo Bridge,'' and ``Sun 
Valley Serenade\,\dots '' We came to the movies alone, but left together 
with Deanna Durbin, some with Douglas Fairbanks\,\dots  Return home 
with the ``Three Musketeers,'' and it would seem as though the 
light bulb below the ceiling burns a bit brighter... 

In the winter of 1944, Volodya and I were transferred to the electrical 
workshop where we were given ``cat's claws'' made of iron so that we could
crawl up and down the poles. We carried them  on our shoulders
  -- they were heavy! 
Apparently, all  hopes rested on us; without us the order 
of the Head Construction Bureau would not have been fulfilled\,\dots  
On the whole, I do not mind becoming an electrician -- let them teach 
me\,\dots  Well they taught me! Until the very end of the war, 
I climbed the poles and worked with the high-current wires in 
the rain, snow, wind, inclement weather and sunny days -- Stalingrad 
and the wharfs, let there be light!

What can be said about  safety considerations? Let's think about 
this after the war, okay guys? If there would have been such 
a system, then Ilya Nikolaevich would have finished sawing his 
frozen board and would have lived to 120, and the sleeve of my 
coat would have remained intact\,\dots  Sixty years have passed, 
but I close my eyes and still see how my brigadier Volodya Dediurin 
plunged head first down from the frozen pole -- he unluckily touched 
a hot wire and the ``cat's claws'' flew off\,\dots  By some miracle, he was 
able to twist himself into the right position just before hitting 
the ground. He just lay around for a week or so and then got back 
on the poles.

\dots The city was reviving, growing, looking better -- muscles
were growing around the bones. Mother and I are no longer  
living in the huge  water-workers hall. Try better! We 
have our own personal room! Before the war, there was a respectable 
``House of Carriers'' in Stalingrad where all the river-workers' 
management resided with one actual worker squeezed in for ``democratic 
correctness\,\dots '' During the renovation of this massive building, 
several small rooms were thrown  together in a hurry. One 
of them was ours! The ceiling leaked en mass and during spring 
when the snow was melting we had a terrific torrent. But we 
had our own room! The stove emitted a great deal of smoke while 
producing practically no heat -- but we had our own room! The room 
was filled to the brim with centipedes and all types of other 
living things. But, it was our room! And what joy it was to return 
from work to your own home, take a little snack with what God 
sent that day, climb under the hobbling table made with my own 
hands, and  devour books under the illumination of the ``table lamp'' (a light 
bulb stuck into a liter-sized glass jar), listening to the measured 
water droppings from the ceiling into a basin which stood on 
the table. It was a great pleasure to read every 
book, every tiniest phrase, quickly, since on the shelves of 
the city library, supervised by the dearest Zoya Genadievna, 
stood tens, hundreds of unread books. It was an incomprehensible 
treasure and not to read them all would have been a crime! I 
probably never read as much, without being selective, as during 
these war days.

\dots Oh, if only  you could have seen these American boots -- extraordinary, 
of enchanting fairytale beauty, reddish-brown, sparkling, with 
a wonderful protective layer on the soles, with an amazing scent 
-- foreign!  I received the ration card for these boots as a prize 
for good work. I was proud of them as only I could  be -- if it 
were possible, I would not take them off even in the bathhouse\,\dots  
For two whole weeks, I flashed around in them here, there, and 
everywhere until a part of the sole on the left one broke off\,\dots  
The right held on for another week. God -- what luck that I listened 
to Mother and did not toss out my old ones, the other brown boots 
that I wore earlier. In connection with this, some words should 
be said here about American aid. I think that the episode with 
the boots was an unfortunate exception rather than the rule. 
Sometime during the winter of 1944, all of the high ranking city heads 
 became true dandies as they came to flaunt
leather overcoats of the same reddish-brown color as my boots, 
but of  incomparably higher quality. As the well-informed 
people said, for every Studebaker, Ford, and Dodge, one of the 
above-mentioned overcoats was tossed in for the driver. In fairness, 
it should be noted that one driver in Stalingrad did receive 
such an overcoat -- the one who drove the Oblast  Party Secretary. 
Overall, it was great -- canned meat, egg-powder, peanut oil, 
soldier's rations, cigarettes Camel and Chesterfields, clothing, 
and much else: all that can be eaten, drunk, worn, smoked -- all 
that from what was called in a respectful and ironic way, the 
``second front''! A good man, Uncle Sam -- your help went to good 
use!

More should be said  about gifts. Once, sometime 
at the end of December '44 (or '43? -- when we had that conference 
in Tehran -- my memory fails me\,\footnote{\,It was December 1, 1943. -- 
Translator's note.}), Zoya 
Genadievna, with a devilish smile, took me through to the back room 
of the library. In the middle of the room
 an elderly policeman  benevolently 
slept  in a chair and on the table lay that miracle 
about which I had heard  on the radio several days previously. 
Inside a beautiful chest covered in white satin lay a sword, 
all covered in gold, rubies, and red saffian -- a gift from King 
George VI of England to Stalingrad -- the Hero-City. Churchill 
presented this sword to Stalin in Tehran and Stalin gave it to 
Voroshilov. The latter, in turn, gave it to God knows whom else 
and now here it is in Stalingrad, but there is no place to store 
it! So, while they were preparing an appropriate place for the 
sword, it was stored in the library of the Party Cabinet of the 
City Committee under the watchful eye of a kindhearted policeman\,\dots  
To miss out on such an occasion?! I took the sword in my hands 
and began to move the blade out of the scabbard, but the guard 
immediately reacted:

``Now put it back!'' -- and I complied, carefully placing the sword 
on the satin panel\,\dots  

For quite some time after, Zoya Genadievna gave me an earful 
of carping about this and I begged for forgiveness. The one thought 
that often revisits me is what would happen if one could
make a fingerprint study of this sword -- would my prints be there 
alongside Churchill's, Stalin's, and Voroshilov's?

\dots And the war -- raging, filling the Earth with blood and shaking 
the World -- was moving towards May 1945. Practically every evening 
the sky above Stalingrad brought us joy from the fabulous bouquets 
of victory fireworks. The people, understanding full well the 
price they paid for these fireworks, seeing in every star of 
these bouquets the souls of their deceased husbands, sons, and 
daughters, uncontrollably roared, moaned, and howled -- Go! Go!! 
Go!!!

God, when will it finally be over, this damned war?! There are more 
and more of Stalin's proclamations and the voice of 
Levitan\,\footnote{\,Yuri Levitan (1914-1983), a famous wartime 
Soviet Radio announcer and prominent announcer in the 
1950's, 60's and 70's. For Soviet people his
mighty and highly driven voice  was ``the voice of history."
For almost four decades he was 
announcing the most important events in the country. -- Editors' note.}
roars as a triumphal trumpet in the opera Aida. The Russian, 
Ukrainian, and Belarus names of cities are coming to an end and 
the Polish are beginning to hiss and sizzle. The radio announcers 
are twisting their tongues in pronouncing the unimaginable and 
strange Hungarian Szekesfehervar and Sator-Aljaujhely, and, finally, 
do you hear? -- grinding out the German\,\dots  And few thought at 
that time of the great disaster which came to the German soil, 
about the deaths of German women and children. We thought about 
something quite different in those unforgettable days. Go! Go! 
Whose tongue would turn to admonish us in this? 

