Chapter One

 

 

 

                           "Why call it the Past?  

                            “Everything that is in us and with us?”   

                                                           Liu Da-bai

 

        "I live far away, on the Polish farmsteads. And there, if you go with me, we might be met by local guys and I'm afraid you'll be in trouble," Karolina told Sergey when they reached the middle of the bridge that spanned the canyon of the Smotrych River and connected the New Plan and the Old Town.

“It’s okay, I’ll take you there and be back quickly,” said the young man. It was too late for him to retreat.

They crossed the bridge and found themselves in a small square, shaped like a large bream lying on its side, with paving stones that glittered in the rays of the midday sun like fish scales.

To the left, on the opposite side of the square, a vacant lot overgrown with weeds caught the eye, among the stems of which here and there stuck out stones left over from the foundation of the Holy Trinity Church, blown up by the Bolsheviks in the thirties.

Ahead, on the facade of a two-story building that housed the district cultural department, hung a poster with Nikita Khrushchev’s prophecy:

“The current generation of Soviet people will live under communism!”

After reading the text, Sergei imagined how the two hundred million Soviet people - from the Baltics and Ukraine in the west and to Kamchatka and Sakhalin in the east - lined up in columns, marching in one impulse, stamping their steps, towards the cherished goal.

Red flags with a hammer and sickle flutter over the sea of human heads, portraits of members of the Politburo of the CPSU Central Committee flicker on poles carried in the hands of Komsomol members, pioneers and Octobrists. The bravura "March of the Communist Brigades" sounds from edge to edge over the vast country:

"We are not on parade today,

And on the way to communism,

In the communist brigades

Lenin is ahead of us…”

“And now I need to go right,” said Carolina, interrupting Sergei’s fantasies.

“And I’m going there too,” he said.

They turned onto Zarvanskaya Street with its one- and two-story houses. Built in the last century or the century before last, they looked with indifference at the sluggish life of the district center of the current century. In the silence of the sleepy street, only the gray flagstones that paved the sidewalk responded with muffled sounds like a Turkish drum to each step taken by the young man and the girl.

When they approached the medieval stone tower of Stefan Batory and the Polish Gate attached to it, the young man broke the silence and said:

“How many feet have walked along these streets!”

“Even the Moscow autocrat Peter Romanov,” Carolina clarified.

“And what was he looking for here?” asked Sergei.

"The Tsar was going to Carlsbad for treatment after the unsuccessful Prut campaign," said Caroline. "And, you know, a very funny thing happened to him: when he rode under the arches of the Polish Gate, the wind blew his hat off his head.

“But in paintings and films he is always depicted with his head uncovered and his eyes glowing like those of a man in an epileptic fit,” Sergei objected.

“And then Peter bent down, wanted to pick up his hat,” continued Caroline. “However, the valet stopped him, saying that it was not proper for the Russian Tsar to bow to the Polish King, especially in the form of a stone tower. Peter turned pale, his eyes almost popped out of their sockets, his moustache bristled - the valet, without knowing it, reminded the Tsar that the Moscow Principality almost became the eastern province of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth...”

“And Peter was quick with his hands! He could take out his anger on the valet in the heat of the moment,” Sergey added.

“He could, of course he could,” the girl agreed. ”I read somewhere that he beat a servant to death with a stick just because he hesitated and did not immediately take off his hat in front of him”.

“What about the servant! He did not spare his own son Alexei, handing him over to the executioners to be torn apart. And the next day, when the body of the prince had not yet had time to cool down, he threw, as if nothing had happened, a feast in honor of the Battle of Poltava,” said the young man.

Having ducked under the arches of the legendary Polish Gate, Sergei and Karolina went beyond the city walls. Having taken a dozen steps along the old postal route, the young man looked back: in the shadow of the Polish Gate he thought he saw someone's silhouette.

“Peter!” the young man guessed.

The Tsar stood with his hands on his hips and looked in his direction. He did not look as majestically theatrical as Alexander Pushkin depicted him in the poem "Poltava":

"Peter comes out. His eyes

They shine. His face is terrible.

