Korotky Lane, where we lived, was a third of a kilometer long, matching its name: “short.” It was shaped like a “T,” and three streets bounded the lane. Shelkovichnaya (Mulberry) and Severnaya (Northern) Streets could be seen to the left and right of our gate, and Herman Lopatin Street, formerly Shedovaya Street, was at the end, at the bottom of the T. That’s where we headed, stopping on the way to pick up our friend Kamil.
Kamil, who was my age but tall beyond his years, was a calm, modest, quiet boy. He never bragged, though he had reason to.
His yard looked like ours but a bit smaller and impeccably clean. It was a typical Uzbek yard, cozy and inviting.
On the path leading from the gate to the house and into the garden there was a big trestle bed covered with padded blankets. Every time I visited Kamil, his grandpa and grandma would welcome me like an esteemed guest. The old man would take me to the trestle bed, tapping his walking stick, sit me down and begin to ask about my parents and the way we lived in the new town. And Grandma would come to the trestle bed bringing bowls filled with fragrant tea. I felt awkward and embarrassed.
I would try to sneak away and play with Kamil, but Grandpa and Grandma followed the old customs strictly. Besides, they must have missed the company. And I always had my tea along with many stories that were so interesting that I no longer wanted to leave. I sometimes spent hours on the trestle bed with the old folks and Kamil, listening, now about the basmachs (members of an anti-Soviet movement) during the civil war, now about earthquakes, then about Timur, the awesome conqueror.
That beautiful, hospitable yard was also amazingly quiet. No one yelled or argued here. Grandpa and Grandma talked to each other respectfully and affectionately. I was sometimes surprised – how could they have lived together for so many years and not grown tired of each other? And I remembered my grandpa and grandma… I thought that was the reason Kamil had grown up to be so calm and sympathetic.
By the way, his uncle was also like that. That short potbellied man was very popular among the local boys. Uncle Sayid had a rifle. Well, it was an air rifle loaded with little pellets. Uncle Sayid allowed his nephew’s friends to use that rifle, when he was around, naturally. And he acted as a shooting instructor.
“Press it… harder, close to your shoulder,” he would say, standing next to me. The heavy rifle in my weak hands would sag and I couldn’t aim properly. The patient teacher levelled the rifle as he continued to instruct me.
“Good. Well done. Close your left eye. Do you see the target? Freeze.”
“Freeze,” I thought, desperately fighting the force that kept pulling the rifle down. “I can’t freeze, I can’t…”
“Don’t breathe, and press the hammer smoothly,” I heard him command.
I squinted and pressed the hammer. A shot was heard… Missed!
“It’s all right,” Uncle Sayid said calmly. “We’ll try one more time.” The barrel was opened, the shotgun loaded. The lesson continued…
This time we didn’t have tea with his hospitable grandparents. Kamil was ready and armed, so we set out for the Fortress.
When we reached the CentCom building, we remembered the rumor that all the old houses on our streets would be torn down, and multi-story buildings made of prefab units, similar to the CentCom building, which was considered the acme of modern urban development, would be erected instead. Perhaps the city authorities liked the idea, but we couldn’t even imagine such a thing. Who would voluntarily exchange their own adobe house, perhaps without all the modern conveniences but with fruit and vegetable gardens, small barns with various kinds of livestock, chickens, sheep, goats, and yard dogs, for the comfort of tiny apartments devoid of all the joys of unrestricted living?
Even at our place in Chirchik, it was better. At least, we had verandas and vegetable gardens.
“Well, if they tear down the private houses, we won’t have a choice. They’ll make us move,” prudent Kamil said.
We reached the grove where the Fortress, or rather its ruins, was located. Only the cylindrical brick tower with its narrow embrasures, or openings, had survived and was in rather good shape. It wasn’t too tall, just three stories high, but it still towered over the treetops. A bit farther away, the tall beautiful gate remained. It was made of bricks, crowned on both sides with turrets and an ornate pediment over its center arch.
Kamil’s uncle had told us about the Fortress. It was built in the second half of the nineteenth century between the former Shedovaya Street and the Anhor embankment. It was a real defensive fortress with thick walls, the embrasures, the corner bastion and tall ramparts around it. It protected the whole city. In former times, a cannon shot was fired every day at noon.
There were many buildings inside the Fortress – barracks, officers’ quarters, a powder magazine, and an infirmary.
Uncle Sayid told us, and he had heard it from old people, that at the beginning of our century, there had already been unrest in the Fortress. Soldiers of the Tashkent garrison, quartered in the Fortress, rioted and staged a real uprising during the 1905 revolution. There was also fighting here during the civil war. I don’t know whether the Fortress was ruined at that time or later. It was a pity. But Tashkent residents continued to call the romantic ruins “the Fortress,” just as it had been called in the past. And, of course, it attracted all the boys in the neighborhood – what could possibly be a better place for battles? There was still a grove near the Fortress; it wasn’t big, but it was dense. Perhaps there had been a big park here at one time, but it had gradually been chopped down, particularly when the CentCom building was under construction. Still, many old trees with thick trunks and wide crowns survived. Oaks, poplars, maple trees, chinaras (Eastern plane trees), and acacias stood, along with winter apple, cherry, apricot and mulberry trees.
That was where we were headed.
On this occasion, there were about ten boys at the Fortress, everyone we knew from the neighboring streets. Each one arrived with a weapon; some of them had slingshots besides their sawed-off shotguns. This battle was not going to be a laughing matter.
“You’ve got quite a shotgun… It’s first-class!” Sasha said to Kamil. He and his brother Slava lived across the street from us. “Even the barrel is polished.” Kamil gave Sasha his shotgun, and Sasha took aim with the air of an expert.
“My uncle helped me make it,” our friend answered timidly, flushing from the praise. “We polished it to remove any splinters.”
Kamil had reason to be proud; the shotgun was splendid. And it had a rubber band from the store, not one taken from underpants.
“Well, shall we begin?” Kamil said. “Is everyone here?”
Kamil, even though he wasn’t a braggart or a show-off, was usually our leader. It just seemed natural to choose him.
“Don’t shoot at anyone’s head,” Kamil warned us.
“Or at their balls,” someone cried out.
Laughter rang out.
“And slingshots don’t count.”
After everybody had expressed their opinions, we divided into two groups. The terms of the battle were simple – one group had to withdraw beyond the edge of the grove to give their opponents time to hide, and then they would begin their offensive by sneaking up on the hidden group.
The goal was to destroy as many enemy soldiers as possible. Everything counted – bumps, bruises and, during the battle itself, any “ahs,” “ouches” or other evidence of direct hits.