\dots There are many celebrations in Russia, but there was nothing 
before and never will be in the future anything like it 
was during those two days of national frenzied excitement. On 
the morning of May 8, the city was bubbling and boiling -- the 
war was over! Who said? Everyone is saying it! Songs and marches 
are heard on the radio! On the Worker's-Peasant's Avenue, it is 
impossible to break through the people and transport is rerouted 
around the city, sent by Kovrovskaya. Masses of people gathered 
around the megaphone -- at midday, Stalin will speak! No, at one\,\dots  
at two\,\dots  At four\,\dots  After five, cheerless and downcast, we began to 
disperse to the sound of marches. Eight in the morning! The 
calls of Moscow -- here it is! Go! No, only a bulletin -- Prague 
is taken\,\dots  and even the fireworks shot out from 220 barrels 
are not enough. Nine o'clock -- a call again! Well, and, and\,\dots  
No, again a bulletin -- Leipzig or Dresden this time\,\dots  

Only at four in the morning on the Ninth of May Levitan screamed 
across Stalingrad, across the whole nation -- VICTORY!!! Do you 
hear, people -- VICTORY!!! Run out into the streets, embrace, 
kiss the stranger standing next to you, dance, sing, laugh and 
weep and laugh again, because VICTORY has come! With your 
last kopeks buy  a bottle of vodka and drink to VICTORY! Pour your 
neighbor a glass, the person next to you, or the next one you 
meet and reminisce about  the bright memory of those who had walked 
to this VICTORY, but never made it! Drink to our great joy, which 
we awaited for four unbearable years!  

Along the Worker's-Peasant's Ave. walk two men with mustache -- 
one has a 3-liter flagon of vodka in a wicker basket while the 
other holds a snow-white towel and a glass. When these fellows 
meet a decorated soldier, a full glass for him: drink, son, 
for Victory! Then they go on looking for the next, but they themselves 
are sober\,\dots  

God, can it truly be our Nina Nikolaevna, proud, 
unapproachable, cold like an iceberg, smiling only at big celebrations, 
our beautiful Nina Nikolaevna. Can it be she who is dancing the ``barynya'' so 
boisterously  with the indolent Zhorko, a workman 
from our brigade? Take pity on your heels, Ninochka! The hell 
with the heels -- Victory! Do you understand, Victory! And here 
is a  lieutenant with two medals of the ``Red Banner''. They 
grabbed him and tossed him in the air, but did not catch him so well 
-- he fell and sprained his leg. Well, don't be angry, lad, we 
did it with love -- Victory you understand? He understood, smiled, 
and walked away hobbling as he said:

``I have been at the front for two years and did not receive a 
scratch, and you, you mother f\,\dots ''

Two fellows, drunk out of their minds, ``painted'' each other with 
blood -- found a great time to settle old scores! \,\dots Tears, tears, 
and tears of joy and tears of sorrow -- neighbors of Ragozin's 
just days ago received the  notice of the death of their son who was killed 
at the end of April somewhere in the Baltic region. The 
battles had ended there -- it was an accidental bullet\,\dots  

 On the road to School \#2 sits a lonely Willy Schramm, a tin-worker 
from Vienna and  brigadier of the German prisoners (our construction 
agency had two prisoner-of-war camps under its supervision  -- 
one German and one Hungarian). We were often given several men to assist 
us. They were digging holes for the poles and sat them in the 
ground; usually, this was Schramm's brigade and during breaks 
we had endless conversations. Among the prisoners there were 
many who were not supervised. They walked about town and you 
could even meet one at the theater of musical comedy.


``Why are you crying, Willy? The war is kaput. Soon you will be 
off to fatherland, to your frau!''

Willy's shoulders are shaking and he turns his tearful face -- it 
turns out that this joyful Willy is not so young and far from 
joyful\,\dots  Using a wild mix of Russian and German words, he tried 
to say something, sobbingly, chocking on his tears. But, I understand 
practically everything: for what did his son die outside  Kiev 
in '41? Oh, Willy, Willy, you should ask me a simpler question\,\dots  

In the evening there were fireworks! No, not fireworks -- the 
mother of all fireworks! The sky above the city glared from Sarepta 
to the ``Tractor'' factory. The cannons boomed. If I am not mistaken, 
the fireworks were from one thousand barrels! Go!!!

 A few more words  should be said about the prisoners of war. The 
huge ``House of Carriers'' was mostly restored by the Germans and 
Hungarians. Often, one of them would stand in the closet next 
to our front door. Most often, they did not ask for anything 
but simply stood there and looked silently\,\dots  What torture it 
is to constantly see the eyes of a truly hungry person! Mother 
would sometimes give one of them a piece of bread (although I 
truly had my stomach full only when  ration cards were discontinued 
in 1947). Often enough the Germans or Hungarians left empty handed 
and one of them always said in broken Russian:


``Fine, mother, you will give tomorrow\,\dots '' Get it? In other words, 
do not worry, mother, I understand: today there is none, but 
tomorrow God will send something  and 
you will give\,\dots  Sometimes, one of them would bring, looking 
around like a thief, two or three logs and delicately walk away 
-- not waiting around for a piece of bread\,\dots  They returned home in 
1947 or '48 and I saw these troop trains, covered with green tree 
branches, banners, and portraits of Pieck, Telman, Grotewohl, 
and some others. I saw their happy faces and I was glad for them 
and their families to whom great joy was to come  several days later\,\dots 

\dots There was a knock at the door, I opened it, and in came Robert, 
a young fellow from Munich. He said several words and Mother 
understood, since she knew a bit of German. Robert got on his 
knees, kissed my mother's hands several times, and began to weep\,\dots  
It seems that it is said in the Bible that on the ``Day of Judgment'' 
a repentant sinner will be worth more than one hundred righteous. 
There is great wisdom in this, and it will be so! I do not know 
how great Robert's sins were (who among us is without sin?), 
but he walked out righteous that minute when he left our room. 


 I continue to climb up poles, install circuit switches, and 
dream of study. During the war, it was unrealistic to think of 
getting a formal education. But now, it was different\,\dots  Even 
today, I still love mechanics, machines, and machine building. 
I can stand for a long time and admire the work of a lathe or 
a milling machine, as if in a spell, watching how metal cuts metal 
-- fantastic! I dreamed about going to a machine building technical 
college. It had to be machine building! 

 So passed -- flew -- days and months of study, endless commutes in 
the suburban train (I lived in the heart of the city, but the 
school was in Sarepta -- 20 km in one direction) where I drew 
diagrams on old newspapers with a pencil (ink froze up -- there 
were inscriptions written on the frost of the walls -- ``We are 
freezing, but we are not surrendering!''). Time passed as if overnight, 
as though nothing happened. What is there to four years, after 
all? It was like a flash. Somewhere in front I see a glimmer 
of a faint red light of the last train car\,\dots  

 With diploma in hand, I said farewell to Stalingrad! Think well of 
me! I helped you as best I could. Thank you for your 
teachings, for the hot sun, for the Volga, for the golden sand 
of your beaches, for the crimson watermelons, for  first love 
-- my deep gratitude for it all!

