So, we were building a hammom. It was supposed to make the house more comfortable, compared to neighboring houses, which didn’t have winter baths.
In summer, like all our neighbors, we used the shower in the yard. Water was poured into the big yellow tank through a hose. It got so hot during the day that we had a shower with hot water. In winter, one had to go to the public bathhouse that Grandpa and Grandma had visited for many years.
An outing to the bathhouse was a real event for Grandpa Yoskhaim and would be planned in advance. On a bath day, Grandma put the appropriate clean underwear into Grandpa’s shoulder bag. Grandpa remembered to remind her that he would be home late because he also planned a visit to his barber. He had his own barber, for he didn’t entrust his head to just anyone who knew how to hold scissors.
Late at night, Grandpa would return home transformed. He smelled of cleanliness, the barber shop and something pleasant. His cheeks, scorched by the heat of the bathhouse, would glow. His fluffy snow-white beard framed his face. His shaved head looked as if it had been polished. It emitted radiance and seemed almost transparent, with Grandpa’s mind shining through it.
It was clear that ablution of Grandpa’s head at home couldn’t produce such wonderful results. Besides, Grandpa Yoskhaim would be in a good mood for a long time after a visit to the bathhouse.
But still, the decision to build the hammom was made. Robert insisted on having it his way.
Robert was the only member of the family who undertook improvements in the house and yard. His mind was always brimming with plans, which he was impatient to implement.
Now he had the idea to pave the whole yard, now to replace the roof, which was full of holes, or to build a little bathhouse, as he was trying to do now. All of his projects required financing. That’s where the serious difficulties arose.
Robert was willing to plan a project out from beginning to end. He was ready to put his work into it, but alas, as a practical matter, he couldn’t invest any money. He had begun working only recently. The only person who could give him money was Grandpa Yoskhaim. I’ve already described the agony Grandpa suffered when his purse was encroached upon.
When Grandma Lisa demanded money for shopping at the bazaar, he could understand that for he liked to eat well. They would argue, and he would exclaim “Just look at her!” but he would give her money. However, he sincerely considered these assorted improvements to the house and yard to be total nonsense. It seemed to me that Grandpa would have been quite comfortable in a cave, provided he had an armful of straw, a pair of drawers and an alarm clock. That’s why every time Robert had a new idea, the first stage would be a long battle, to be precise, an attempt to lay siege to the fortress known as “Grandpa Yoskhaim.”
That’s how it usually started. The family would gather practically en masse for dinner. Apart from the grandparents and Robert, there might be other brothers and sisters, and sometimes we children, at the table. At some point, Robert would begin talking to everybody loudly and animatedly so that Grandpa could hear, “I stopped at a friend’s place the other day and happened to see…”
“Happened to see” was the main point of his story. Robert thought that, firstly, he wouldn’t be suspected of coming up with the idea himself, and secondly, he wanted to plant the idea in Grandpa’s mind that others had that wonderful innovation, and we didn’t.
Or course, Grandpa easily discerned his intention. It wasn’t that difficult, since Robert never came up with new methods of laying “siege to the fortress.” Maybe he hoped that Grandpa had a bad memory. Alas, he was mistaken. After hearing “happened to see,” Grandpa could figure out right away that his beloved son was plotting something again, and he usually began his “I can’t hear” defense. He would bend lower over his plate, pretending that he was completely engrossed in his food, that he couldn’t hear and didn’t want to hear anything, though his beard would start to twitch sharply with indignation, too sharply for a person who was enjoying his dinner in peace.
After losing the first round, Robert would switch to a direct attack.
“Papa, have you heard? Isn’t it great? We should do it too, right?”
After that, Grandpa, like it or not, had to answer. And he always deflected it blow by a blow in the same way, “Az pool gap zan!” It meant roughly “just start the conversation talking about money.” But it could also be translated as “Don’t waste time. Say exactly how much it will cost.”
That’s when things would become very difficult for poor Robert. He knew what would follow and tried to delay the unpleasant moment. No matter how much he described in glowing terms the advantages that could be enjoyed by all the members of the family after, for example, the yard was paved or a bathhouse built, Grandpa would repeat over again, “Az pool gap zan!”
In the end, Robert would give in. “It will cost…” and he gave an obviously understated figure. “So, do you see how inexpensive it is?”
However, Grandpa would hear nothing more. He would eat without haste, groaning slightly. Then he would lean back and, stroking his full belly, at last tell his son that he didn’t think there was any need for another innovation.
I would like to repeat that Grandpa wasn’t pretending. For a man who sat in his wooden cobbler’s booth even on the coldest of days, the idea of building a winter bathhouse seemed utterly ridiculous. Why spend so much money? What was wrong with the public bathhouse?
After decisively expressing his opinion, Grandpa would take the prayer book in his hands and begin to thank the Almighty for giving food to him and his family yet another time.
This was the way he demonstrated unequivocally that the meal was over, and the conversation as well.
But Robert still had one more method. It was tried and true – make his mother his ally. She was an experienced and mighty fighter. Grandpa couldn’t resist her attacks.
“Yoskhaim, Robert’s right. Don’t be stubborn. Give your son the money,” Grandma would declare decisively.
Of course, Grandpa wouldn’t give in right away, but he understood that, sooner or later, Grandma Lisa would manage to convince him or, to be precise, force him, and he would answer glumly, “I’ll think about it.”
That’s how Robert invariably got things done his way.
V-zh-zh-i-i-ck, v-zh-zh-i-i-ck – the wheels of the handcart squeaked slowly. I was delivering bricks with it. They were stacked near the storage room close to Yura’s house. I didn’t know who had brought them there or when, but one thing was clear – those bricks had already served people, and they had served them for a long time. I would say that those bricks, which were bigger and thicker than most, were dingy. They were covered with gray splotches of dried-out mortar; their natural color had grown pale, and some edges and corners were broken off.
I hauled the bricks to our former abode, to the place where the small storage room once was, where we had stored coal. Now Robert lived there, and the storage room was gone, to be replaced by the winter bathhouse.
We had been working since early in the morning; it was past noon now. Intense heat was blazing. And, as always, the inhabitants of the yard had hidden wherever they could. Only I dragged myself along, pushing the heavy, squeaky handcart. Drops of sweat clouded my vision. It seemed to me that they began to boil on my forehead and cheeks, and my blood was boiling along with them.
“Yura must be swimming in the Issyk-Kul… in cool water… not too shabby… and I’m swimming in my own sweat here.” That was my reasoning on the unfairness of this world, rubbing salt into the wounds of my soul. Meanwhile, the treacherous handcart ran into a pebble, tilted, and the bricks, arranged in four layers, fell onto the asphalt with a crash. The sound of their crashing drowned out my scream – a few bricks had fallen on my foot. I began to hop and whirl, wincing in pain. Now there were tears, and sweat, clouding my view.