Chapter Nine

I didn’t know where such thoughts came from, but I did not try to understand. I knew for certain this was my punishment for all the dark and wrong I had done in my life, and I had to go through it. And I knew that the way I would overcome this would influence my future life. Or death.

I decided to become stronger. How? I had no idea. But I was absolutely convinced that I had only two choices: to become strong or to die. I did not want to die. I began to recollect all the people who, according to my limited academic knowledge, were considered strong. Zoya Kosmodemyanskaya, a Soviet partisan and a Hero of the Soviet Union. She had to die before she got her award. So I didn’t want to be exactly like her. There was Alexey Maresyev, a Soviet fighter ace during World War II, and even Jeanne D’Arc. Well, but poor Joan was burned at the stake. I had already tried that.

I soon discovered that I still had my guardian angel, my nurse Vera. It was she, a woman from a small village, impressed by my usual self-control, who changed my bandages two and three times a day, changed my sheets, covered with medicine and pus from burnt flesh, and kept repeating, “My little warrior, a little more patience. Impressive: not a single tear, not a word, or a groan. You are a warrior, like Zoya Kosmodemyanskaya.”

I didn’t consider myself a warrior, but when I came to know Nurse Vera better, I was surprised and astonished by her strength, endurance, and wisdom.

In a conversation with this wonderful and compassionate woman, I found out that she was a witness to my arrival at the hospital. She saw as I walked by myself from the ambulance to the emergency room, and then, on the second floor, those little white flags of skin dotting my legs. She was astonished that I was moving under my own steam, trying to get up the stairs, without making a single sound.

It was she, the mother of two sons, both of whom were in the war in Afghanistan, who, neither by word nor look, showed her fear for the lives of her children. It was Vera who helped me survive and get back on my feet. She taught me to walk again. In the two months that I couldn’t get up from the hospital bed, she was my nurse, my friend, and my support.

Thank you, Vera! I know your children will return to you safe and sound, and one day you will dandle your grandchildren on your knee, because you deserve them.

Only three people were in my life during this period. There was Vera. There was my son, who at fifteen managed to support a household consisting of three purebred dogs, chickens, rabbits, and a vegetable garden. He even tried to spoil his mom once in a while with something tasty he had cooked.

There was a third person I had not expected any help from. And therein was the second lesson I had to learn and comprehend. What kind of people did I surround myself with in my life? Whom did I trust? What did I learn from them? Where the heck were those people I could rely on? Were there any at all? Who were those people who were worthy to be called friends?

There were not that many. But they helped me as much as they could. Some friends brought me watermelons, to wash out poisons that had seeped into my blood from the burned tissues. Thanks to Heaven it was August!

Another friend sent almost a whole bucket of Vishnevsky liniment balm for wound healing. Alexander Vishnevsky was a doctor, long before there were antibiotics. It was due to him and his smelly birch sap and fish oil ointment that I avoided surgery and skin transplantation, to the big surprise of all the hospital doctors. God bless this Vishnevsky! I’m sure he was a strong and intelligent man.

So many people I knew, who I had truly believed to be my friends, didn’t appear at all. Or they came once out of curiosity, to make sure that this was not a rumor and that I really got so badly burnt that I couldn’t get out of bed. Some started sniveling immediately after opening the door of my ward, shedding crocodile tears. Why crocodile? Why because I nipped in the bud such expression of feelings. And their “tears” immediately dried up.

“Stop, stop. It’s already bad enough without your wailing. I’m the one in pain, not you.”

I think they gratefully accepted what I asked of them, that they did not have to pretend to care about me. And there was no doubt they were pretending. First of all, I just felt it, and secondly, after a short visit and passionate promises to come back and bring something to read, or to help me, for example, by washing my hair, they disappeared. It was about such people that I had read in one of Veller’s books: “A few more friends like this and I will not need enemies.” One could never rely on such people.

I also remembered what Dr. Zviagin taught his desperate heroes in Veller’s novels: To desire. To believe. To act.

As for me I was trying to learn by my own experience that I could rely only on myself. And very few friends. And believe me that was no less painful than the burnt skin. My soul was in pain, my mind was suffering.

How did it happen that I had surrounded myself with people indifferent and selfish? I must have been like that myself.

And now I had to figure out what needed to be changed in me. And how to surround myself with people from whom I could learn from to be truly sincere and wise. Wise as the old lady in my ward, Maria Vasilievna.

Surprising myself, I didn’t take umbrage at people I communicated with at this time. Just the opposite. I clearly understood that the person had the right to live and act as he or she wanted. To be what he or she wanted, and not what I wanted them to be. Let everyone be what they want to be, that’s what I decided. And only if they think that is not good enough and decide to change themselves or their attitude, they should do it. No one should force them. They should do it only as their own choice.

I realized that it was necessary to think about what I needed to be like for the people around me to feel comfortable and happy. It all was my fault. I didn’t manage to keep those who were wiser and smarter than me nearby; I hurt them, and now was paying for that. But I would try very hard. I’d find them and ask for forgiveness. And if they forgave me, I would try to make sure that they never had a reason to take offense with me ever again.

So that’s how, after torturing myself with many thoughts and much heartache, instead of all these unreliable and indifferent people, I got one person in my life whose title was Best Friend.