 Greetings, the unfamiliar and hitherto unknown city of Glazov! 
Who will you be -- a loving father or a mean stepfather? It turned 
out to be the former, for the next long forty-one years\,\dots  My 
dear Glazov -- you have taught me how to live! You gave me the 
most interesting and wonderful occupation as well as offering 
me presents -- my wife, son, and grandchildren. You will always 
be in my heart.


\newpage

\section*{Part III -- Glazov}
\addcontentsline{toc}{section}{\protect Part III -- Glazov}
\setcounter{footnote}{0}

Today is the Internet age -- having clicked on your keyboard, 
you can easily find out about Glazov -- a city in Udmurtiya, 
established in the sixteenth century on the Cheptsa River. You 
will also learn that its main economy is based on the Chepetskii 
Mechanical plant -- a key producer of uranium and zirconium in 
Russia. Some ten percent of the city's residents are employed 
at this plant. Ten years ago, even the mention of the existence 
of this plant in Udmurtiya would have been considered the most 
serious of crimes -- a breach of State Secrets. Today, they advertise 
their products around the world and recently some Italian jewellers 
purchased a large shipment of zirconium from Glazov directly 
at an exposition. But, earlier, this was unheard of\,\dots 

Who knew of it before, this Glazov? I found out in the following 
way. It started in Moscow, in the personnel department of some 
highly secret ministry -- so secret that it did not even have 
a name (at least I did not know it until much later). So, in 
the office of the personnel department a clerk by the name Orlov, 
or aptronym ``Eagle'' (by-God, he was more like a ``Sparrow'' or 
a ``Rooster'' at best\,\dots ) was clumsily leafing through a huge 
notebook with tens, hundreds of ``FIOs''\footnote{\,Acronym 
for ``family name, given name, and patronym'' -- 
Translator's note.}.  Puffing on his cheap cigarette, 
carelessly, in passing, without glancing at me, he pronounced that 
there should not be any talk of going further with my studies 
(farewell Kharkov Polytech by which I was accepted without an 
exam just ten days ago!). Instead, I will go\,\dots  I will go\,\dots  
Two-three pages are turned in the ledger and the clerk's finger 
comes to rest on some momentous spot. He finally grants me the 
honor of a glance with his unexpected black (not grayish-lead!) 
eyes as he pronounces in a rather ordinary way a seemingly boring 
and unknown name -- Glazov\,\dots  

Glazov?! Almost in a panic, I rush through the corridors, alleys, 
and dead ends of my mind in search of Glazov. Glazov? I know 
Glasgow; Glukhov, not so well but at least I know it. But Glazov? 
Where is it? With a glimmer of hope, I ask:

``Where is that, in the Ukraine?''

``\dots No, no it's in Kirov oblast\,\dots ''

Again I run to the corridors, alleys, and dead ends of my mind 
-- Oh, where is Kirov oblast? Silence\,\dots  So where is that Kirov, 
devil take it! It's my fate that's at stake here -- where am I 
going?

And it all began so well\,\dots ! In the winter of 1948-49, I finished 
my seventh semester in technical school. As usual, I did not 
get even one B, all were A's. A diploma with excellent 
marks stood on the horizon, in all of its magnificence. The next 
step was to undergo a pre-diploma practicum, diploma's defense, 
and, skipping the entrance exams, enroll in Kharkov Polytech 
to study the dear to my heart ``machines and instruments''! Hurray! 
Indeed, hello Life -- you marvellous and astonishing thing! 

Sometime in February Tolya came to visit me: 


``Let's go.''

``Where?''

``To the technical school. They are calling us -- it's urgent. 
Hurry along -- we must catch the train at 10-52 \,\dots ''

So we ran and made it. We come in and see all the rest of the 
pre-diploma recipients. What is this all hands' job? Some officials have
come from Moscow and require us all to fill out huge sixteen-page 
forms. Why? You'll find out later\,\dots  Why such an urgency? You'll 
find out later\,\dots  And what if I don't want to? And you, young 
man, should not ask questions\,\dots  (Later, some half a year afterwards, 
in the office of ``Sparrow-Eagle'' I learned that THEY can do 
anything\,\dots  A very beautiful and seemingly very unfortunate 
girl -- a resident of Moscow -- was weeping bitterly. It turned 
out that her mother who had lost her legs was being left on her 
own, since the daughter -- the girl -- was being sent to some 
Tmutarakan.\footnote{\,An old Russian principality
 on the eastern shore of the Kerch straits, overlooking the eastern end of the Crimean Peninsula,
which was established in the 10$^{th}$ century and fell in the 13$^{th}$ century.
 In the modern Russian language it is synonymous with
 a ``God-forsaken remote place." -- Editors' note. }
 This very same ``Sparrow-Eagle'' quietly was telling her the very 
``correct'' words of the debt, of Motherland, of patriotism, of 
``what would happen if everyone's mother became ill\,\dots '' He said 
such ``correct'' words, but the girl cried non-stop).

\dots Four o'clock in the morning is striking, but we were still 
filling out the forms\,\dots  


``Should we indicate this? Should we write about that?'' -- we ask. 


``Write -- write it all, young man\,\dots '' -- they said\,\dots 

We finished in the morning, trampled with exhaustion towards 
the end. We all went to our homes and the crafty guest from Moscow, 
who gained one day off  work, rolled back home. A week 
later, this ``night'' episode was forgotten. Then came June and 
I defended with an A. I was then accepted for Kharkov Polytech, 
received the corresponding paperwork, 1000 rubles for starters 
(very little money at that time\,\footnote{\,Pre-monetary-reform rubles 
-- Translator's note.}), and a ticket to the unknown Glazov. Tolya was also going 
to that same Glazov. We wandered about Moscow for three days 
-- visited the Tretyakov Gallery, ``Dynamo'' stadium,  and a musical 
concert in the  ``Hermitage'' theater. Then it was up onto the upper-tier 
bunk bed of the communal train car with the destination ``Moscow-Molotov 
(now Perm)''. The mood was so-so, a C, and where would 
an A come from? Judge for yourself -- I still felt like I was 
a student, but here -- my mug into the pole of reality! Kindly, 
be off to some Glazov! I want to study! And you, young man, should 
not ask questions\,\dots 

\dots What marvelous potatoes with dill! What salted cucumbers, 
crunchy and covered with little bumps! What mushrooms women sell 
at all the stations! What Polenov-Levitan\,\footnote{\,Famous Russian painters
 of the 19$^{th}$ century. -- Editors' note.}  scenes are 
outside my car window! So this is how you really are -- Russia! 
Not bright, not hot, not at all exotic, but so lovely -- simply 
breathtaking! Forests, woods, rivers\,\dots and here is the Volga. Here 
it is a bit narrow -- ours in Stalingrad is considerably wider, 
more commanding. 

