IT did not take me long to understand that Grandfather and Grandmother worshipped different Gods.
Grandmother would wake up and sit for a long time on the edge of the bed combing her wonderfully long hair. With her teeth clenched she would twitch her head and tear out whole plaits of long black silky hair and curse, under her breath, so as not to wake me:
‘To hell with this hair, all matted into one lump*! I can’t do a thing with it.’
When she had somehow managed to disentangle her hair, she would quickly plait it into thick strands, hurriedly wash herself, snorting angrily, and then stand before her icons, without having succeeded in washing away the irritation from her large face, all wrinkled with sleep. And now would begin the real morning ablution which straight away completely refreshed her. She would straighten her stooping back, throw her head back and gaze lovingly at the round face of the Virgin of Kazan, throw her arms out wide, cross herself fervently and whisper noisily in a heated voice:
‘Blessed Virgin, remember us in times of trouble!’
She would bow down to the floor, slowly unbend and then whisper again ardently:
‘Source of all joys, purest beauty, flowering apple tree….’
Almost every morning she would find some new words of praise, which made me listen to her prayers with even greater attention.
‘Dearest heart of heaven. My refuge and protection, Golden Sun, Mother of God, save us from evil, grant we offend no one, and that I in turn be not offended without just cause!’
Her dark eyes smiled and she seemed to grow younger again as she crossed herself again with slow movements of her heavy hand.
‘Jesus Christ, Son of God, be merciful to me, poor sinner, for Thine own Mother’s sake.’
Her prayers were always a service of sincere praise that came straight from her heart.
She didn’t pray long in the mornings, as the samovar had to be got ready – Grandfather didn’t keep any servants and if Grandmother was late with the morning tea, which had to be served exactly on time, he would curse her long and angrily.
Sometimes he would wake earlier than Grandmother, climb up to the attic, and, catching her at her prayers, would listen to her whispering for some time, disdainfully twist his thin, dark lips and growl at her later when they were having tea:
‘How many times, blockhead, have I taught you how to pray, and still you mutter in your own sweet way, like a heretic. God will lose his patience one day!’
‘Don’t worry, He’ll understand,’ answered Grandmother convincingly. ‘He can understand whatever you say to Him.’
‘Blasted Chuvash!’
Her God was with her all day, and she even talked about him to animals. It was plain that it was easy for everything to submit to this God: people, dogs, birds, bees, even herbs. He bestowed his kindness on all earthly creatures without distinction, and was close to all things. One day the cat belonging to the innkeeper’s wife – a spoilt, cunning, fawning creature with a sweet tooth, smoky-coloured fur and golden eyes, and the favourite of everyone in the yard – dragged a starling in from the garden. Grandmother took the tortured bird away and started scolding the cat:
‘You’ve no fear of God, you miserable wretch!’
The innkeeper’s wife and the man who looked after the yard both laughed at this, but Grandmother shouted furiously at them:
‘You think that animals don’t know about God? Every living thing knows about God just as much as you; don’t you feel any pity?’
As she harnessed the plump, mournful Sharap, she chatted to him:
‘Why are you so down in the dumps, my servant of God? Getting old, aren’t you?’
The horse would sigh and shake his head.
All the same, she didn’t mention God by name as often as Grandfather did. Grandmother’s God I could understand, and he didn’t terrify me, yet it was impossible to tell a lie in his presence – that would have been shameful. All he aroused in me was a feeling of overwhelming guilt and I never lied to Grandmother. It was simply impossible to hide anything from this benevolent God and I had no wish to do so either. One day the innkeeper’s wife, after a quarrel with Grandfather, let Grandmother have the full force of her tongue – though Grandmother had nothing to do with it – and even threw a carrot at her.
‘You idiot!’ my grandmother said calmly. But I was deeply hurt and decided to take revenge on the evil woman.
