Part One – There (Eastern Hemisphere)
CHAPTER THREE – MY FIRST FRIEND
1
I was often tormented by vague suspicions that Eli was not like all other boys. At times in high school, he would infuriate me when he had an “attack of physical contact.” Choking with laughter, he showered me, his best friend and desk mate, with a flurry of pinches, infuriating me up to a desire to punch him in his round face, flushed, from a sadistic game.
“Stop it!” I hissed. “Stop it!” cried already in a full voice. “Stop it, mother fucker!” I broke into a scream.
“Neiman, you have the first warning!” I received a voice remark from our room teacher, mathematician Vera Aramovna.
What was I to do? Complaining about a classmate was low – kind of against the rules. I couldn’t hit a friend – I held myself, so there was the only one thing left – to push him off the desk into the aisle with a sharp push, hoping that a sudden fall to the floor would sober him up.
“Bang!” – It’s me who crashes into Eli. I see his face frightened by the loss of balance and already with remorse I watch, how under the laughter of classmates, he returns to his place. He is purple, panting and lowers his head on his arms crossed on the desk. I feel almost sorry for him, but at that moment he turns his sweaty happy face to me and winks. And I notice with bewilderment how his school uniform trousers throb in the groin.
2
I met Elizar, or simply Eli, on the first day in first grade. His famous Sephardic surname Maaravi meant nothing to me at a young age. And many years later, neither I nor even he understood its meaning and origin. He sincerely considered himself a descendant of Ashkenazi Jews; I did not care. It was later, already at the university, that we became interested in famous ancestors and, in general, a lot of things. In the meantime, we were occupied with fairy tales and toys.
It so happened that in the confusion of “the first pass to the first class” I was put to the wrong column of children, and I got into… Hmm, where did I get into? Of my future classmates, I knew only one boy Edik, whose parents were friends with mine. He was absent in the room. When I was enrolled in school, I met my young and beautiful teacher, who I really liked. Her name was Alexandra Sergeevna. Now in her place was an elderly woman. And what struck me the most, she was resembling a toad from Thumbelina. Everything around me seemed unfriendly, the windows were dusty, and the sun was dim. Without thinking twice, I threw back the lid of the desk, stood up and made a speech:
“This is not my class. You are not my teacher. I’m leaving!”
“Toad” was terribly frightened.
“Where are you going, boy? Wait, what’s your last name?”
Now I can’t imagine at all where I could go from the class, but I remember that I was adamant, “My surname is Neiman,” I said. “But I’m leaving anyway.
She checked the list in the journal and found no such name. Then, in a few jumps, she reached the door, flung it open and croaked hysterically:
“Sana! Is that your anarchist?!”
My beautiful teacher floated out from the next classroom, like a fairy from a castle, and smiling affably said in a soft chesty voice, “Yes. This is my boy. Welcome Nick. We are waiting for you.”
And I entered a new world. Fifteen desks in three columns stood in a spacious classroom, bathed in the light of the sun. One seat was free. I occupied it and found myself next to a plump, cheerful boy.
“My name is Elizar, let’s be friends.” he said.
“Let’s be friends!” I agreed, not even suspecting that it was for the whole life.
“I have a bunny in my schoolbag,” he admitted.
“And I have a tin soldier.”
“Steadfast?” Eli asked.
“San Geevna” made a sign to us, putting her finger to her lips. I silently nodded to both of them.
3
We truly loved our teacher. She was beautiful, kind, young (like a mom) and fair, like a person close to you. Any other in her place seemed “wrong”, artificial and even ridiculous.
One day a substitute teacher came to our class. Her name was – the fear of God – Begonia Silvestrovna! She had a prominent moustache, was overweighed and oversized, and her curvaceous figure was squeezed in a green suit of shiny fabric.
“Children, today we will talk about May and its signs. What is typical for May?” she asked.
“May 1st Demonstration?” we assumed.
“Children, I will prompt you. B-e-e…”
“Begonias!” shouted the sarcastic Jean.
Everyone laughed, but at that moment we had a strong association between the new teacher and the huge Maybug.
“Children, you need to develop your imagination,” she said. “Listen and visualize!”
And she began to read poetry as if she was on stage.
“Rainbow has led once
Colors of dawn to the red one.
The sun shines now so bright,
That makes apple trees white.