How much time does a decent train take to travel some 1000 kilometers, 
from Moscow to Glazov? Twenty hours? Now it would take 18, but 
Tolya and I walked out from car \#9 in 32 hours, all in bewilderment 
as to what is next\,\dots  

What? Is this really Glazov? Hey,  it is written on the station 
nameboard\,\dots  Here it is, the station. Yes-yes\,\dots  the beauty -- 
the locomotive ``Joseph Stalin'', hissed steam from under its 
wheels, sighed, and  the train began its routine journey further 
east, to Molotov. We parted from it with not so joyful glances, 
picked up our austere suitcases, asked directions to the plant, 
and marched off\,\dots  

Have you had the chance to walk on piano keys, or perhaps on plank pavements, 
wooden sidewalks? Both are about the same\,\dots  Decrepit, in part 
rotten, boards move around to all sides here and there -- there 
was nothing left but the memory of the  nails that once had held 
them together. Hence, when stepping on each board, you should 
be ready for interesting consequences. About five minutes of 
such walking, we had learned the proper art and were striding 
along these boards as if it were nothing. The section of the 
street designated for vehicles was made of wooden blocks. I bet 
you have never seen such a road! We also saw this for the first 
time. Imagine an entire street paved with wooden log blocks, 
one placed against the other. It would seem like not a bad thing. 
However, time is a trickster, and the rains as well as frosts 
played a joke on this pavement -- some logs shifted up, others 
sank down, while yet others fell out like rotten teeth\,\dots  
Have you had the chance to see a picture of an anti-tank barrier, the 
so-called ``dragon's teeth''? So -- with clanks and clatters -- cars, 
wagons, and tractors rode along these ``teeth'' in clouds of dust. 
These were our ``first impressions for the rest of our lives''. 
The rest was all as usual, like it is in all other newly-founded 
residential projects: assemblies, installations, launchings and 
housewarmings, communal living, parties, dancing, overtime, night-calls, 
weddings, quarrels, sometimes accidents, insurmountable mud on 
future streets (in the autumn of 1949, one of my galoshes was swallowed 
up in it -- I still can't find it\,\dots ), weddings, becoming accustomed 
to new professions, bachelor drinking merrymaking, and weddings, 
weddings\,\dots .

Tolya and I arrived first in that ``Great Migration of Peoples'' 
of '49, before all the others. After us came many hundreds of engineers, 
technicians, highly trained workers, and inexperienced artisans. 
We received living quarters in dormitories, but these were quickly 
taken. So, they began to settle the newly arrived in the auditorium 
of the club, and even there space became very tight. Beds stood 
around the club, in the open air. And the workers were building 
new living quarters at mad speeds. All were finally settled, 
but that was later, towards autumn. In the meantime, paperwork 
and permissions of entry had to be officialized, swimming in the 
rather charming Cheptsa River, and familiarizing ourselves with 
the little wooden makeshift town... This is Russia's boondocks, 
with a special minor gloss of an Udmurt flare\,\dots  Udmurtiya, 
Udmurts -- who are they? The only thing I know is that the capital 
of the region was Izhevsk; in the geography textbook there is 
a photograph of an Udmurt hunter-gatherer. This is all, not too 
much more\,\dots  Moreover, Izh\'{e}vsk is not Izh\'{e}vsk at all, but 
\'{I}zhevsk.\footnote{\,Note the accent marks and accordingly different pronunciations. -- Translator's note.}

 To me, a southerner, everything is novel -- the dusky fir-tree 
forests that look nothing like the southern pinewoods. Even the 
pinewoods here are not as fragrant as the southern -- there is 
not enough sun here. Mushrooms -- a miracle of the woods -- can 
be found in the forests. Like gnomes with multi-colored caps, 
they play hide-and-seek with us.

Glazov is a town with a biography! Passing through the town, 
Empress Catharine the Great presented it with its own coat of 
arms. See!..
Second, Vladimir Gallaktionovich Korolenko\,\footnote{\,Russian 
short-story writer and journalist  (1853 -- 1921) whose works are 
memorable in showing compassion for the downtrodden. -- 
Editors' note. } lived 
here in exile. While residing here, he earned his bread 
by working as a cobbler. So he named Glazov as an ``unreal town''. 
He was probably right\,\dots  Now, everything in the town reminds 
one of Korolenko -- there is the Korolenko street, a monument 
to Korolenko, and an institute and library in his name. To call 
it a real city, no -- but it is a small and successful town!

 And it is not so small, actually -- more than one hundred thousand 
now. Olga Leonardovna Knipper-Chekhova\,\footnote{\,World-renowned Russian actress  (1869-1959). She was also the wife of Anton Chekhov.-- Editors' note. }
was born here -- that makes
three. Sometime in the 20s, Glazov even became the capital of 
Udmurtiya -- not for long, however. Izhevsk took over\,\dots  But, 
1948-49 were the first years of a new era. The city was still 
full of log houses which had been darkened by time and rain; 
they had settled and sunk into the ground, but still gaze out 
into the light with their tiny squinting windows. The cats here 
are somewhat reddish-violet in color, carefree, and sleepy. On 
sunny frosty mornings or during early evening hours, what unspeakably 
delectable smoke seeps out from the chimneys that stand on the 
patched-up and over-patched roofs of the huts! And the train station 
-- that veteran, a contemporary of these houses -- greets the few 
visitors from afar with its meagre  platforms and the services of baggage-handlers 
wearing  white aprons and metal plaques on their coats are nowhere to be found. 
There also stands a white stone church on the Cheptsa shore, 
counting out its last years. Oh, how much it wanted to live on! 
It was pounded by sledgehammers, dynamited, and bulldozered -- 
but could it really withstand humans?! In the old cemetery, which 
found itself in the center of town, serenely slumbered its respectable occupants in  eternal 
rest   -- the well-intentioned townspeople, 
petty officials, retired orderlies, and merchants of the 
second- and even first-rank guild. Even in their deepest nightmares 
they would not dream that in a few years lively excavators and 
bulldozers would roll, creep in and disturb their rest; they 
will dig up and down the cemetery and the boys would come to 
play soccer with their sculls, which were tossed all around everywhere. 
So it happened. A ``palace'' of sports and other sport facilities 
were erected on this spot.

The town of Glazov is seeing its last patriarchal dreams. The 
first urban buses are already running up and down the streets, 
swaying along the wooden block-boards from one side to another 
like ducks. The first buildings of the uranium plant are also 
rising up, while the soaring chimneys are painting the sky with 
different colored smoke. The first pigeons plunge to their deaths 
having dived into this smoke, which came to be called ``fox tails''. 
As if on yeast,  residential buildings rise up in the second section 
-- first small but later ``high-rises''. Already  the first 
TETs (Central Electric Station) chimney stands like an obelisk, and 
will very soon begin to smoke\,\dots  But stop! My memory runs
too fast, ahead of itself. Let us rewind a little. 1949.