The movements are fast. He is beautiful,

He is like God’s thunderstorm…”

No, no! This one looked different: bareheaded, in a simple green waistcoat, loose trousers tucked into jackboots. And the Tsar looked unwell. It was obvious that he was unwell. His ill state was indicated by his complexion, grey-yellow, like parchment, and the purple circles under his eyes.

Sergei did not find in this image of the emperor that impulse, that temperament, that grandeur which, replicated with the help of books, paintings and films, were already perceived as canonical and textbook. And the reason for such a transformation could only be the Prut campaign, which ended more than unsuccessfully for the Muscovites.

As the Danish envoy Justa Juhl recalled, citing the words of eyewitnesses, “The Tsar, being surrounded by the Turkish army, fell into such despair that, like a madman, he ran back and forth through the camp, beat himself on the chest and could not utter a word…”

“Why are you looking back? Did you see someone you know?” asked Carolina.

“Yes, this is Petra!

“What other Peter?!”

“Romanova!” said Sergei, feeling awkward.

“In the Old City, everything is possible,” said Carolina without a shadow of a smile on her face. “One evening, returning home, I also saw a ghost near those Turkish bastions. I got scared and ran away.”

“Don’t be afraid!” I heard as I ran. “I am Yuri, the son of Bohdan Khmelnitsky…”

“I stopped, trembling with fear. And I asked, not myself:

“And what are you doing here, Yuri Bogdanovich? Why are you scaring people?”

"The Turks treated me unfairly," he said. "They strangled me and threw me like some kind of carrion from the Castle Bridge into Smotrich. So here I am, guarding one of the executioners: I want to get even with him. And did you happen to see anyone outside the gates?"

“I saw,” I said, “a police squad. They’re probably looking for you…”

Carolina stopped and, pointing to the opposite left bank of the river, said:

“ I'm going there, to the Polish farmsteads. And you go back. I'll go from here myself.”

“No, what are you saying! If I agreed to see you off, I'll see you all the way home,” Sergei objected.

Along the old Post Road they went down to the river floodplain, where vegetable gardens were green, willows and pussy willows grew, bending over the water. Caroline walked with a light, springy gait, proudly carrying her graceful head, gloriously sculpted by the sculptor.

A light-brown lock of hair, having escaped from her neat girlish hairdo, swayed at her temple in time with her steps. Sometimes she glanced at her companion with her dark eyes, veiled blue like the fruit of a blackthorn. The girl was probably pleased that a young man who was not afraid of meeting the locals was walking next to her. A shy, silly smile played on Sergei's face, the kind you can see on any young man in love.

“And you, Seryozha, where are you from?” asked Carolina.

“Me? I come from Ruda. Maybe you've heard of such a village.” “I not only heard it, but I was also there.”

“That's interesting! When did you manage to do it?”

“It was a long time ago! After the fourth grade, I vacationed at your school pioneer camp.”

“It's a pity we didn't meet then. I would have shown you some cool places,” said Sergey.

“And what is so “cool” about you there?

“At least the bunkers! They surround the village along the perimeter with a reinforced concrete necklace.”

“Pillboxes! Is that interesting?”

Well, then I would take you to 'Stenka' — that's what we call the tract on the high bank of the Dniester. From there, there is a stunning view of the opposite Bukovinian bank — you'll be blown away when you see it! Let's go to Ruda when we have passed our exams. I'll show you around, introduce you to my parents...”

“Well, how do you like our penates?” asked Carolina when they came out onto the main street of the Polish farmsteads, Suvorova, the only decoration of which was the Orthodox Church of St. George.

"I like it. Especially this church, all painted blue and looking up at the same blue sky," said Sergei.

“Yes, this was a church. And now it’s a planetarium,” the girl said.

“But the street bears the name of the great commander!”

“I don’t want to hear about him!” Carolina replied heatedly.

“Why did Suvorov displease you so much?”

“And by drowning the Warsaw uprising in blood, and receiving a field marshal’s baton as a reward for this...”