But they sing over yellow land,
Over blue river, through the field rugs
Reckless songs, as you had heard
Songs of Green Maybugs.”
Here the teacher made “hands on her hips” and sang, “The Maybug’s pride is antennae and round sides!” At the same time, she very expressively demonstrated her own mustache and round sides on herself.
Our imagination had ignited, and there was no longer any strength to hold back our feelings – everyone collapsed on their desks from Homeric laughter.
4
In fact, there are few funny cases from elementary school that I remember. One of the first happened to Tamara, a thin, nervous girl who later transferred to a ballet school and became a famous ballerina. Once San Geevana called Tamara to the blackboard to read in front of the class. The diligent girl was very worried: at home they spoke more Georgian than Russian, and she did not want to make mistakes.
Let me note that initially there were five or six people in our class who did not know a word of Russian. They were sent to a Russian school specifically to learn the language. But on the other hand, they were fluent in Georgian. Therefore, when Tamara, with a face changed from anxiety, said:
“Tash … oh … tash…!” (“Tash!” – In Georgian it means “Clap!”), – these six began to clap rhythmically.
“Toshnit! (In Russian it means “I’ll puke!”) Tamara shouted hysterically and fountain-like-vomited into the open ABC-book.
5
Every day we comprehend the world.
I remember a splendid New Year Party that my parents gave me in elementary school. In addition to the decorated Christmas tree, my mother made a snowman out of pillowcases stuffed with old clothes and cotton snowballs. It was necessary to hit his carrot nose made of orange felt to get the prize. The guests-classmates had fun until them dropped tired. Aunt Lea brought her accordion, we played games and freaked out to cheerful music. The table was breaking overweighed with holiday sweets and cakes, which my mother baked wonderfully.
And then there was a loud knock on the door. There was nobody behind the door. A large bag stood next to a puddle of water in which two or three ice cubes were floating.
“It’s very hot here. Santa Claus began to melt and ran away,” my mother explained, and all the children immediately believed in it, because the puddle was real.
And in the bag were unprecedented gifts – Dad brought from Moscow German paper shakos – tall military caps made of multi-colored paper and foil, decorated with plume feathers.
For many years later, the children remembered the New Year at Nick’s, the melted Santa Claus and his wonderful gifts. And the ability to believe the whole story by its small truthful part was preserved even among those who were not there.
6
And here is one case related to television. It was a time when televisions had only recently conquered Soviet homes, the programs were still meager, but in the evenings they showed movies. Usually, the children tried to watch every single one.
In the evening, on the eve of the events that I will talk about, TV showed a Czechoslovak or Yugoslav film about a young guy by name Grazi. And his friends often made fun of him, chanting “Oooh, Grazi!”
Everyone liked it terribly, and the next morning the boys of our class, without agreeing, shouted the refrain from the film to each other in response to any, and especially, awkward actions.
And what kind of demon beguiled us when the old Elizaveta Alexandrovna entered the class with a cane?! A powerful choir of young voices sang:
“Oooh, Grazi!”
The woman got confused, whispered with trembling lips, “For what?” Then she flopped into a chair and start crying.
We were amazed at the produced effect. The girls surrounded the old teacher, hugged her, apologized and explained the source of the joke. The boys shrugged their shoulders, the tougher ones thought that “grandmother is already cuckoo”. But as always, “the box was easy to open” – the old teacher decided that the evil boys called her “grace”. It is clear that such a nickname is offensive when you are seventy-five, your back is bent, your legs are barely dragging, but memory still allows, and need still makes you work. It was a shame for us, who had no bad intentions, to bring the old woman to tears. Maybe this was our first conflict in life as a result of a simple misunderstanding of the parties. Do you understand?
7
In the third grade, we learned “dirty” words. No, we have not yet reached the stage of swearing, but we have learned three basic words – two nouns and one verb – on which the whole system is built. I am not familiar with a single person who, having heard them at least once at a conscious age, would not remember forever.
Interestingly, having memorized them, I remembered that I already knew one of them at the age of four. I remembered how in Pyatigorsk, where I went with my parents to visit relatives, a boy of my age told a funny story in the city park.
In the story the hero suddenly takes out his… I expected childish word like pipi, wee-wee etc. (All of them in Russian are feminine and multi syllable). But nothing like that. He pronounced strange bird’s word – huy – short and masculine.
I asked him, “What exactly did the boy get?”