Tolya and I just received our entrance permission 
papers and -- go with God! Workshop \#16 -- you should go this 
and then that way\,\dots  once you come, you will find out\,\dots  So 
we came and found out -- TETs! You (to Tolya) -- will be the master 
of the boiler shop; you (to me) -- will be the master of the turbine 
shop, it is the same as the mechanical hall. But we are technicians 
-- mechanics, we are\,\dots  we are\,\dots  Its okay, you will get used 
to it -- it's necessary. Well, if it's necessary\,\dots  So I went to 
work with thermo-energy, which became my favorite occupation. 
I found out with amazement that turbines are of the same great 
interest to me as machines. But the most important thing was 
the people. From the first days, I worked with wonderful people. 
Of course, there were also petty people. It is not them who 
I miss or recollect in a pleasant light\,\dots

        Fedor Gavrilovich Varopaev, ``father" Varopaev, was the chief 
supervisor of the turbine shop\,\dots With what wisdom he guided us, 
yellow-beaked youths, through life as he taught us and learned from 
us (he was not very literate -- a head officer on a destroyer -- received 
seven years of incomplete middle school\,\dots). With such nobility, 
possessing some innate intelligence, he resolved various conflicts; 
although, when necessary, he could be firm\,\dots I will never forget 
one winter night which began the previous morning as we worked in 
the workshop for 34 hours straight. Everything that could breakdown 
did. Everything that could not break down also broke down. It was the 
first winter for our TETs -- our cauldrons, turbines, deaerators, boilers, 
pumps -- and we, yellow-beaked kids, young specialists who are 
receiving our professional experience in the midst of battle, are 
acquiring our learning from trial and error. We came out of this tribulation 
with great joy. There were 2 or 3 minor accidents -- can't do without that -- 
but we never left the plant without electricity, nor did the houses in 
the city go without heat for even a minute. But we paid a price for this. 

Once, we ploughed away for 34 hours, took a shower, and half asleep put 
on our coats, since a bus was waiting for us. We -- that is Fedor Gavrilovich, 
the senior master Boris Kurbatov, and me. Of course, just as it happens according 
to Murphy's Law, the ball bearings of the condensation pump went awry. It 
was then that I finally lost it -- I began to express myself endlessly! 
I yelled and cursed. Fedor Gavrilovich was not 
left with a ``debt" on his part\,\dots My God, how we screamed 
at each other as we dressed ourselves back into our filthy overalls! Our dialog 
was far from ``parliamentary".Towards the end of our replacement of the 
mean ball bearing we worked in silence. We departed sometime past 
midnight and for the rest of the night I pondered on whether to go to the 
personnel department immediately or first go to the shop\,\dots Varopaev 
intercepted me just at the entrance with an extended arm -- ``Hello Ilya! 
Listen, the two of us said many unnecessary things yesterday -- well, it 
happens\,\dots Let it be as though nothing happened and just forget about it, yes?"
My dear Fedor Gavrilovich, Teacher of bright memory, how can one forget this?!\dots 

Well, once again I veer too far off track. I walked into the shop, 
having shaken the first hands, feverishly trying to remember everyone's first 
names -- hoping not to confuse anyone.
 Varopaev Fedor Gavrilovich\,\dots Kurbatov Boris,
 senior master from St. Petersburg, one year older than me. Andrei 
Kurochkin,  from Kalinin, same age as me, in charge of the turbines\,\dots 
Yuminov Leonid Petrovich, master of the  pumping station on the Chepsta bank, older than us, over 30. 
Fate was generous as it gave me excellent friends to work with for many 
years. We were very close friends, particularly with Andrei. We skied together, 
rode skates, went to parties, and from the first to the last day attended the 
studies and exams at the Ural Polytech Institute (we had a holy tradition -- ready 
or not for the exam -- we always went to the theater the night before: and it helped, since we never failed an exam\,\dots). And how great the two of them -- 
Andrei and Boris -- were! They knew the turbines and thermo-energy! Do you 
know what  a Kingsbury ball bearing is? And what pressure there has to be 
in the deaerator? Do you know how and with what accuracy one needs 
to center the feeder pump? You don't know? This was also the case with me 
at first -- I had absolutely no knowledge of it. While with time I became 
a decent turbine specialist, Fedor Gavrilovich, and Boris, and Andrei all 
played a huge role in this -- let their memory shine\,\dots
They departed one after another -- each, as in Haydn's Farewell Symphony, extinguished his own candle; and the World became a little bit darker.

It took a little getting used to, but suddenly I realized that 
I liked it! I liked it that this iron monstrosity, like an untamed 
stallion, suddenly subordinated itself to my abilities, know-how, 
learning, and began to work smoothly, without vibration, without 
 overheating of the ball-bearings, and without leaking oil. 
But this is later. In the meantime -- three kids, simple technical 
apprentices who knew much less that I, a room where we ourselves 
set up the DiP-200 lathe, a pile of tools in an iron case, and 
a great willingness to prove that I am worth something\,\dots  It 
is August 1949 and TETs is still feverishly getting ready to be 
launched into production. The new workshop, like hungry chicks 
with opened beaks, are yelling -- energy, give us energy! The 
tiny factory's TsES (``shop of electric supply'') with its two 
tiny turbines of 1000 kilowatts each, and a small locomotive
brought from somewhere for help, 
are puffing and wheezing from the effort, but are obviously in 
no position to perform a miracle\,\dots  

Officially, her name was Ellis Chalmers, born in 1942 in Milwaukee, 
Wisconsin. She was a full-fledged American. We simply called 
her Alisa and she did not mind. She was very tidy, precise, and 
hardworking! She will begin a marathon, rest a bit, and back 
to work for a year or two\,\dots  How charming she was! \,\dots well-formed 
and elegant -- in one word, a foreigner. So she continued to perform 
in this way until the end; she left with dignity, at her battle 
post when she began to rumble with her broken blades and came 
to a halt. Forever. Farewell, Alisa, remember us fondly!

 Relations with the other turbines were more operational, not 
so sentimental. The third -- and a period. The fifth -- and that's 
enough. But, that Alisa -- our dearest! I loved her very much 
and it seemed to me that she had reciprocal feelings\,\dots  And 
when I left the shop, I would surreptitiously kiss them all! 

 Again, my memory took me to hell knows where\,\dots  But we launched 
Alisa at the very same time that our TETs came to count out its 
first minutes of operations. The plant was built by convict labor. 
A huge area around the plant -- known as TETsConstruct -- was zoned 
off for the convicts. For many years, two columns of convicts 
-- one of men and the other of women -- where brought in the morning 
and led away in the evening. Due to my youth and naivet\'{e}, it 
never even occurred to me on what a powder keg we all sat when 
we worked there. All this time TETs was being built, expanded, 
new turbines and boilers where being installed. There was simply 
too much work and we cooperated brilliantly with these convicts! 
I intuitively understood that the key to having a successful 
and safe working environment in these unique circumstances -- 
with their own unwritten conventions -- was one-hundred percent 
cooperation, giving an open and unlimited line of credit, trust, 
assistance, and, if you want, respect. When lending to someone 
a one or three ruble note, I cannot recall a time when the
money was not returned to me!