For a long time I tried to think up a way of inflicting the greatest possible pain on that red-headed fat woman with her double chin and eyeless face. From my observations of the civil wars waged by the neighbours I discovered that they took revenge on each other by chopping off cats’ tails, poisoning dogs, and killing cocks and hens, or by creeping into the enemy’s cellar at night, pouring kerosene into barrels of pickled cabbage and cucumbers, or emptying casks of kvass. But none of these was drastic enough for me – something far more impressive and terrifying was needed.
And this is what I thought up:
I waited until the innkeeper’s wife had gone down to the cellar, and then shut the hatch and locked it over her, danced a dance of revenge over it, flung the key on to the roof and rushed as fast as my legs could take me to the kitchen, where Grandmother happened to be doing the washing. It took her some time to find out why I was so delighted, and when she did, she gave me a smack in the right place, dragged me outside and sent me up on the roof after the key. Amazed at this reception, I silently retrieved the key and then ran off to one corner of the yard, from where I could see Grandmother freeing the captive innkeeper’s wife. Then both of them, laughing all over their faces, came towards me across the yard.
‘You’ll get it from me!’ said the innkeeper’s wife, threatening me with her plump fist, but still smiling benevolently with that eyeless face of hers. Grandmother took hold of me by the scruff of the neck and hauled me off to the kitchen, where she asked me: ‘What did you do that for?’
‘She threw a carrot at you….’
‘So you did it for me? Well! What a nerve! I’ve a good mind to put you under the stove to keep the mice company. Perhaps that will knock some sense into you! A fine protector! If I told your grandfather, he’d flay you alive. Off to the attic and learn your lessons for tomorrow….’
The whole of that day she didn’t say one word to me, except in the evening, when before saying her prayers she sat down on my bed and told me, in these memorable words:
‘Listen, angel, and don’t you forget: don’t meddle with things that don’t concern you. Grown-ups are soiled by life; they have already been put to the test by God. But you haven’t, and you have a child’s way of looking at things. Wait until God puts you on trial, touches your heart, shows you your appointed task and the path you must tread. Understand? And it’s not for you to decide who should be punished. God will judge and give punishment where it’s due. That’s his business, not ours.’
For a moment she was silent, then she took her snuff, blinked her right eye and added:
‘Sometimes even God can’t tell who’s guilty.’
‘But doesn’t God know everything?’ I asked in astonishment. She answered in a calm, sad voice:
‘If He knew everything, then people wouldn’t do a lot of things. He looks down on us from Heaven, and at times He has such fits of crying and sobbing: “My people, my dear people, I’m so sorry for you!” ’
She began to cry herself and without pausing to wipe her wet cheeks went off to a corner to pray. From that time onwards the God she worshipped became closer to me and I understood him better. Grandfather used to teach me that God was all-seeing, all-knowing and present everywhere, that he was a help to people in their daily lives. But he didn’t pray like Grandmother.
In the morning, before standing in front of the icons, he would spend a long time washing himself. Then, when he was neatly dressed, he would carefully comb his red hair, put his beard straight, and after inspecting himself in the mirror, tucking his shirt in, and tying a black kerchief round his waistcoat, would carefully, almost stealthily, approach the icons. He always stood on the same knot in the floorboards, which looked like a horse’s eye, and he stayed there for about a minute, his head lowered and his arms stiffened against his sides, like a soldier. Then, keeping his trim figure upright, he would say in an inspired voice: ‘In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost!’
I thought that the room became especially quiet after these words – even the flies seemed to buzz with more restraint.
Then he would stand, his head thrown back, his raised eyebrows bristling, and his golden beard stuck out at right angles to his face. In a firm voice he would read the prayers, just as if he were reciting a lesson, and his voice had an urgent, very distinct ring.
‘For the day of judgement cometh when every man’s deeds shall be made known.’
He beat himself gently on the chest with his fist and asked insistently:
‘Against Thee, the one God, have I sinned…. Turn away Thy face from my sins.’
He rolled out every syllable quite distinctly as he read the Creed. His right leg twitched, just as though he were beating time to the prayer. His whole body strained towards the icons, he seemed to grow taller, and at the same time thinner, slimmer, neat and spruce – and compelling.
