Part One – There
(Eastern Hemisphere)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN – SUMMER TIME IN MANGLISI PIONEER CAMP
Hurray! I’ll finally get what I waited for so long time! This summer I again will go to the Manglisi pioneer camp. Two years have gone “in vain”. How many hazel tree sticks should you carve? How many battle scenes should you stage from acorns? Well, even if an Italian artist-communist liked them.
I saw how my “300 Aragvins” were taken out of the craftsmen art exposition at the Pioneer Palace. The knights darkened and withered, many lost their helmets. But worst of all, the acorns sprouted – inappropriate reddish processes appeared between legs of knights, and the military clash started looking not like a battle scene from heroic past, but like a homosexual orgy from a porno comedy.
“Pigs need to be fed with such art!” I said loudly, but the workers listened to my words without blinking an eye. They used to this job – to take out different rubbish from halls, palaces and even mausoleums. They didn’t care.
I spent three summers in Manglisi. Probably, three unforgettable summers. Maybe I just was becoming older – made good friends, started romances and even worked.
The first time I returned to Manglisi was after the seventh grade. That year my aunt Lea worked at the camp as an accordionist and it was not difficult for me to get a voucher there. I already mentioned that I switched from piano to accordion, so I was curious to see what Lea’s responsibility were. Looking ahead, I will say that it was not in vain – in the summer after ninth grade I came here to work as an accordionist myself.
The summer after the seventh grade began unusually. One day I went together with uncle Zhorik, Lea’s husband, to his workplace. Just of nothing to do. He worked in another city, in an hour away, as a merchandiser at a furniture base. So, he was in furniture business, and I felt interesting to see how he works.
That summer, Zhorik taught me several useful things: boil eggs in an electric kettle, drink raw (not boiled) milk from carton packages (ho-ho, my mother would not allow this!) And step firmly when walking, first on the heel, and then on the toe, and not swing vice versa, from toe to heel. The latter was especially useful for a boy. In addition, Zhorik’s “Prima” without a filter was a convenient object to make a test of smoking.
By the way, I knew I could smoke. I was sure. Once, stole a couple of cigarettes, I brought them to school and after the lessons I took Eli away behind the school stadium to demonstrate my abilities. He was smitten. I lit up like a real smoker, blew the smoke out of my mouth, then out of my nose, and then made a couple of rings. Eli had no idea I was capable of such a thing. But I was sure of it. I think it was a longing for dad. I remembered very well how he smoked and unconsciously imitated his manners. Of course, I dabbled with straws in the Kiketi’s woods back in elementary school, but that was play, not smoking. Not like now. But I didn’t want to brag to my class. I conducted a successful experiment, I had a witness and it was enough. I didn’t smoke again during my school years, neither in the toilet, nor at parties. I didn’t have any interest in it.
So, we went to Zhorik’s work – the merchant furniture base. There was a water reservoir in the courtyard with the proud name “The pool”. Employees cooled off in it on hot, stuffy days. And the heat was incredible that day.
“Go take a dip, don’t be a sissy,” suggested Zhorik.
Boiled eggs from the kettle, raw milk, and especially the new firm gait, were worth accepting this offer, and, sweaty and hot, I plunged into the very cold water of the reservoir. Something happened. I caught my breath, then it started gurgling in my lungs and my throat, and I started shaking as if under electric voltage.
“Hey, help the guy get out! Something is wrong with him,” one of the employees alarmed.
Men pulled me out, rubbed and gave a sip of vodka. No wonder I was not friends with swimming – merging into cold water was really not for my taste.
In the evening the temperature jumped to forty degree Celsius (104 F). My back ached terribly, and I began to pee with blood. Terrified, my mother called a relative, the head of the children’s department, and I was hospitalized. It was nephritis – inflammation of the kidneys. Antibiotics IV started right away. But I wonder how they used to feed patients with nephritis. In the first couple of days, you could only eat sugar. A? Why? I don’t know, but three hundred grams (O.7 lbs.) of sugar a day is such a torture! Mom dissolved a handful of sugar in a glass of tea with lemon and made me drink. After a couple of days, they added local hospital baked bread. It was a special bread without salt. Also crap. Lemon was squeezed on it for at least some improvement in taste and eaten. Then gradually everything fresh and tasteless was added. But you could eat fruits. This became my main food.
There was also an advantage in illness. I was exempted from exams. My classmates envied me at Kolya’s birthday party, on the day of the last exam.
“Well done, Nick! You flew in on time, like the pilot Kokkinaki,” said Kolya’s mother.
And then the camp began. It was my “Artek”. Cheerful and interesting, funny and lively. No one was beaten or offended here. That would be unheard of! They fed us more plentifully than at home, and not three, but four times a day. And from morning to evening we were busy with activities. Nevertheless, it was possible to show your inclinations: some were more involved in sports, others – in a fun game of CFI – “Club of the Funny and Inventive people”.
This game was invented in 1961 by Albert Axelrod, who was its first host, but with the change of party leader, the host of KVN was also changed. But the game, as a model of a free society, captured the minds of the Soviet youth. By the way, now, having penetrated with emigrants to the West, it is known and popular among students in different countries. I think that for many people it was an outlet in everyday life, where a person was supposed to everything, but allowed – nothing. Therefore, it was possible to say ambiguities under the guise of jokes from the stage and laugh to death, as “we” outwitted “them all”.
Needless to say, I instantly became a CFI-fan and member. And although we didn’t say any sharp or political jokes in our camp, the opportunity to do something ourselves, without the control of older and “politically correct” adults, even in short moments of answering questions, raised our impromptu to the level of free speech.