Sergei was confused and looked sideways at the girl. Recently she had spoken disparagingly of Peter the Great, and now she was speaking disparagingly of Suvorov.

"So that's why you got mad at the old generalissimo?" Sergei tried to joke, remembering the skinny, gray-haired Suvorov as he was portrayed in the Soviet film of the same name.

"But the Russians always do it this way: if they don't seize other people's territories, then they use sword and fire to pacify the peoples who don't submit to them..."

“Do you know what it’s called?”

“How?” he asked, surprised.

“Punitive operations, that’s how it is!” said Carolina, looking angrily at Sergei.

“Really ‘punitive’?” he asked, looking at Caroline in confusion.

"And you thought! After such pacification, Poland and Lithuania lost their statehood. What Peter the Great did not manage to do, Catherine the Second completed with the help of bayonets. Moreover, Russia got the fattest piece, including Right-Bank Ukraine and Podolsk Voivodeship with the city of Kamenets to boot…"

“So that’s the reason for your dislike of the Generalissimo!” Sergei guessed.

"Yes, I hate his!" said Carolina, shaking her head as if freeing herself from heavy, tiresome thoughts. "But now, we'll turn the corner, and I'll already be home..."

For Sergey, the girl's words sounded like a sentence; his heart sank and fell somewhere. This happens when you fly in an airplane and it gets into an air pocket.

"As soon as we turn the corner, I'll kiss her. And then come what may!" the young man decided in despair, hoping in this way to detain Karolinka for at least another half hour...

However, what he had been internally preparing for and fearing happened. As soon as they turned onto Zinkovetskaya Street, they immediately collided head-on with a dashing group of locals - three tanned, tousled-haired guys, about the same age as Sergei. They were dressed in identical Chinese canvas trousers for six rubles a pair, which almost half of the male population of the Soviet Union wore, in mismatched T-shirts and sleeveless jackets, and on their feet were sneakers from the same Chinese company "Druzhba."

Seeing the unfamiliar guy, the "Folvartsciy" stopped dead in their tracks and stared at Sergei with curiosity. He felt a pain in the pit of his stomach; his palms were covered in sticky sweat. Trying to hide his excitement, he took Karolina by the arm, hoping to peacefully disperse from the local "Makhnovists." Karolina immediately guessed what could happen, stepped forward, and began to explain to the guys in the local dialect:

“Kazik, that is, Sergei, a boy from our class, when we were taking exams at the technical school, I asked him to give me a ride home...”

However, the "Folvaretskys" had their ideas on this matter. And the girl's intervention only encouraged the young hooligans, who were confident in their impunity - after all, there were three of them!

“Listen, fuck,” said the one whom Carolina called Kazik, turning to Sergey, squinting his right eye. “What are you doing here, you fly-by-night dude, sticking to our chick?”

Word for word, and a fight broke out. Sergey fought back as best he could. The girl's presence gave him strength. And he managed to land two strong and precise blows to Kazik's face, and a dark stream ran down his lips and chin. He was being hit from three sides. And it is unknown how this incident would have ended if the summer air, thick with heat, had not suddenly been pierced by a police siren.

Hearing the siren, the hooligans decided it was best to escape, taking Karolina with them. Kazik grabbed the girl by the neck with his left hand, covered her mouth with his right so that she would not scream, and dragged her into the nearest gateway. The other two held her by the legs. The girl tried to break free, but in vain - and this time the forces were unequal.

Two policemen got out of the GAZ-69 and, not paying attention to the “Folvaretskys” who were running away, looking back, they walked leisurely and unhurriedly up to Sergei, who was shaking the dust off his trousers and shirt.

“Well, you got caught, you little bastard,” said one of the cops.

Sergei tried to explain to the guards what had happened. But they, without listening to him, twisted his arms behind his back, put handcuffs on his wrists, shoved him into the barred cage of a police GAZik, and took him to the city police department.

The duty "investigator", having interrogated Sergei, made him sign the inquiry report and said threateningly: "Well, boy, you're in deep trouble!" And he announced that he was being detained for 72 hours until the circumstances were clarified...

