May there always be sunshine,

May there always be blue skies,

May there always be Mummy,

May there always be me!

PIONEER SONG

Because when I came into the world, Lou Reed was banned and Brezhnev — officially, at least — still firmly in place. As for loving parents: two months before my birth, my father managed to get himself sentenced to five years in prison for stealing a car, as if it had been his intention all along to avoid his responsibilities. They had managed to prove his involvement in other ‘criminal intrigues’ as well.

My mother paid a high price for preserving my life against Kostya’s will. Throughout her pregnancy, she was forced to live like a prisoner, eat what was put in front of her, play with her daughter when her father ordered her to, watch the television programmes her father permitted her to see, get up when she was woken, and turn out her light when it was time to do so. Any form of religious reading material was taboo, as were ‘lewd’ romantic novels; she had to read them with a torch under the blanket. It was her punishment, which she accepted in silence; she smiled and nodded, was grateful, and applauded them for putting up with her.

Meanwhile, Miqail was arrested — with no warning, no indication whatsoever — by the militsiya, who detained him on charges of ‘parasitism’ and ‘religious agitation’. And that was the end of Plekhanov Street for Elene. They started saying that she was putting the boys in danger, that her father was behind Miqail’s sudden arrest. She couldn’t throw her friends to the wolf that was her father. They had all done things that could easily put them behind bars; even if they hadn’t, something would be found, if that was what Kostya wanted.

Nana and Stasia had fought alongside Elene for weeks to persuade Kostya that the child in his daughter’s belly should not be aborted, no matter in what circumstances it had been conceived, or by whom. However, no sooner was it too late for an abortion than they started to side with Kostya again, making it clear to Elene that she had betrayed their hopes, too, and crushed their expectations. It was an excruciating time, but Elene decided to accept her martyrdom without protest. In order to give me life, she decided that God was greater than happiness and Heaven promised more than earthly existence. The daily battles with her father, the icy atmosphere in the house, a constant feeling of impotence, and, above all, the awareness of her own failure transformed Elene into a melancholy, scowling woman, usually sloppily dressed and, above all, very lonely. (We mustn’t forget in all this how young she was. It’s hard to believe, but she was only twenty-one when I was born.)

*

The heavier Kostya’s losses on the domestic battlefield, the more powerful he seemed to become in office. And imperceptibly, as is usually the case, anaesthetised by the rural idyll he had created for himself and by good, expensive wine, fortified by the ocean of bureaucratic opportunities, by the freedom of the nomenklatura to do as they pleased, and by the political stagnation of the age, he didn’t even notice that he was no longer giving a moment’s thought to things that, in Russia, would have scandalised him and got people into serious trouble.

Everyone stole. Everyone cheated.

The butcher stole the best meat and sold it under the counter for three times the price. The kolkhozes kept back part of the harvest and flogged it off elsewhere. Nurses pilfered gauze and bandages. The manager of the winery bribed representatives to smuggle crates of wine out of his own factory so he could use them to bribe other, more important people. Long-established thievery, practised until then in secret, was now the order of the day, and as everyone was doing it, no one had to be punished.

The militsiya acquitted people on charges of shoplifting and traffic offences; petty crimes were dealt with on the quiet. The public prosecutor’s office sold acquittals for rape and murder. Teachers and professors handed out good grades in exchange for cream cakes, French perfumes, and fine chocolates. The building contractor helped himself to building materials. The doctor was twice as attentive when treating a patient if some cash had been slipped into the pocket of his white coat beforehand. Artists stole from one another. And the politicians didn’t need to steal anything, because they already had the biggest share in all the other thievery.

People stole plaster of Paris, Rubin colour televisions, dressmaking patterns, cement, analgesics, Chinese thermos flasks decorated with red flowers, wool, condensed milk, spectacles, three-kopek school exercise books, talcum powder, beige polyester socks, furs, snowsuits (even in regions where it didn’t snow), camera lenses, green plastic bowls, preserving jars, records (no matter whose), Kosmos or Astra cigarettes, and Hygiene aftershave.

And my grandfather participated in the general suppression of any consciousness of wrongdoing. Which required countless stays at spa resorts, business trips — all with female companions, of course — formal receptions, good Saperavi, and the perennial goodwill of his subjects.