 Boris Melnikov, a master installer from ``CentrEnergInstal'', 
an intelligent young fellow with ``golden hands'' (and such do 
exist -- rarely, but they do!), was running, rushing somewhere 
and failed to notice a workman ahead of him carrying a pipe on 
his shoulder. It was a very long, thin-walled pipe about 40 cm 
in diameter. More precisely, Boris probably saw the workman, 
but did not notice the end of the pipe before his nose\,\dots  The 
hit was quite significant and Boris' lips took bad cuts (just 
like cutting circles with a glass on a sheet of dough when making 
dumplings). If the blow had been a bit harder then our 
Boris would have become ``a person who always smiles'' -- recall 
Guinplen in Victor Hugo? Boris' teeth also became playful, just 
like those planks on the Glazov sidewalks. One of the first to 
rush to him was a doctor-convict who was nearby (he was a doctor 
when he was free, but now he tugged around U-beams). He did
well -- saved Boris' lips and teeth\,\dots  

The thermometer outside the window tells us it is --24\ensuremath{^\circ} 
C and it is 7 p.m. The boiler is malfunctioning. A decision was 
made -- it should be fixed in the morning and drain the water 
in the meantime. There was no time to change clothing and it 
so happened that all of these cubic meters of brown liquid, which 
did not even look like water, fell on me. Like Alexander Matrosov 
on the gun-port,\footnote{\,Private Alexander Matrosov, the celebrated war hero.
 In 1943 his regiment was attacking Nazis near the village of Chernushki (in the Pskov region).
 The attack was about to fail because of fierce resistance by the Germans.
Alexander Matrosov threw his body against a Nazi embrasure closing it.Then the
Matrosov regiment advanced  and the Germans were defeated. -- 
Editor's note.}
 I jumped to shut down all the running motors 
of the condensation pumps\,\dots  When all had their fill of laughter 
and I had washed my eyes, we walked home (there was no bus back then)\,\dots  
All of my clothing was soaked through with that warm liquid and 
in about three or four minutes it began to crunch in a rather disgusting 
way, having become an icy chain mail. I was able to climb up 
to my second-story flat, but with some difficulty (just try to 
ascend a stairway when instead of wearing cotton breeches you 
have two wooden pipes on your legs!). The guys, laughing, extracted 
me from the icy trap and I began to bring myself back to rights
over a basin of hot water. The pants stood for a few minutes 
like two pipes at the plant and then sorrowfully faded away into 
a hefty puddle, reminding me of my heroic deed\,\dots  Obviously, 
this was an excellent reason for me to partake in some measured 
drinking -- let the first person toss a stone at me if they would 
have done differently\,\dots  It should be said that in those bachelor 
days we drank inappropriately much and without knowing how to 
do it properly. It seemed as though there was a contest between 
all the types of beverages produced at that time -- who can best 
astonish the citizens of Glazov, people who have never seen anything 
other than vodka. My God! What exotic cocktails, liquors, and 
wines we sipped by the bucket-full during our first  Glazov
years!

 Sometime towards the end of winter 1950, Mother came. So, I was 
given a room, a real room in a real apartment\,\dots  The guys loved 
to come for a visit after work -- they liked my mother's hospitality. 
To be sure, they sat with us until quite late at night. Oh, what 
wonderful sittings these were!

In the beginning of the winter of 1951, I was sent to Moscow for 
 half a year of training in  master-repair practice at Mosenergo.\footnote{\,A 
company providing electricity and running electrical grids in Moscow
and its suburbs. -- Editor's note.} 
It was made very clear to me that I should 
not say a word about my mid-technical training. If you were sent 
to learn, then you should learn! Well, if that's the case, I 
will study. For half a year I had fantastic fun -- I sat on countless 
rows of theater seats, restaurant chairs, and chilly benches 
on the marvelous TsPKiO\,\footnote{\,Central Park of Culture and Recreation,
the famous Gorky Park in Moscow. -- Translator's note.} ice-rink\,\dots  Just 
a tit-bit more and there would have been two weddings\,\dots  God 
protected\,\dots ! 

 I do not recall, more precisely I do not know, who was the first to get this idea 
-- the ``Great Hike'' for the engineer diploma. It seems that the 
initiator was Volodya Teleshkov. For about a year, some 250 young 
guys and girls, young specialists, were insisting, attaining, 
demanding, and finally got it! It was the establishment of UKP 
(``learning-consulting center'') under the auspices of the Ural Polytech Institute, 
staffed by decent teachers who were selected from among factory 
engineers. Six years of study, then the diploma, and goodbye. 

 Of course, not everyone who began their schooling finished. Some left 
early, others managed a year or two more; but, most did finish and 
on time. In the restaurants ``Glazov'' and ``North'' smoke was billowing 
like out of a chimney -- everyone was celebrating their diplomas. 
Many of my fellow students became heads of factory shops and 
divisions. It was not for nothing that they sweated, staying 
up until two or three in the morning, and declined to participate 
in all sorts of fun and tempting activities, which were many\,\dots  
With the words ``white nights'' comes to mind Leningrad, but to 
me it is Glazov: all the banks of the Cheptsa are as if covered 
by a white foam of bird-cherry tree flowers; volleyball until one 
in the morning and then sunrise at three\,\dots  Go ahead and try 
to grind out differential equations and hammer out \textit{pluskvam 
perfektum} and the fifth chapter of ``Party History\,\dots '' But what 
can one do? So we ground and hammered\,\dots  

 The first and second year exams were held in Glazov. Beginning 
with third year, twice annually, we all travelled to Sverdlovsk. 
We all went together in hordes of several dozen ``diploma 
hunters.'' The train cars are full of smoke; intense preparation 
for the upcoming session; and, cork screws cannot open enough 
bottles\,\dots  We were housed in student dormitories. Andrei and 
I were always together -- we were even called ``twins'' and so we 
kept this nickname until the defense of our diplomas. Our studies 
went well enough -- we took the exams without too much effort, 
although there was a chronic lack of sleep\,\dots  

 In the summer of 1959, we defended our diplomas. Before  
the defense we were stuck   in Sverdlovsk 
for half a year -- writing, drawing, calculating. There 
was no time  to  escape home even for a few days. I was bitterly upset
that I could not hear how my son Ian was goo-gooing -- and this 
is such a marvel!  It was at this time that I   began to smoke. 
I smoked a pack a day. 

 I was married in January of 1956, in my twenty-ninth year of life, 
a time when my mother had practically lost all hope that she would
have a chance to go out for walks with her grandchild, having 
him wrapped up in her fur coat\,\dots  I wandered and wandered around, 
dated and dated, but suddenly realized that Nadya, a neighbor 
of my friends, is {\em the} one -- that lucky ticket with whom I will 
blow out our 120$^{th}$ candle! We celebrated our wedding and gave 
birth to Ian, whom we have cherished for the last 45 years. It 
is a great pity that we now see him rarely, since some time ago 
we left our dear Glazov and now live in the little town of Afula, 
Israel, located in a valley between the Galilee and Samaria mountains. 
One can see from the window of our tiny apartment a fabulous view 
of the holy Mount Tabor, the ``Mount of Transfiguration'' and 
the town of Nazareth from which left the Greatest of all Jews 
of the World on his final journey to Jerusalem. If one climbs 
on the roof of our building and jumps about 50 or 80 meters up in 
the air, one will get a glimpse of Lake Kineret (Lake Tiberius 
or Sea of Galilee), located some 20 kilometers away. This is 
the one across which Christ walked ``as on land''; and the telephone 
conversations with Lord God here, as the anecdote goes, are priced 
at local rates (I have not yet had a chance to call\,\dots ). 

