The Messiah Who Might Have Been. Rafael Grugman
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sighs heavily:
„I feel better already.“
„That’s not what I mean. I’m talking about the pregnancy. Are you serious?“
„Olya, I’m not a young girl anymore.“
„Can I come over today?“
„Just don’t come before seven. I still have to put together the materials from the party conference, and then get groceries. My refrigerator is always empty before payday.“
„Should I bring anything?“
„A man…“
When I hear this vile word, I bang against the wall of my cell in vexation. She stammers and explains.
„I don’t have anything to lose now.“
„All right, keep your chin up. See you this evening.“
„So long.“
Mama slowly puts down the receiver. She stares dully at the table, not thinking about anything. I don’t understand what’s going on with her now. Why doesn’t she want me? Why isn’t she happy that she is carrying a son under her heart, the way any woman would be? Would she be more reasonable if she knew that? Many women dream of having a boy for their first child. I have no idea how to give her a hint that I resemble her long deceased father. And when I grow up, I will be just as handsome, tall and broad-shouldered.
Several times my grandmother told my Mama the story of her marriage, about how Dominic, her future father, had lured my grandmother away from her fiancé, who was a famous arctic pilot and a hero of the Soviet Union. Grandma was proud of this and had no regrets that she had not acquired the good things in life that fate would have bestowed on her, if she had become the wife of a courageous pilot.
My Mama is still in a sour mood. Although I feel sorry for her, I don’t make any effort to lift her from her depression. Sometimes it’s useful to whine a little and spend some time alone. It’s impossible to feed yourself with nothing but sweets; life would become too saccharine. Bitter tears are a protection against diabetes.
No one interferes with my Mama’s grieving; classes are going on at the university, and during the morning hours the editor’s office is empty. This is the best time to work. Mama has a very important responsibility at the Energy newspaper: secretary in chief. I don’t know what people in this position do at other newspaper editors’ offices, but Mila is a copy editor, typist, layout artist and proofreader. On Wednesdays she has additional responsibilities dumped on her, and she has to hang out all day in the printing shop. This is called being „in charge of the issue.“ Fortunately, the printing shop is in the same building as the regional newspaper, Soviet Siberia. This setup works out well for Mama. On days when the latest issue is being published, she spends her free time in the correspondence department of Soviet Siberia conversing with Zina, the head of the department. Her conversations with her friend help the time go by faster.
Mama continues to be depressed, drawing meaningless circles on her paper. It’s best not to disturb her. Let her get used to the thought that there are two of us, and that we are a unified whole, an indissoluble bond: mother and son. I turn over – I’m not content lying on one side for too long – and like a true man, I assume a comfortable position. Now I can invite her into the conversation.
„Mama, talk to me,“ I ask affectionately, calculating that the brief pause has gone on for too long.
She seems to hear me, and she places her hands on her stomach; I feel the warmth of her hands and gratefully cling to the wall of my pool, enjoying the new sensations. I am in ecstasy; I have never felt so good before. „Mommy, I love you!“ I whisper enthusiastically, reveling in the heavenly pleasure.
The telephone rings shrilly. Mama jerks back her hand, grabs the receiver and raps out her words in a mechanical voice: „Editorial office.“
„Lyudmila Dominicovna, come to the party committee office.“
Mama grows cold, hearing the stern voice of the party committee leader; she has grown accustomed to recognizing his mood immediately. She grabs her keys and rushes up to the third floor. I hold tightly to my cord, afraid of being hurt; she is running down the hall at such a breakneck speed that anything can happen. I don’t need any pre-birth trauma that could turn me into an invalid for life.
„Be careful!“ I yell in fright.
It is too late! Mama misjudges a step, stumbles and nearly falls down the stairs. Fortunately, a helpful bystander catches her. Mama thanks her rescuer and slows down.
„Please watch where you’re going,“ I beg, but Mama isn’t in the mood for a conversation with me. As she runs, she is mentally going over the last issue of Energy, trying to guess what went wrong.
„I don’t think there were any errors,“ she thinks, determined not to lose her nerve. Her intuition tells her that the committee leader is dissatisfied. Mama is stressed out to the limit. I feel uncomfortable and cold.
„Don’t worry,“ I beg her, rolling up into a ball. „Don’t panic too early.“
Mama approaches the party committee leader’s office, stands in front of the door, counts to five, takes a breath and rouses herself with this cheerful farewell: „Hang in there, Mila! We’ll get through this!“
Encouraged, she opens the door a little and sticks her head into the office.
„Come in, Lyudmila Dominicovna,“ says the party committee leader in a thundering voice. „Come in. Don’t hide behind the door like a mouse in a hole.“
Mama enters and carefully closes the door behind her.
„Sit down,“ Aleksey Ivanovich instructs her.
Mama obediently sits on the edge of the chair and puts her hands on her knees like an exemplary student.
„There’s been an emergency with your artist, an emergency,“ Mama’s boss says reproachfully.
„What happened, Aleksey Ivanovich?“ Mama asks fearfully.
„During the seminar class on Scientific Communism, that doodler of yours…“ Aleksey Ivanovich stammered and asked with disgust. „What’s his name?“
„Schwartz.“
„Yes, Schwartz. He called Trotsky a comrade. And when Associate Professor Yukhatov reprimanded him, he insolently declared that he was talking about the time when Lenin himself called Trotsky his comrade. That’s what happened! We’ll recommend not allowing him to take the State Examination in Scientific Communism and expelling him from the University. Of course you realize he can’t be permitted to work in the editorial office.“
„Aleksey Ivanovich, could it be that he misspoke?“ Mama asks ingratiatingly. „All kinds of things can happen. Sometimes I blurt out things like that too,“ she tried to think of an excuse, „and them I regret it. I have to apologize a hundred times.“ She waves her left hand, as if rejecting the nonsense she has spoken by accident.
The party committee leader is implacable and does not respond to her guileless tricks.
„This is political immaturity. Scoundrels like him turn into ‘dissdents.’“
This is a new word for me, „dissdents,“ and although I feel a nervous chuckle running through Mama’s stomach, she remains impenetrable on the outside; not one muscle moves in her face.
„Aleksey Ivanovich,“ Mama fawns, contorting her suffering face and pressing her arms against her chest, „His father died recently. The fellow is twenty years old… I’m sure he didn’t mean to…“
„Age is no excuse for committing anti-Soviet activities! When I was his age, I was defending the Motherland. This is provocation. Most likely premeditated. Think, Kotlova – think about whom you are sheltering!“
Every word the party committee leader speaks sounds like a hammer blow and conceals a threat. I am in shock. What does he think he’s doing? Is it conceivable that one could treat a pregnant woman in such a rough and callous manner? Mama