The Russian Century: A Hundred Years of Russian Lives

But in the meantime these “warriors” did not foresee the pitiful end of their military careers and did their utmost to fan the flames of spy-phobia sweeping the city. Every fair-haired and blue-eyed person, every young woman who “suspiciously” asked for directions in an unfamiliar part of the city was taken for a spy. All the police precincts were overflowing with such “fascist agents” who spent anguished hours in filthy cells, finally returning home only after establishing their identity.

The Germans were coming closer and closer. Once in the evening a dented and dirty automobile pulled up to our house. It was “uncle Andy,” as the young folks called him in jest, a calm and handsome forty-five-year-old major, a family friend. He had long worn the glistening medal denoting twenty years service in the Workers’ and Peasants’ Red Army [1921–1946], but that evening this man who had fought in all the battles of the Soviet Union hardly resembled a sober and disciplined officer. He was drunk and his eyes revealed alarm and despair. His jokes were flat, and his lips were distorted in a forced smile. He looked at the old linden tree, the growth of jasmine by the window, and our small, cozy house with a glance of farewell. Then, tightening his fancy, yellow Sam Browne belt, he said simply, “Things are bad, things are very bad with us.” The motor snorted, and his car shot out of our narrow yard. One friend less . . .

And friends were what we lacked most in those increasingly troubled days. After my father’s arrest I was to lose mother, as well. Formerly friendly and happy, she became unrecognizable after that grim day when papa was led from the room where just two weeks before they had celebrated their thirtieth wedding anniversary. She was now apathetic and immobile, and had lost in-

Tat’iana Fesenko, War-Scorched Kiev

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terest in all things. My attempts to console her were rebuffed with “Leave me alone. . . . Don’t bother me.”

Our tightly-knit and amicable family had disintegrated. Gone were friends, gone was my beloved profession. The useless books and notes were gathering dust. Something horrific and implacable was coming. It had shattered the habitual patterns of being, had taken thousands of lives and one did not know whether it was bringing agony to the nation or an “unprecedented flowering” as Shura kept insisting.

Andrei and I stood watch in the evenings, patrolled the yard, stood by the gate and then for a long time would sit on the steps of the porch, covered in wild grapes, listening to the distant grunting of heavy artillery. Golden stars, falling, traced the sky. It was their time [the August meteorite showers]. But even more frequently crimson and emerald-green signal flares soared upward, saying something to some unseen presence in an anxious and incomprehensible tongue.

It was stifling in the garden, even at night, and breathing was becoming increasingly difficult for Andrei. He complained of being choked by cobwebs, of a weight in his chest. And then, all of a sudden, there was a frightening, inexplicable seizure. The experienced doctor at the clinic immediately diagnosed it as severe bronchial asthma. While writing the prescription he said that it might be the after-effect of a bad cold, but could have a psychosomatic basis. The symptoms should dissipate after an injection. The prescribed regimen was bed rest.

In fact, Andrei did feel better, but not for long. He lay in bed for several days, but then leapt up. It wracked his nerves to stay in bed. He became pale to the point of transparency. He would walk around very slowly, biting his lips, trying to suppress his garroted breathing. Could this be Andrei, the tennis player, swimmer, tireless dancer, mad party-goer?

There was a rumor that army headquarters, to which my dear university friend, Lenia, was attached, was retreating through Kiev. I had not heard from him, and then suddenly there he was: a skinny man in uniform, dusty and sunburned, squeezing my hand and calling me by name.

It was a piece of luck, he said hurriedly. Headquarters was on the left [eastern] bank, but he was sent into the city. He had half an hour and was determined to see us, but the trolleys were not running, and he was about to give up. We just stood there amidst the crowd, holding each other by the hands, rushing to say all we could in the time we had, interrupting each other, sharing our news.

A day later Lenia was sitting on our porch, anxiously talking about what disturbed him. Honest, shy, and idealistic, he was indignant at the deception

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Chapter Twenty-Three