Читать книгу Bar in the Departure zone. The story of one escape - - Страница 3

Dima shifted in his seat, his face still pressed against the window as he observed the spit-stained station platform. The view wasn’t particularly exciting, but as a passenger, it was customary to look out the window. Spherically fat grandmothers, or perhaps young women disguised as grandmothers, dressed in identical quilted jackets and gray shawls, were selling simple food on the platform. Nuts, pies with various fillings, including questionable “meat” that Dima had learned to avoid after getting sick in Khabarovsk. The gray mass vaguely resembled meat but was of uncertain origin, rumored to be a mixture of offal, soy, or even stray dogs. Dima had learned his lesson after two days of illness.

A cheerful former convict, released early due to illness, teased Dima, calling him “First on the Pot,” referring to his recent bout of sickness. Fortunately, the nickname didn’t stick, and Dima remained known as Dima for the rest of the journey. The ex-convict, weakened by his condition, rarely left his folding bench. He joked about going home on the “path of recovery,” a sarcastic reference to his release certificate. Although everyone in the train car understood the underlying meaning, it was a sensitive topic, and no one dared to make light of it.

Dima stayed seated when the conductor motioned for him to come to her compartment.

“Why are you sitting there, kid? He almost certainly has tubik,” she remarked.

“What’s tubik?” Dima asked.

“Tubik, my boy, means tuberculosis,” the conductor explained.

“But he says it’s his stomach,” Dima replied.

“Well, then you must know better, doctor. Get out of here.”

Regretting her interaction with the youngster, the conductor worried that he would spread what she said throughout the car. Dima, however, remained silent, simply moving a bit farther away from the former prisoner.

On the platform beneath the dimly glowing neon sign reading “Sverdlovsk,” Dima purchased hot potatoes wrapped in newspaper and two limp pickles from the spherical ladies. Carefully removing the newsprint from the potatoes with a knife, he ate without much enthusiasm. The black newspaper text left a blue imprint on the potatoes, puzzling him. He sat there for a while, lost in thought, not about the color transformation of newsprint but about the fractures in life and the need to adapt and make changes.

Dima was not an outgoing person; he preferred to listen rather than speak. But the journey seemed to loosen people’s tongues more than any interrogator could.

“If you had stayed a few more years, you would be on the icebreaker ‘Lenin,’ feeding penguins,” someone remarked.

“Penguins? Are there penguins in the Arctic?” Dima asked, amazed.

“Why not? Where else would they have gone? I saw it on TV,” someone else chimed in from a nearby bench.

Dima found the statement to be blatantly ignorant and chose not to respond, not even turning his head.

“And so, is it hard to get into the Marine College?” the ex-prisoner asked, trying to keep the conversation going.

“No. I applied after being discharged from the Army. Service counts. Acceptance was easy.”

“Did they kick you out, Dima? Didn’t have enough pull?”

“It just wasn’t my thing. Even in the Army I got tired of barracks life.”

“Not your thing? Hah! But then what is your thing? Don’t answer. It’s already time for me to get measured for a wooden suit, and I don’t even know what my thing was or how I fucked it up… Did you say you have an uncle in Moscow?”

Dima sat on another bench, seeking solace in observing the ceiling covered with fly droppings. He preferred to have a conversation about life with the old ex-convict without the eager listeners surrounding them, making him feel like he was in a Komsomol meeting. Unhappy thoughts started to intrude into his mind.

Indeed, he had an uncle in Moscow. Despite his reluctance to turn to him for help, circumstances had left him with no other choice. All roads seemed to lead to Vlad, his weary uncle and only remaining relative. Dima loved and respected him, but there was an incident at Dima’s farewell party before he went off to the Army that left a sour memory.

Uncle Vlad worked as the manager of an anonymous café and an adjoining grocery store. Living alone, he felt a sense of responsibility towards his few remaining relatives, including his sister and nephew. He provided them with food, financial support, advice, and patronage. As a grocer, he held a respected position in Soviet society, and people from various backgrounds sought his acquaintance, including engineers and prosecutors.

For Vlad, organizing Dima’s farewell party as he transitioned from civilian life to the Army was a small matter, an inconsequential task. With loud farewells, the alcohol flowed, and Dima’s friends and neighbors slowly dispersed into the Zelenograd apartment block. But then, unexpectedly, a local small-time criminal known as “Chief” called Dima over. Dima, being non-confrontational and having no issues with Chief, approached the garages without expecting any trouble. However, what he heard there turned out to be worse than any physical altercation.

“Dimon, here’s the thing… your uncle Vlad is a fag.”

“What did you say?” Dima was outraged. “You drank the port wine and vodka he brought, and Vlad didn’t act oddly at all. What happened?”

“Chief” realized the conversation was going south and fell silent. Then Tolyan spoke – he was older, already had completed military service but had not yet found a job, preferring to spend his days hanging out in the yard.

“You don’t get it. He’s a real faggot, a queer.”

Dima wanted to get away never to return to this courtyard or this city.

As through a fog he heard Tolyan say that Vlad’s new friend, an Estonian, had tried to stab him. The police hauled both of them in, and the Estonian said he wanted to kill Vlad because he was jealous.

The weight of the situation overwhelmed the 18-year-old Dima, leaving him physically ill. When the dizziness subsided and everyone had left, he found himself alone. His uncle, who regularly sent greetings in letters from his mother, had taken over the correspondence when she fell ill with advanced form of breast cancer and became unable to write. In the winter of 1979, Dima was granted leave to attend his mother’s funeral. At first, he didn’t fully grasp the fact that he was now completely alone in the world. It was only after returning to the barracks that the reality sunk in.

During the memorial service, the director of the Defense Research Institute, where his mother had worked her entire life, mentioned that although housing was state-owned, Dima could keep his mother’s apartment if he agreed to join the institute upon his return. However, deep down, Dima knew that he would never return to that apartment or the Moscow satellite city, let alone the closed defense facility. He observed his grief-stricken uncle Vlad with detachment and dismissed the rumors that were circulating. After all, the Estonian had been released quickly, and there he stood behind Vlad, wearing a comical hat adorned with a wolf’s tail.

Six months later, the monotonous life in the army barracks came to an end. Private Dmitriy Klimov, accompanied by a group of partially intoxicated former soldiers, walked out of the gates of the army base. Instead of the cumbersome uniform, he now donned a windbreaker. Instead of a suitcase filled with photo albums, he carried a half-empty sports bag containing his military ID and a document called a “Military Transportation Order,” granting him a free railway ticket. Dima had chosen Vladivostok, a distant city on the Pacific coast, as his destination.