But, we cannot see our Ian from the roof. Our dear friends, who 
were indispensable company in our cozy table gatherings, partners 
in skiing as well as gathering mushrooms and berries, live even 
further away or have already passed away\,\dots  Ian is a professor 
at Oxford University, about an hour away from London. He is 
a physicist -- having graduated at the  Moscow Institute for Physics and 
Technology,\footnote{\,Soviet counterpart of MIT, located in Dolgoprudny,
15 miles to the north-west of Moscow. -- Editor's note.} 
defending his candidate's degree\,\footnote{\,The 
academic hierarchy in Russia
follows the German rather than the Anglo-American pattern.
The  equivalent of PhD in the US
is the so called {\em candidate} degree. 
The highest academic degree, doctoral,
is analogous to the German {\em Habilitation}. -- Editors' note.}   at the age of 25.
He has had 
a chance to work in  Trieste, Geneva, Zurich, Vancouver, and Princeton. 
After wandering for a bit, he settled in England. Oh, how quickly 
the years fly by! Nadya and I are already over seventy-five, 
but it seems like it was just yesterday that I celebrated my 
diploma, became a senior master, and the turbines ceased being ``terra incognita''
for me.  Here, Ian had already become ``infected'' 
with physics; and the physics contests began, first citywide, 
then republic, and then nationwide. Our chests are bursting with 
pride with the phone calls from the Municipal Department of Public 
Education: ``\,\dots Ian Kogan -- our pride!'' 

Next, Ian was a student of Moscow PhysTech, while I stepped out 
of my managerial seat at the turbine shop to retire\,\dots . It has 
been 12 years since Nadya and I moved to Israel. We would live 
here  happily, if it were not for our ``cousins" who are beyond 
the  green line.  The end to this adversity is not in sight. 
We go to sleep thinking about it and wake up with it in our minds\,\dots  
>From our other window we see Mount Megiddo; the word ``mountain'' 
in Hebrew is ``ar,'' hence, the word ``Armageddon'' -- you see? Yes, 
that very same Armageddon, the great battle between the forces 
of good and evil. Anytime now it is supposed to start, perhaps 
on Wednesday or maybe on Thursday. So, I am thinking, why not 
grab a few bottles of beer, sit by the window, and see how all 
of this commotion will end. But, is it possible that the Earth 
has had enough of the sweat- and blood-letting? Let it flow, 
as prophesied from above, with milk and honey. Let it be that 
people live without fear of entering a bus and stores, in discos 
and caf\'{e}s -- let it be! Oh, if only I could  have it my way\,\dots  


\newpage

\section*{Part IV -- Kaddish }
\addcontentsline{toc}{section}{\protect Part IV -- Kaddish}
\setcounter{footnote}{0}

My precious! I do not know if I am taking upon myself too difficult 
 a task? Will my heart withstand it? I will speak to You -- 
will You hear me? I never thought that my ``Memoirs'' would have 
an additional Part Four. Need I say that our thoughts are only 
with You? Wherever we are, whatever we speak about, You are always 
near. Sometimes we even admonish You for something. But, do not 
be angry, since it is simply the grumbling of old age. Do You 
recall how Boris Platonych brought us all home from the maternity 
ward in his ``Pobeda''?\footnote{\,A Soviet car make in the 1950's -- Translator's note.} 
We washed You (not in the bathtub, of course, but on the table 
which grandmother prepared for You!). How she shined with exhilaration 
-- our grandmother! The grandson she had dreamed about for so 
many years now lay on the pillow! Oh, what a wonderful infant 
-- a charming brunet with astonishing eyelashes! What a marvelous 
Romanian crib I brought for You  a few weeks later from Moscow! All 
of Glazov gazed at this crib with admiration. You probably remember 
it, this work of art with the sliding side and some sort of a 
special mattress, which all our doctor friends viewed with great 
esteem. It served You well for the first four years! How appetizingly 
You sniffed with Your little nose as You slept while the three 
of us grew numb from watching You. 

\dots Son, do You recall our outings to Nikolaevka, Druskinenkai, 
``my'' Zaporozhye, Berdiansk, ``my'' Stalingrad, Leningrad, Ufa, 
and Istrinskoe water reserve? How well You drove the car when 
You were eight! Do You remember when we were on the road to Kirov, 
You sat behind the wheel for some forty kilometers and God knows 
how our brave mother sat there absolutely peacefully, not at 
all perturbed -- or was this when You were ten? How long ago that 
was! I am beginning to forget\,\dots  Also, do You recollect that 
fearsome soccer match in Luzhninki, when that screaming thousand-man 
crowd almost trampled us to death? Thanks to the nearby guys 
who surrounded us and carried us out into some niche. This was early 
on -- there were still school years ahead, contests, Moscow PhysTech, 
marriage, Zhenya\,\dots  

 \dots What wonderful friends You have, son! With what warmth they 
spoke of You and how their words relieved our pain! How touchingly 
careful they were in their interactions with us! \,\dots I read a 
kaddish over Your coffin:
\begin{quote}
Ladies and Gentlemen! Dear Friends!

I have to apologize before many of you for my inability to present 
this speech in English. Therefore, I will say farewell to my 
son in my own native Russian tongue, the language in which he 
pronounced his first words -- ``mama'' and ``papa.'' Our dearest! 
You know that according to our tradition it is the son who reads 
the farewell prayers at his father's grave. Lord God, apparently 
in his busy schedule, has confused this order. So, it is I who 
read the kaddish over Your coffin\,\dots  Our dear! We thank God 
that He gave You to us. We thank God for giving us the opportunity 
to be in contact with You for 45 years, for the 45 years of joy 
which only now we fully came to realize\,\dots  We thank God for 
giving You a beloved and loving wife, beloved and loving children, 
and a grandchild\,\dots  We thank God for surrounding You with wonderful 
friends, many of whom are now among us and share our great anguish\,\dots  
We thank God for lovely England that called You her son, for 
giving You work and shelter\,\dots  We thank God for Your dedication 
to Your marvelous study of Physics and for giving You the opportunity 
to add Your word to this science\,\dots  Who knows God's will? We 
do not know why God took You away from us. Perhaps, a person 
has to leave into the better world before understanding the great 
mysteries, the great unknown of Being. We obediently accept God's 
will\,\dots  Farewell, our joy, our happiness, which has been torn 
away! Let the English soil receive You with peace, and let this 
earth be as light as feathers to You!
\end{quote}
Misha was very helpful, for he translated my every word, while 
I translated my soul into words. The last words I could scarcely 
utter, pauses between words were great. \,\dots Some people came 
up to me, said something, and embraced me. I wept but had no 
more tears left. 

 We had a son\,\dots  What a wonderful word -- Son! It smells of infant's 
milk, freshly ironed diapers, interesting books with charming 
pictures, and collections of stamps. It smells of frost on ski tracks, 
sea waves, and mountain wind. It smells of beautiful symphonic 
music and the magical symphony of mathematical formulas -- this 
word smells of joy and happiness! And then suddenly falls onto 
this enchanting word ``Son'' the terrible word ``was,'' an enormous 
boulder that shattered our joy and happiness.

