"In a few days we’ll be leaving," I thought, "but you’ll remain here amongst the hills forever. In the winter it’s cold, windy and stormy, but the summers are cool and calm. You’ll be lonely here, Kenje, but I will be thinking of you and each year I will come here on the anniversary of your, death. Cross my heart" – I gave my solemn oath in our childish way. "But the problem is I’m still little and my grandfather won’t bring me so far – do you know how far we are from our village?"
"No." As if in a day-dream I heard Kenje’s little voice.
"The solders told us it’s about a hundred kilometers."
"That’s very far, you won’t be able to come and see me," said Kenje sadly.
"When I grow up I will be my own master and then I’ll come on your birthday and on the anniversary of your death."
"Twice a year, you are so kind-hearted."
"Don’t cry," I said.
"I’m not crying. I don’t cry any more…"
"The dead don’t cry."
"They would, but their tears have already dried up."
"And why are you so morose?" Talgat’s voice disrupted my day-dream.
"I was thinking about Kenje," I answered.
"Yes, it’s a terrible shame. Her heart could not stand such a shock," concluded Talgat, but was interrupted by the old lady Bibi.
"She was mad. She went mad," she said loudly, and seeing that no one agreed with her she repeated, "Went mad!"
"Why are you harping on one and the same thing – went mad, went mad? It’s you who’ve gone mad in your old age. Would an intelligent woman say such a thing about someone who has just died? Have you become stupid?" Arkham snapped at her and Bibi fell silent, guiltily looking around her.
The incident was quickly forgotten. Talgat told us that they were all given a glass of vodka after the explosion and only then were they brought to the hills. "Glad to see you all alive and well," shouted Talgat pretentiously. The other dzhigits were also tipsy – the doctors had given them diluted alcohol and themselves had had a fair amount to drink, insisting that this was healthy. My grandfather and the other old men also wanted some vodka. "It’s good for your health!" shouted Talgat. "And to top it all we got five hundred for leaving the village and for a month we’ll be twiddling our thumbs… It’s true what the soldiers say, what’s done is done… The bomb’s gone off and that’s it! All in the name of science, of the future, the land and the people!"
He died at the beginning of the sixties from leukemia.
IN THE NAME OF SCIENCE?
FOR THE FUTURE?
FOR THE LAND? FOR THE PEOPLE?
I think that even Kurchatov understood that to live in the shadow of the bomb is to bring the end of the world closer, a world where there will be neither science, nor land, nor people for whose sake this lethal weapon was devised.
And there will be no future.
A week later we were allowed to return to the village. Everybody rejoiced. Everybody missed their children, grandchildren, their close ones, their friends. I also dreamt of seeing my brother, my sister, my mother and, of course, my father. He had, after all, remained behind with the soldiers in the very thick of things. How was he, I wondered?
Kenje’s grandmother and I went-to bid our farewells at the little girl’s grave. Her grandmother said goodbye to her only grandchild and I to my first childhood sweetheart.
So much time has passed. I have met so many people in my life and lost many but I will never forget that small, frail girl, Kenje… Her pensive expression, her dazzling smile revealing a row of white even teeth, which transformed her immediately. Farewell, Kenje! Farewell, my angel! Farewell, my beloved! I will Endeavour to visit your grave all my conscious life, but thirty-five years will pass before I will find myself here, sitting amidst the silent hills, remembering my distant childhood, the lonely nomadic camp of old men and women and the weeping of our people. Here I am, a fully grown adult, and I’ve forgotten your face, Kenje; no matter how much I’ve tried to recall your features, it has been in vain – a haze and mirage rise before my eyes – haze and mirage…
And today, when once again the earth trembles from underground tests, it is more important to me to reconstruct the past than to read TASS’ announcement in the paper the following day.
But the present was still far off.
We slowly descended down the mountains as had been ordered, taking a long time to cross the steppe, at night stopping over on the banks of small rivers and streams.
When we reached home, early in the morning, we discovered that there was no sign of life in the village – we were the first to return. Although this is not altogether true. A soldier’s unit had arrived before us on orders to clean out the wells before the inhabitants arrived. This was a necessary precaution. Later it was discovered that many reservoirs had been contaminated and that even several new lakes had been formed – dead, radioactive lakes… Those who bathed there in ignorance, were exposed to radiation and soon died. With the passing of time, people realized the degree of danger which lay in wait for them and learned to circumvent these reservoirs.
When they entered the village, the old men bid their farewells and each silently went his separate way down the wide streets. Grandfather led his grey horse towards our large yard in the centre of the village. He rode slowly, but when he saw a soldier at our well, he gave a loud cry, lashed his horse with his whip and our bullock cart flew through the gates.
Grandfather waved the whip about, yelling, and snatched the buckets from the soldier. The soldiers did not understand what was happening. A voice from the well shouted, "Hey, you lazy donkeys! What’s going on up there? Pass me down the buckets, quick!"
Grandfather peered down the well and mad with rage said, "Hey, you infidel! Come out of there immediately. You accursed, wicked lot. You’ve poisoned all our water!"
The soldiers rapidly raised the young corporal to ground level and then in total amazement they all stared at grandfather.