‘Thou who didst bear the Great Healer, heal the long continued terrors of my soul. I bring Thee the groaning of my heart: have mercy, O Mother of God.’
Here he would utter a loud invocation, the tears welling up in his green eyes.
‘Let my faith be counted to me for good, O my God, and visit not upon me those works which find no favour in Thy sight.’
Now he continually crossed himself, convulsively, and nodded his head like a butting ram. His voice reached a high pitch and was heavy with sobbing. Long afterwards, when I visited synagogues, I realized that Grandfather prayed just like a Jew.
The samovar had long been puffing away on the table and a smell of hot rye cakes and curds wafted through the room – this made me feel very hungry! Grandmother gloomily leaned against the lintel of the door, her eyes cast down, and sighed. The cheerful sun looked through the garden window, dew sparkled like pearls on the trees, the morning air smelled delightfully of fennel, currants and ripening apples, but Grandfather took no notice and still stood there praying, rocking and shrieking.
‘Quench the fire of my passion, for I am base and accursed!’
I knew all his morning and night prayers off by heart and followed every word to see if he made a mistake or left out something. This happened extremely rarely, but when it did, I felt a malicious joy. His prayers finished, Grandfather would say to Grandmother and myself:
‘Good morning!’
We used to bow to each other and finally we sat down at the table. At this point I would say to Grandfather: ‘You left out “sufficient” this morning!’
‘Are you telling me the truth?’ he would ask nervously and apprehensively.
‘Of course you did. You ought to have said: “And may my faith be sufficient unto my need” but you left out “sufficient”.’
‘Well I never!’ he would exclaim with a guilty wink.
Later he would find some way of getting his own back, but until then I sat there triumphantly, revelling in his embarrassment.
Once Grandmother said jokingly:
‘Goodness gracious, God must be bored stiff hearing your prayers, same old thing again and again.’
‘What?’ he said in a menacing voice. ‘What are you babbling about?’
‘You never say anything that comes from your own heart when you speak to God, however hard I listen.’
He turned purple, shook all over, jumped up on a chair and threw a saucer at her head, screeching like a saw cutting through a knot: ‘Get out of here, you old witch!’
In his stories about God’s invincible strength he always made a special point of emphasizing His cruelty: some people sinned and were drowned, others sinned and were burnt, and their towns razed to the ground. God punished with famine and pestilence and he was always a sword over the land, a scourge to sinners.
‘All who violate God’s laws by disobedience will be punished by ruin and affliction,’ he drummed into me, tapping the table with his bony fingers.
I found it hard to believe that God was so cruel. I suspected that Grandfather had made it all up on purpose, to make me frightened of him, and not God. I asked him outright:
‘Are you telling me this just to make me obey you?’
‘Of course! And if you didn’t?’
‘And what about Grandmother?’
‘Don’t believe anything that old fool says!’ he said sternly. ‘From the time she was a little girl she’s been nothing else but stupid, illiterate and crazy. It’s more than her life’s worth if she starts trying to tell you about such important things again. Tell me: how many ranks of angels are there?’
I answered, and then I asked:
‘And what are civil servants?’
‘Want to know everything, don’t you?’ he said, smirking, lowering his eyes and chewing his lips. With reluctance he explained:
‘That’s nothing to do with God – civil servants are humans! A civil servant feeds on regulations, he eats them the whole time.’
‘What are regulations?’
‘Regulations? The same as habits,’ he answered more readily and cheerfully, his clever, piercing eyes twinkling. ‘People live together and make agreements between themselves. For example, they say: ‘This is better than anything else, so we’ll make it a custom, a regulation, a law!’ It’s like when the boys in the street have a game, and they decide on the rules, and how they’re going to play. And what they agree on is the law!’
‘And civil servants?’