The pre-trial detention cell where Sergei was placed had one barred window covered with an iron sheet, so that the person inside could not see anything except a narrow strip of sky. The only furniture in the cell was a wooden bunk without a mattress, pillow or blankets. And instead of a toilet, there was a "parasha" standing in the corner.

Left alone, Sergei, like a cornered animal, began to dart around the cell: from the door to the opposite wall with the window and back. Four steps one way, four the other. To distract himself, he examined the cell. In one of the hiding places, he found a hidden blade from a safety razor. He turned it over in his hands and put it back because it was no longer needed. “I had to get myself into such a mess,” he thought. “Now I’ll have to forget about studying at the technical school…”

Tired and beaten, Sergei lay down on the hard wooden bunk. Staring at the dirty, fly-speckled ceiling, he remembered his native village on a hot summer day like today. In his father's apiary, a linden tree was blooming, exuding a honey aroma. The bees, having flown out of their hives, soared up to its inflorescences for another bribe.

Grandmothers Olga and Stefania, or Shtefa, as everyone called her, were sitting on small chairs, picking sorrel leaves growing in the beds. Today they were going to cook green borscht. He, the restless six-year-old Seryozhka, was hanging around nearby, enjoying sweet Jerusalem artichoke. Sometimes he listened to the grandmothers’ conversation. Shtefa, for the umpteenth time, was telling how German planes were bombing Kamenets. And she was running away from the city to the deadly accompaniment of bomb explosions and the rumble and crackle of collapsing houses.

After such a "deadly marathon," she fell ill with bronchial asthma. She breathes heavily, wheezing and coughing constantly. At the same time, she smokes, inhaling deeply. Her cigarettes are special, medicinal. Instead of tobacco, they contain crushed leaves of belladonna. Sergey asks for a cigarette, lights it with a match, inhales, and begins to cough - no worse than Baba Shtefa herself...

Thus, with the measured hum of bees, blossoming linden, sorrel for green borscht, smoke of dope, and stories about the fascist bombing, the city of Kamenets-Podolsky, which he had never been to, was taking shape in Sergei's imagination yet..

He fell asleep without noticing it. He dreamed of Carolina, the Folvartsi Makhnovists, a fight with them, the cops who didn't want to listen to him, the investigator who threatened him with all sorts of punishments. Suddenly, he found himself in some basement. It was a torture chamber, and he saw Peter again. The Emperor was sitting on a bench in the corner and watching the executioners torture his son Alexei with passion. The groans and heart-rending cries of the Tsarevich could be heard.

The man, with bloody foam around his mouth distorted by suffering, swore that he had not plotted anything against his father, had not participated in any conspiracy. But Peter was implacable and merciless. A voluptuous, inhuman smile played on his face. Looking at how his own son was being tortured, he seemed to get pleasure…

Sergey woke up in a cold sweat. He began to look around the cell with an unseeing gaze, not understanding where he was.

“My God, these are stills from the feature film 'Peter I"! The young man finally remembered. He watched it last week, and there was an episode with the torture of Tsarevich Alexei. That's what he saw in his dream...

The next day, after another interrogation, Sergei sat on the bunk, watching the actions of his cellmate, a spider. He was busily packing his latest victim, a fly, into a silver web, making a chrysalis out of it. "Look how the arthropod has gotten going! Preparing food supplies for the winter," he thought. And he heard a small window in the cell door creak open, and a guard called out to him in a hoarse voice:

“Come here, they brought you a package!"

Sergey went to the door, took a package wrapped in newspaper from the guard's hands, sat down on the bunk, and unwrapped it. The package contained pies. He took one and took a bite.

"With apple jam, my beloved!" he whispered. And he thought: "But who has done me a favor? The owner of the apartment on Rus'kie Folvarki hardly knows where I am. Could it be Carolina?" he suggested.

Thoughts about the girl never left Sergei from the moment he found himself in this pretrial detention cell. Although they had only known each other for a few days…