"Who asked you, you infidel, to go down the well?"
"We are on orders, we wanted to help," the corporal mumbled.
"Help, help!" grandfather mocked him, but a little less angrily. "How can you possibly help when you are experts at making things worse. It’s a well-known fact, don’t you know?!"
Just then, my father and the lieutenant-colonel drove up. I wanted to jump into my father’s arms, I had missed him so much, but I didn’t do this for fear of grandfather’s words: "You’re not a golden eagle, no, you’re not!" I would rather have died than hear those words again!
I held myself back. My face turned pink from excitement.
Grandfather asked my father: "Aman, esenbisin, karagym. How are you, my son?"
"Everything’s fine," my father answered. "How was your journey? Did everything go well?"
I understood that he was asking out of custom, for he himself knew as well as everyone else what was taking place all around.
"The old man is making a fuss again," some corporal complained to the lieutenant-colonel. "It was he who stopped us from working."
"In that case, pass on this order to everyone: the wells are to be left as they are, since we didn’t manage to complete the job in time. Well, as the saying goes, it’s not fate, it’s not God’s will," said the lieutenant-colonel thoughtfully.
My father came up to me and drew me towards him and asked me gently: "Well, how did you get on up there, did you help the old folk?"
I embraced him. He smelled of smoke, sun and gunpowder, all the smells that had dominated the steppe over the last few days.
"Ask grandfather…" I answered.
"That means you did help them! Good lad!" Father patted – me on the shoulder. "Come on then, let’s carry the things inside."
Grandmother lit a fire in the summer oven which stood in the yard and began to bake taba-nan – bread. Grandfather climbed up onto the roof and brought down a ladder, then he took a small shovel and disappeared down the well.
Grandmother and I helped him carry the buckets which he handed to us. Only nearer lunch time, did grandfather, tired and haggard, climb out of the well.
We sat down to rest in the shade.
"Ata," said my father guiltily, "forgive us, but we ate all your hens. There was no choice."
"Oh, that’s alright. It doesn’t matter," answered grandfather briefly. "It’s more important that the earth and the people that inhabit it survive…"
"I’ll go into town soon and buy you some more chickens," father promised. "Good."
I became bored with this domestic talk and suddenly felt depressed and alone in the deserted village.
The adults began to talk about their future, about deprivation, of their fear in the face of the atomic bomb, of the American threat. Father was trying to convince the old folk that there was a threat from America. He became excited and waved his arms about and I suspected that he was repeating what he had been told by the soldiers. And once again I remembered the hills. I remembered that terrifying explosion when it seemed that at any moment the umbilical cord which linked the sun and the earth would snap and the earth would be hurled into the depths of an unknown universe just as the thundering boulders had crashed down the mountain, frightening people and animals. I remembered how the horses ran in all directions from fright and the old men were only able to find them on the next day. I remembered, too, how the earth sank away under one’s feet and how I hugged the cold, damp earth and how little Kenje, having lost her mind, ran through a hail of falling stones.
Suddenly, I gave a start. Near me, something white appeared for a moment and into my lap, miaowing complainingly, plopped a filthy, bedraggled cat. 1 shook her off in disgust, but not taking the slightest notice of me, she went up to my grandmother and’ began to rub herself against her leg.
"It’s our Ginger!" it suddenly dawned on grandmother. It was true. We all instantly recognized our cat. Grandmother sat on a bench and Ginger made herself comfortable on her wide skirt. Out of its half-closed eyes, tears fell.
"She used to be ginger and now she’s white," I said in wonder.
"Can’t you see that she’s gone grey?" said grandfather angrily.
"Oh, bow tough you are, man! You don’t have nerves, you’ve got steel in your veins! And what do you think you are doing? You’re destroying yourself, you’re sowing death… You have poison and not seeds in your hand. Even the animal has gone grey – it couldn’t take whatever it is you’re up to… What will we leave our children and grandchildren?" Grandfather stroked my head and said, "Don’t forget my words! If things continue as they are, people will quietly, imperceptibly go insane. And this, anyone who still has an ounce of common sense, will confirm…"
I took the cat in my arms, pressed her to my chest and began to stroke her grey coat. I pressed her closer and closer to me and inhaled the familiar odour of smoke and the grass of the steppe. The cat also smelled of rubbish tips and mice. Our Ginger was strong and brave. More than once she had dealt with snakes who had slid into our yard. There was only one occasion when she had been unable to overcome an enormous, fat snake – she exhausted both herself and her enemy. The snake was still able to free itself and slip away, but some of the older children beat it to death with stones. Our cat disappeared at one and the same time as the snake. We searched for her for many days but were not able to find her. She had either run away or been killed.
However, ten days later, the cat unexpectedly appeared at our house again. It seemed that she had lain low for a while, somewhere. She must have been ashamed of how she had been unable to overcome the snake. "See how proud our Ginger is!" grandfather praised her at the time.
"Are you hurt?" I asked the cat. "Hurt is not the word, I feel terrified, little boy." "Forgive me for not recognizing you straight away." "My own mother would not recognize me now! Your grandmother, she recognized me – she’s clever and observant."