 Son, do You recall our trip to Nikolaevka? The entrance to our 
lodging was closed by a huge and heavy branch, covered with amber 
peaches the size of a fist. In Nikolaevka, You learned how to 
swim -- do You recall? How I tried to convince You to exhale into 
the water! No, no, no! You raised Your head, smacked the water 
with Your arms, and somehow managed to swim some 5-10 meters 
and then tired out\,\dots  I lay on the pebbles with closed eyes 
while You got up, looked around like a thief, and entered the 
water. I was watching You. You exhaled into the water and began 
to swim! A wild scream of exultation and an Indian dance -- and 
You swam along the shore while I walked nearby and counted the 
streetlights! You swam 400 meters and the next day we had an 
unscheduled trip to Simferopol to visit the doctor, since water 
got into Your ear\,\dots  However, it was still a small celebration, 
a little victory. I often also remember another small celebration, 
one more little victory -- You and I frequently recalled it. The 
year was 1963, October 3 -- my birthday -- though my age was
 not a round number.
But, we knew that someone would pop by and we had some with us\,\dots  
Of course, Mura came with Semen, Nina with Boris, Tolya with 
Lilya, and someone else\,\dots  We assembled the table, placed on 
it a white tablecloth that had not yet been stained by wine. 
The men are smoking and discussing Khrushchev while the women 
are running back and forth between the kitchen and the table 
-- all are in anticipation\,\dots  We look and see that Ian is already 
sitting at the table in proud solitude! I tell him without thinking 
-- go ahead son, go to your room and play; we will sit at the 
table, just the adults -- you will be bored! He got up and left. 
Mother comes in: 

``Ian is crying in there!''

``Why?!''

``You greatly upset him. He said: `When it was my birthday, he 
sat at my table and drank tea with pies. When I came to his 
birthday, he chased me away!''' 

So, I go out to the kitchen and see Ian shedding tears in three 
streams! 

``Son, I upset you by accident\,\dots  I did not want to hurt your 
feelings -- forgive me, please!'' Then, I invited You to join us 
for my birthday!

Oh, how much You loved the circus! You enjoyed it even more than 
the Soviet Army Museum, and this museum we visited regularly! 
And in the circus there were clowns -- Your passion, Your deep 
desire. To the question ``what do you want to be when you grow 
up?'' there was only one answer -- a clown! ``I want to make people 
merry -- I love it when people laugh\,\dots ''

 Later, the circus was replaced with physics to which You stayed 
true until the end. We live by our memories before our eyes, 
as if we are gazing through a kaleidoscope at Your childhood 
and youth -- the schooldays, competitions, and the first substantive 
academic achievement in the 9$^{th}$ grade. At the age of thirteen, 
You stated Your first words which indicated to us that physics 
is not a simple school pastime for You, but a true commitment, 
perhaps for life. You said:

``If I am deprived of physics, I do not want to live\,\dots ''

I was concerned whether You were overloading Yourself. I 
even consulted with doctors on this matter\,\dots  Artur Volochkov 
-- Your guardian angel from Your earliest years -- knew You very 
well. He said: ``It's okay -- let him study -- he is a hardy fellow\,\dots ''

We calmed down and You were accepted to Moscow PhysTech. At the 
age of seventeen, You left home and entered the world of studies 
-- the world of science -- becoming only a guest in Your native 
home, only a guest\,\dots  We were so proud and happy with Your ``Red'' 
(with Honours) Diploma, took great pleasure in associating with Zhenya 
when she lived with us, marveled at Your charming friends, and 
laughed at their kindhearted epigram:


\begin{quote}
Our Ian has no apparent flaw --\\
The tall and handsome brunet;\\
But if he arises and glances at a woman --\\
She will collapse on the floor tiles! 
\end{quote}

God\,\dots  in all of  46 years of living with Nadya I have seen 
her weep perhaps only five times. She was solid before the turn 
of the new era\,\dots  But now, we hide from each other and weep.

``Ilya, I want to add several lines.''

``Of course, Nadya\,\dots ''
\begin{quote}
Son\,\dots  You are three years old. You came in from outside and were 
upset -- with tears in Your eyes You said -- ``some woman said to 
me that only girls should have such eyes and eyelashes." I explained 
to You that it is nicer and easier to look at the world with 
such large eyes -- there are so many interesting things in the 
world to see! You believed me and calmed down\,\dots 

You are just over four years old and a new know-it-all appeared 
in our family. Right before our eyes You read the name of the 
magazine -- ``Cro\,\dots  cro\,\dots  co\,\dots di\,\dots  Crocodile\,\dots  What is it?'' 
You began to read the signs outside, names of stores, and placards\,\dots  
And, once again, distress and tears: ``\textit{Yan}kee, Out of Vietnam!'' 
This time it was necessary to climb into the depths of the \textit{Large 
Soviet Encyclopedia} and sweep out all that there was about Ians 
 -- famous and not so famous. \,\dots  You understood and calmed 
down. Ever after, we became eternal friends with the encyclopedia 
-- leafed through all of its fifty volumes, which was clearly reflected 
in their outward appearance. When Lena, Your babysitter, asked 
You what interesting things can be found in those books, You 
decisively told her ``Go Lena, there are no dolls here!''

What close friends You became with the skis! Do You recall, You 
were four years old: You and Father in twenty below frost run 
down the slopes near the water station. Many years had passed 
and You came for Your winter break. Despite Your father's protests, 
You did the ``large circle'' route twice -- this was 50 kilometers! 
If it were not for physics, You may have become a great athlete. 


You are five years old -- the first real test, the first shakeup. 
Otolaryngologists -- the doctors are unanimous in their diagnoses 
-- remove both the glands and adenoids. They persistently recommend 
that You should be seriously prepared for going to the hospital 
without fear. So, we did our best -- You walked to the hospital 
dancing and joyfully exclaiming: ``I am going to an operation, 
I am going to an operation!''

Later, You lay in bed all exhausted and faded, and gazed with 
Your huge eyes full of tears and whispered:

``You fibbed\,\dots  You betrayed me\,\dots ''

No, our son, we never betrayed You, never\,\dots  We left our native 
land to be closer to You -- but it did not turn out that way. 

\end{quote}

Ilya:


\begin{quote}
Two flags stand before my eyes\,\dots  Both flutter in the wind; 
both whisper of You\,\dots  Do You remember when You came from school, 
feeling a bit shy and a bit elated? You were nominated to be 
the flag bearer of Your school for the May Day parade! The school 
principal, administrators, teachers, and others would be marching 
behind You and the flag! I stood there on the corner of Soviet 
and Belinsky Streets with the camera and watched the schools 
pass by -- the first \,\dots  sixth\,\dots  tenth\,\dots  and here it was, 
the fourteenth and our Ian with the flag! You found me with Your 
eyes and laughed, while I jokingly saluted the flag and snapped 
two shots. \,\dots And a month and a half ago, the Master of Your 
college brought me out into the middle of the street to show 
me the flagpole on the roof of the college (one cannot see it 
from the sidewalk). The flag of Your college flapped in the 
wind at half-mast -- Your colleagues were giving You their last 
respects\,\dots  I saluted the flag and bowed down low to it\,\dots  Zhenya 
stood close next to me. I kissed her, we bowed to the flag once 
again, and walked away\,\dots  
\end{quote}


\vspace{4mm}

\begin{flushright}
July 2003
\end{flushright}

\end{document}