‘Troublemakers who come and break all the laws.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s something you won’t understand,’ he said with a stern frown. Then he continued his sermon:
‘God stands above all earthly dealings! Men want one thing, and he wants something else. Everything that’s human perishes. God has only to breathe and everything’s turned at once to ashes, dust.’
I had plenty of reasons for wanting to know all about civil servants, and persevered.
‘Uncle Yakov often sings:
“Bright angels are God’s servants,
But civil servants – serfs of the devil.” ’
Grandfather raised his beard with the palm of his hand, put it in his mouth and closed his eyes. His cheeks quivered. I could see he was laughing inside.
‘I’ll have to tie up your legs with Yashka’s and fling you both in the river. He’s no business singing such songs, and you shouldn’t listen to them either. Those are heretical jokes, the work of dissenters and unbelievers.’ After a moment’s reflection he looked at me piercingly and said softly: ‘Ah, what a lot they are!’
While he elevated God to an awe-inspiring position above men, like Grandmother he brought him into all his business – and countless numbers of saints as well. Grandmother didn’t seem to recognize any of the saints except Nicholas, Uri, Frol and Lavr, although they were very kind and close to people, passing through villages and towns, influencing their lives, and generally behaving just as they did. Grandfather’s saints were almost all martyrs, who had broken idols, or quarrelled with the Roman emperors, for which they had been tortured, burnt and flayed. Sometimes Grandfather would say dreamily:
‘I wish God would help me sell this house, so I could make five hundred roubles. Then I’d say Mass for Nikolai the Saint!’
Grandmother laughed and said to me:
‘The old fool. As if St Nikolai had nothing better to do!’
For a long time I kept Grandfather’s church calendar, which had several things written in the margins. Opposite St Joachim and St Anne’s day, he’d written in bright red ink and upright characters: ‘Saved from trouble by their goodness.’
I remember that word ‘trouble’: worried about supporting his sons, who’d turned out failures, he’d gone in for money-lending, and had secretly taken several articles as security. Someone reported him, and one night the police came round to search the house. There was a terrible to-do, but everything ended happily. Grandfather prayed until dawn and in the morning, with me looking on, he wrote those words in the calendar.
Before supper he would read the Psalter with me, or the prayer book, or that ponderous volume of Efrema Sirin’s Prayers and Hymns. When we’d finished eating he would begin his prayers again and in the quietness of the evening the sad, penitential words would ring out:
‘What can I bring Thee or what shall I give Thee, Thou Immortal King who hast all great gifts?… And guard our thoughts from straying.… Lord, preserve me from mine enemies.… Give me to weep and to remember the hour of my death… .’
Often Grandmother used to say:
‘I’ve never felt so tired! Too tired to say my prayers before I go to sleep.’
Grandfather used to take me to church: on Saturdays, we went to vespers, and on high holidays to late mass. Even in church I could tell which God the people were praying to: the ones who were reading like the priest and deacon prayed to Grandfather’s God, but the choir always sang in praise of Grandmother’s.
Of course, I’ve described rather crudely the distinction made by a child between these two Gods, which, I remember quite clearly, confused and deeply troubled my divided self. But Grandfather’s God did arouse fear and hostility in me. He loved no one, watched everything with a stern eye, and above all else saw in men nothing but what was foul, evil and sinful. Clearly he didn’t trust men, was perpetually waiting for them to repent, and loved punishing people.
In these days my thoughts and feelings about God were the principal food for my soul, the most beautiful thing in life, and all other impressions only repelled me by their cruelty and nastiness, awakening disgust, and sadness. God was the best and brightest of all that surrounded me: this, of course, was Grandmother’s God, a dear friend to everything that lived. Naturally, I wasn’t troubled at all by the question: Why can’t Grandfather see that God is good?
I wasn’t allowed to play in the streets, because it made me too excited. Its effect on me was almost intoxicating, and nearly every time I went out to play I became the scapegoat for any mischief or disturbance.
I didn’t have many friends and the neighbours’ children were hostile towards me. I didn’t like being called Kashirin, and as a result they shouted the name to each other even more: ‘Here comes old skinflint Kashirin’s son. Biff him one.’