I stroked her even more gently. And it crossed my mind that we were all part of the living world – tired-out grandfather and grandmother, my gloomy father, the cat which I held in my arms, our grey horse which had gone through that terrible experience with us and the soldiers who were rushing about the village to no particular purpose. I wanted to make sense of the thoughts, to put them into some kind of category, but whichever category I put them into, they fell apart.
"Put down the cat and wash your hands," my father said. I got up.
Ginger gratefully rubbed herself against my arm. "I think I’ll die soon, little boy. I have been THERE after all and everything inside me is on fire. Whoever was THERE will not survive, everyone says so."
"Are you frightened?"
"Of course. The living are always afraid…."
‘Seventy-seven was my son’t first year at school. At that time we lived in Semipalatinsk. I remember it was Saturday. My son had gone off to school. My wife was reading a story to our little daughter and from early morning I had been busy at my desk.
It was quiet. Occasionally, a car drove past our window.
Suddenly, coming from our doorway, I could hear loud voices and the noise of hurrying feet. The doorbell rang and on the threshold stood my son, perspiring and panting!
"Mum, Mum, Dad! Markhaba! They’re going to explode a bomb. They’ve ordered everyone to leave the house. Quick!"
The neighbours from the upper floors were swiftly rushing down the stairway. We also began to get ready. I could imagine the anxiety my little boy had felt when he had heard that announcement. He knew that on Saturdays and Sundays when I worked at home, I would turn off both the radio and television and did not even read the papers, so that I could better concentrate. Saturday and Sunday, these were my days of seclusion. People had been given fifteen minutes to prepare themselves. He had taken about ten minutes to run from school. Consequently we had about five minutes left.
The tenants of our house were already in the street and in the yard. They stood together huddled in little groups and anxiously looked up at the sky… And then suddenly the earth trembled, pieces of glass rained down and the smell of gas immediately started to spread through the yard – obviously somewhere a pipe had burst. Broken glass shattered, and someone "went to call out the City Gas Emergency Service; the earth, which seemed to shake intermittently, gave out a muffled groan in obscure torment.
We decided not to return home and for a long time walked around a snow-covered vacant lot. Suddenly, my son anxiously tugged at my hand.
"Dad, and what if grandfather was left in his flat on his own? What if he doesn’t know anything?"
"No, that’s not possible," I assured him. "They always have the radio on, and the house is full of people. In any case, the neighbours would have warned them."
We walked past three damaged telephone boxes but luckily the fourth was working. My son hurriedly dialled the number but all that we could hear was a long buzzing.
"They’re not at home. They’re outside," I said, but my son could not be appeased.
"Let’s go and see grandfather. What if something happened to him. He is old after all and he has had a shell shock"
We were lucky. We found a taxi immediately. My son kept impatiently hitting his knees with his fists. The journey from our district to the old part of the city seemed to take ages to him.
As soon as we reached the house we saw my father.
"Grandfather, grandfather!" My son jumped headlong at him and my father turned around in surprise when he. heard his grandson’s voice. Father was in fact walking about, the yard with other tenants.
"Darkhan, my angel!" He joyfully threw up his hands and smothered his grandson with kisses. "My little angel, my angel," he said and then became thoughtful. I tried to imagine myself a little boy again and my father young. I remembered that he rarely embarced or kissed me so lovingly and anxiously when I was small. But then times were different – harsh, compassionless, not favourable to TENDERNESS. And so he had preserved the unspent capacity to love a little being of his own and now that love and tenderness spilled over, wholly given over, to his ‘grandchildren. I do not know whether this is good or bad, I just do not know. There is a lot I still do not know about in this life of ours.
"Ata, we phoned you but there was no reply. We became worried and came over."
"And I didn’t think of phoning you." Tears stood in my father’s eyes and he clasped Darkhan tightly.
I remember how he would often take his grandson home on-Saturdays and Sundays. They would take trips all over the place and return happy, excited and tired. They would visit the shepherds, relatives or father’s old war-time mates. He had many friends; he used to like helping his friends and people whom he had helped never forgot what he had done for them. He was a welcome guest at a Russian fisherman’s, at an Uygur musician’s, at the home of a Korean who cultivated water-melons.
We returned home late at night and my son, tired out from the day, sweetly slept in my arms, mumbling from time to time, "Grandfather… little hare… Grandfather… little hare, isn’t it?" I gathered that this was a snatch of his unfinished conversation with his grandfather.
Eleven years later, my son and I would stand at the graveside of Kant in the centre of the town previously known as Konigsberg, on whose streets a paratrooper, my father, had been wounded. And now his grandson, my son, is serving as a frontier guard in a Baltic Military District.
It was a cold, damp day and drizzling drearily. We stood by Kant’s grave and my son suddenly said, "Dad, do you remember when I was in my first year at school and there was a huge underground explosion?"
"When you saved us?" I said smiling.
"Yes, I remember how I ran from school and was afraid I’d be too late. I thought I wouldn’t make it and you would all be killed and the house would be destroyed. Yes, I remember. I dragged Markhaba down the stairs. She was little then, terrified, and she kept mumbling, ‘Mum, Mum’…"