The friend explained, “Well, his pipi.”
“Where does such a strange word come from?” – I did not let up.
“Well, that’s what they say in our yard,” he said.
The explanation seemed to be comprehensive. I realized that this is a dialect that I am not interested in and do not need. But, it turned out that it was not needed only up to a certain age, and then without it – nowhere!
7
Eli ran up to me in the corridor and, choking with laughter, broke the news: Timur, our classmate from a non-Russian-speaking family, is confusing the very new nouns that we have recently discovered.
“Come on, you’ll hear for yourself!”
In the center of the class, surrounded by a ring of boys interspersed with girls, stood very surprised Timur Alania:
“Why you do not believe me? My father can confirm my words. Yesterday we saw a man in a bathhouse on Odessa-street with such a gigantic…” he spread his arms shoulder-width apart, “…cunt!”
I joined the general hysteria.
Eli took me aside again, “Do you think Timur is telling the truth?”
“He mixes up words.”
“It’s clear. I’m talking about size.”
“Maybe the truth. In the bath sometimes you’ll see many unusual things!”
“Yes, I like to go to the bathhouse with my dad.”
“I love more to go with Dad to the cinema, to the circus or to the park – to the rides.”
“My aunt takes us there, a whole horde of cousins. And in the bath – dad. And this is great!”
I understood Eli: with Dad anywhere you want is great. Who would have thought that this pleasure would soon end for me and for Eli?
8
Dad disappeared suddenly. At first it was just a work related trip. Then – business. Then furniture, vases, books began to disappear from the apartment. Then an investigator with soldiers visited us. Soldiers had weapons with bayonets. The apartment was searched like in a movie: everything that was touched was thrown to the floor. The investigator composed a list of all things in our apartment, but no valuables or money were found. I was lying in bed sick, with a fever. Suddenly, the investigator realized, “The boy is just a disguise! Money is in the mattress!”
I was unceremoniously thrown off the bed, and the soldier ripped open the mattress with one movement of his bayonet. I don’t know what the investigator expected to see – nothing was visible in the blizzard of snow-white fluff that shot up to the ceiling. Covered in feathers like a huge mother hen, Grandma Sofa cackled, “Even the Petliurists spared the feather bed when I fled to Russia, psya krev (dog’s blood)! When she was nervous, she always switched to Polish.
Some time passed and it was shown on TV that a particularly dangerous criminal was wanted. Dad looked very imposing in a fedora. Mom was afraid that now I would have a hard time at school.
The next day, as soon as I crossed the doorsteps of the class, our homeroom, English teacher – Liana Konstantinovna, pretty, tall, with steep hips and juicy breasts, divorced, daughter of the hero of the Soviet Union, Lieutenant General Djibuti, sent me to the school drawing office to get “good” chalk. We always slandered that she was having an affair with the teacher-draftsman and imagined obscene scenes on drawing boards. As I now understand the rumors about their love were justified. In any case, a good friend, who for about ten minutes chose the “right” pieces of chalk for me, came in handy for Liana.
Making sure that I was not on the floor, and all the children had gathered in class, she asked bluntly, “Did everyone see the program about Nick’s dad yesterday?” Everyone confirmed that, of course, they saw it.
“So here it is!” Liana yelled at the children, “Whoever dares to say a word to Nick about his dad will fly out of the school like a bullet!” And will not fly into another. You’ll go with a wolf ticket! (No one knew what a wolf ticket was, but it sounded intimidating.) “I swear I’ll keep my word!” she continued, “You know me, I am the daughter of the hero of the Soviet Union, Lieutenant General Djibuti!”
Tears stood in her beautiful eyes. The message was delivered on the right note. The children understood perfectly well that to complain, like all normal people, she would go to her dad. And with dad, Lieutenant General Djibuti, jokes will be bad, it is no coincidence that he is a hero of the Soviet Union.
When I returned, the usual lesson was already underway. No one has ever said me a word about my “terrible secret”. Only one girl whose mother was arrested for profiteering leaned her black curls over my shoulder and whispered, “Poor we are, poor, you and I, Nick,” and as a sign of complete trust, she took my hand and put it on her thigh…
Eli disclosed me the story about Liana a year later. His father died. We all worried about a classmate and friend. I decided to support him, “I also live without a dad,” I said.
“At least you have hope that he will return,” Eli remarked fairly, “but I don’t.”
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