And battle would commence.
I was strong for my years and a very nimble fighter. Even my enemies recognized this and always attacked me in a gang. All the same, the street always defeated me, and I would return home usually with a bloody nose, torn lips, bruised face, my clothes in shreds, and covered in dust. A frightened Grandmother would meet me and say sympathetically:
‘What, fighting again, turnip-head? What you got to say for yourself? I just don’t know where to start…’
She would wash my face, press spongilla, copper coins against the bruises, or dab me with goulard, and scold me:
‘Why are you always fighting? At home you’re quiet enough, but as soon as you get out there you’re a different person! Shame on you. I’m going to tell Grandfather not to let you out any more!’
Grandfather would inspect my bruises, but he never shouted at me, but only used to mutter and sighed:
‘Medals again? Well, my brave warrior, don’t you dare go out in the street again, d’you hear?’
The street had no attraction for me if it was quiet, but whenever I heard children laughing and making a noise I disobeyed Grandfather. A few bruises and scratches didn’t worry me, but the cruelty of street sports never failed to shock me – a cruelty which had become only too familiar and which drove me to desperation. I couldn’t bear to see the boys making cocks or dogs fight each other, torture cats, chase goats that belonged to Jews, or make fun of drunken beggars and especially the religious fanatic Igosha, who was called ‘Death in the Pocket’.
He was a tall, thin, smoke-blackened man with a heavy sheepskin coat and a dense beard on his bony, rusty-looking face. He walked round the streets bent double, swaying to and fro and silently staring at the ground beneath his feet. His face of cast-iron with its sad little eyes inspired a timid respect in me and I thought this man was occupied with some very important business, that he was searching for something and must not be disturbed.
The boys used to run after him and throw stones at his hunched back. For a long time he would make out as if nothing was going on and pretended not to feel any pain. Then he would suddenly stop dead, throw back his head, straighten his hairy cap with a convulsive movement and look around as if he had just woken up.
‘Igosha, Death in the Pocket! Igosha, where are you off to? Look, you’ve got death in your pocket!’
He would clutch his pocket and then, bending down quickly, would pick up a stone, a small lump of wood or a clod of dried earth, and wave his long arm, clumsily, muttering curses under his breath. Whenever he swore, he used the same three filthy words and in this respect the boys’ store of obscenities was immeasurably richer than his. At times he would limp after them in futile pursuit. His long coat got in his way and he would fall down on his knees and lift himself up with his black arms that resembled two thin branches. The boys would hurl stones at his back and sides, and the more daring ones used to run right up to him, empty a handful of dust over his head and leap away.
An even more distressing sight that the street had to offer was our foreman, Grigory Ivanovich. He’d gone quite blind and now wandered about begging, a tall, silent, handsome figure. His guide was a little, grey old woman who would stop at every window and say in a squeaky voice, her eyes perpetually on the look-out for food:
‘Help a poor blind beggar, for Christ’s sake…’
Grigory never said anything. He would stare through his small black glasses straight at the walls of houses, at windows or passers-by, and gently stroke his beard with his dye-stained hand. His lips were always firmly closed. I often watched him but never heard any sound from those closely shut lips and this silence I found more painful than anything else. I couldn’t bring myself to go up close to him and whenever I saw him, I used to run off home and say to Grandmother:
‘Grigory’s coming!’
‘What’s that?’ she would say nervously, in a pained voice. ‘Run after him and give him this!’
Stubbornly and angrily I would refuse to go. Then she would go herself and stand for a long time talking to him on the pavement. He would laugh, shake his beard, but say very little, in words of one syllable.
Sometimes Grandmother would take him into the kitchen and give him tea and food. Once he asked where I was. Grandmother called me, but I ran away and hid among the firewood. I couldn’t bear to be near him and felt terribly ashamed in his presence. And I knew that Grandmother felt ashamed as well. One day we had a talk about Grigory. After she’d seen him out of the gate she walked quietly round the yard and cried, her head bowed. I went up to her and took her hand.