Athletes were usually in opposition. All this intellectual fuss was of little interest to them, and sometimes too tough. But everyone saw that CFI is a force. This is not some lone textbook nerd, who can be intimidated by the mere sight of a biceps. It was a wall, a team, a fighting squad, overgrown with sympathizers, admirers, fans, whose roar in the hall was no less, if not more than at the stadium. And the most offensive for athletes was that the most beautiful girls received a lot of pleasure from quick jokes, like from a beautiful goal or a sport success! Well, according to the well-known formula: if you can’t beat a rival, take him as an ally! And the athletes themselves would become fans, deafeningly chanting the slogans of their team. As a result, ties between pioneers of the detachment only strengthened. Or maybe this is the principle of a two-party system?
I must say that popularity in CFI helped in sports. For example, I was invited as a reserve defender to the soccer team. You understand how “important” this player is in the team, but when the fans shout, “Neiman, come on!” – wings are growing, and you rush across the field like Pele himself.
And we also played “Silent Lightning”. The game may not have been called that at the time. It was a military-sports game, probably the scouts also play it. It was necessary to find and steal the banner of another detachment. The Manglisi forests and mountains were a wonderful scene for this. We sawed out plywood machine guns, learned to army-crawled, use a map and compass, dig, put up tents and do all sorts of interesting boyish things. However, the counselors had a problem. How to avoid real fights between “enemies”? No one obeyed the rule: one hit with a pinecone – a warrior is wounded, two or more – he is killed. “The dead” especially actively fired at the enemy. But the real confrontation (hand-to-hand combat) began at the hidden banner. Therefore, the observers were planted there. They were teachers from other detachments, who were supposed to maintain order. But it helped a little! Usually, the quick feet of the kidnapper saved everybody from the landfill. Less often it was the decisive actions of the teacher-supervisor.
A separate pleasure was the trips of the detachment to the Algeti-river and the big hike of the entire camp to a distant mountain spring. The rock from under which the key beat was called the “Stone Bride”. I hardly remember the legend associated with it, how the girl turned to a rock from the grief over her loved, killed by enemies, but the memory of delicious ice water still causes itching in my front teeth. Isn’t it strange? The water is imaginary, the crowns are porcelain, and the itch is real!
During the big hike, the dinner was truly field. We were building a fire and cooked food in a cauldron. It was porridge with meat. I liked it. And then we made tea. Strong tea with the smell of pine needles. And of course, we baked potatoes in the coals.
“Hi, my love, potato-dear-dear-dear-dear!
You are our deli-feast. Feast-feast!
Feel your pleasure very clear-clear-clear-clear,
Find and eat or smell at least. Least-least!”
We yelled the song of distant hungry years. But it was great!
Once we went with our detachment to Algeti for a swim. Swimming here is a strong word. The rivulet is usually shallow, and at least a little dip in it was possible only in some recesses, dams. But fortunately for us, our counselor and teacher met the driver of a bulldozer-excavator and persuaded him to dam the river. A technical miracle happened before our eyes: a powerful machine broke trees with its bucket, piled on top of the earth and blocked the channel. Half an hour later, the happy kids swam and dived in a small lake, a little more than a meter deep, which suited swimmers like me very much. Then we invited the bulldozer driver to eat with us. I don’t know where the alcohol came from, but the teacher, the counselor and the bulldozer driver became even closer. And the driver allowed the counselor to steer the heavy car. Hooray! All of us joyfully clung to the yellow bulldozer, like to a war elephant, and belligerently encouraged the counselor to go up, down, obliquely along the rocky slope. And…
Do you already feel it? The bulldozer began to tilt. With screams of horror, we jumped from it to the slope. These jumps pushed the car down even more, and it fell on its side, so that the bucket with sharp teeth swept over the head of one pioneer, and the bulldozer, tumbling over itself, collapsed at Algeti-river shore. The bulldozer’s driver let out a trumpet howl and, wringing his hands, bent over the fallen steel friend. The water in the river was briefly stained with black oil stains. We, frightened by the accident, brought the boy to his senses. He was lucky to keep miraculously his head on his shoulders. But I must say that the teacher acted decisively. He contacted the director of the camp, who then contacted army unit through military channels, and an hour later we watched with delight as a military amphibian raised its peaceful fellow to its feet, that is, on wheels. As far as I know, no one was hurt or punished. But that was the only time we had such a great swim in a deep dam.
The carnivals in the camp were quite interesting. We prepared for them ahead of time. This summer I was well prepared. Knowing in advance that my aunt would take me a voucher to Manglisi, I prepared a gladiator outfit for the carnival. But the only outfit was usually not enough. It was necessary to perform with it in order to present the costume to the jury. And I began to select an assistant for the presentation. There were two candidates – Misha and Levan. I met them at the camp and we became friends all my life afterwards. All their lives, because they both left early. Both became talented physicists and worked for many years in scientific centers in different countries on different continents. And it seems that they should have united, but tragic cases pulled them out of life.
Misha was thin and his skinny ribs would fit a slave well. However, Levan was swarthy, black-haired and curly-haired – he fit into the image of a man from the east. Misha was not offended at all when I chose Levanchik, and when he found out that, according to the scenario, it was not him who won the battle, he was even delighted.
“I’d rather fencing with the Musketeers,” he said. “It’s better to be poked in the stomach with a stick than you bang on my head with a sword.”
Levanchik and I began to prepare the performance. I can tell about it here, but I wanted to honor the memory of my departed friends, and I wrote a short story, replacing myself in the pioneer camp with Misha.
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