‘What’s this, why do you run away from him?’ she asked softly. ‘He loves you… he’s a good man…’
‘Why doesn’t Grandfather give him anything to eat?’ I asked.
‘Grandfather?’
She stopped, pressed me to her and in an almost prophetic voice whispered: ‘Remember what I’m telling you: the Lord will send us bitter punishment for the way we’ve treated this man. Yes, bitter punishment.’
She wasn’t wrong. Ten years later, when Grandmother had gone to eternal rest, Grandfather himself was wandering around the streets, penniless and demented, pitifully calling out at windows: ‘Give me just a small piece of pie… that’s all I want! Ah, what people!’ The only thing left from the Grandfather of before was this plaintive, bitter, disturbing: ‘Ah, what people!’
Besides Igosha and Grigory Ivanovich there was a dissolute old woman, Veronikha, the sight of whom made me run from the street. She turned up on Sundays, huge, dishevelled, and drunk. She had a special way of walking, and didn’t seem to move her feet, or even touch the ground, but floated along like a storm cloud, bellowing coarse songs. Everyone who came across her hid from her behind doors, round corners, or ran into shops. She literally swept the street. Her face was almost blue, swollen like a bladder, and there was a terrifying mockery in the stare of her great grey eyes. Sometimes she howled and cried:
‘My little children, where are you?’
I asked Grandmother what she meant.
‘That’s no business of yours,’ she answered gloomily, but all the same told me: ‘This woman had a husband, Voronov, who was a civil servant, and wanted promotion. So he sold his wife to his superior, who took her away somewhere, and she didn’t come back for two years. When she returned, her children – a boy and a girl – had both died, her husband had gambled with government money and was in prison. So she took to drink to drown her sorrows, and lived a dissolute, drunken life. Every Sunday evening the police would pick her up….’
No, it was far better to be at home than out in the street. I particularly enjoyed the time after supper, when Grandfather went to Uncle Yakov’s workshop and Grandmother would sit by the window and tell me interesting tales, and talked about my father.
She cut off the broken wing of the starling that had been rescued from the cat and in its place expertly attached a tiny piece of wood. When the wound had healed up and the bird had recovered, she taught it to speak. She would stand for a whole hour by the cage which hung by the window and in a deep voice repeat over and over again to that clever, coal-black creature – it really was a fine, large bird:
‘Come on. Say: “Tweety wants some porridge!” ’
The starling would cock its bright, round, comical eye at her, bang its stick on the thin floor of the cage, puff out its beak and whistle like an oriole, imitate a jay, a cuckoo, and try to miaow like a cat, howl like a dog. But it could never copy the human voice.
‘Enough of your nonsense!’ Grandmother would say seriously. ‘Say: “Tweety wants porridge!” ’
That black feathered ‘monkey’ would screech deafeningly something vaguely resembling my grandmother’s words, and she would laugh with joy, give the bird some millet with her finger, and say:
‘I know you, you crafty old devil! You’re pretending you can’t do it, but I know you can if you want to!’
And in the end she taught the bird to speak. After a short while it could ask for porridge, quite clearly, and when it saw my grandfather would say something that sounded like ‘Hello’.
At first it was kept in Grandfather’s room, but it was soon consigned to our attic, because it had learned to mimic Grandfather. Grandfather would say his prayers, pronouncing every word in that distinct way of his, and the bird would poke its yellow, waxen beak through the bars of the cage and whistle:
‘Thou, thou, thee, thou…’
This annoyed Grandfather very much. Once he stopped in the middle of his prayers, stamped his foot and shouted savagely, ‘Take that devil out of here or I’ll kill it.’
Much of what happened in our house was interesting and amusing, but at times I felt weighed down by a sadness impossible to overcome. It was as though I had been filled up with something very heavy and for a long time I lived at the bottom of a deep and dark pit, without sight or hearing, or any kind of feeling, blind and half dead….