“Comrade Major. Comrade Lieutenant Colonel Peredisty asked that I inform you that your spouse has called. She requested you call home subsequent to finishing the class. Permission to leave?”
“Thank you. You may go.”
Only when the thunder of Vladik’s boots faded completely at the far end of the hallway, did the Major dare ask, “Who was that?”
“Kuznetsov!” the class barked back as one.
“Well, well,” the Major said, shaking his head, and continued his instruction.
✵ ✵ ✵
We could tell many, many more stories like that about Vladik, but that’s the tragedy of our situation – we cannot, no matter how tempted we might be to do so, allow our narrative to slip into anecdotal levity; we are here to convey true information about a historical person, and we must pursue our goal with the seriousness it commands. Thus, we shall attempt to be brief. Vladik’s biography, however, is rich in uncommon incidents and occurrences; we have a myriad to draw upon, and it would be impossible not to tell you about the training camp.
What wealth of amazing folklore has come out of that venerable summer institution, the military reserve training camp where students earn their officers’ stripes and prove their mettle! Take just one song, the immortal We are for Peace, but Our Guns Keep Reminding Us We’re Soldiers – this alone, a tune born somewhere in a deep trench to the accompaniment of the approaching IFV of the ‘blue’ team... Oh the songs, the old songs – they are all parts of the system.
But let us return to Vladik. Let us recall the story of Vladik being late to the training camp. He had both the right and the permission to be late! He and a group of his ancient-history colleagues was dispatched to strengthen the ties of Socialist Internationalism with theater students in Leipzig. The occasion was so important that the military department gave our guys permission to report to training three days late, but of course Vladik could not tolerate that. Instead, he snuck away from the Leipzig train and made his way back to the training camp, at its location in the middle of nowhere in the country. He wanted to be there on time. He was in such a hurry, he didn’t even stop to visit his grandfather or to look for a barber; instead, he shaved his head himself, with a safe razor, balancing in front of the tiny mirror in the rickety toilet of the village train. He didn’t have any water either. Try to repeat this Spartan feat! Vladik Kuznetsov’s head, when he arrived to camp, looked like... Suffice it to say that when sailor Dyakovenko, in the midst of the barracks’ howling mirth, took it upon himself to finish the job, the old sea wolf’s hand shook as it came near Vladik’s head and there was cold terror in the big man’s eyes, terror mixed with disgust and deep pity. Vladik ground his teeth, but didn’t make a sound; the sailor’s hand shook, but did not make any new cuts – it was surprisingly gentle, that calloused hand.
But on, on with our story – we can feel you begin to doubt the veracity of our claims, dear reader, but there are witnesses, a whole battalion of them, more! For word of Vladik’s determined pursuit of the mailman position spread far beyond his own battalion – everyone at camp knew it. Everyone knew Vladik rose first, before dawn, and ran to the camp’s gate, so that he could pick up the rolled-up newspapers and run them back to the officers’ quarters. He did this because – if you haven’t guessed it already – the mailman’s job came with a rank, and Vladik longed for the right to put a lance-corporal’s stripe on his new shoulder-straps and become equal with the camp’s veterans. It didn’t matter to him that after the training everyone would receive their lieutenant stars; Vladik did as his grandfather taught him, and who could blame him? Who wouldn’t admire his persistence and resilience, so uncommon among young people today? Stargorodians are a special tribe, you know?
And the story with the General? The General who came to inspect Vladik’s camp; the General for whose arrival the whole division had been preparing for two days and two nights straight? Vladik spent both those days, the hottest mid-afternoon shifts standing watch at the entrance checkpoint – Vladik volunteered for this, he felt compelled to bear his share of the soldier’s burden. He did it because he dreamed of being noticed. His dreams kept him at the checkpoint, until – alas! – his stomach played a dirty trick on him, and Vladik had to ask someone else to take his place so that he could dash off. He was gone a mere five minutes, no longer, but it was enough. Vladik had to watch from the bushes as the General’s convoy pulled up, and as the General, surrounded with his retinue of officers, conversed with Arthur Melkonyan, the weasely Armenian who’d agreed to relieve Vladik from his post because he’d lost to sailor Dyakovenko the night before and had to take Dyakovenko’s midday turn at the checkpoint. Vladik watched from the bushes and, according to witness accounts, chewed his nails.
Someone reported Vladik’s suffering to the higher-ups, and the Drill Sergeant singled Vladik out at the final parade, so on the train home Vladik was a bit overexcited.
And what about the time Vladik punished Academician Kombatov’s boxer? That’s a Greek tragedy right there! In his last year at the university, Vladik adopted a homeless mutt he’d found next to the One-Armed Man pub one day. The little dog was a comical creature, accustomed to lapping up beer from unfinished bottles left behind by kind patrons of the establishment; he could also stand on his back legs and do a few other tricks, and must have been tangentially related to poodles. Nonetheless, Vladik gave the dog a manly name, Ace. Those who tried to puppy-talk to Ace and address the little thing as Acey or Asik, were cut off at the spot by Kuznetsov’s powerful throaty roar, “The dog’s name is Ace. Is that clear?”
Following this, Kolya Bolshoi usually popped up from behind Vladik’s back and everything ended peacefully, or not – depending on the circumstances.
So Ace became Vladik’s faithful companion, following his owner everywhere in his mincing gait and waiting for him patiently on the lawn of the Humanities’ Building until he returned from class. Man and dog were inseparable. They rode the train to Lyubertsy together; Vladik fashioned himself a special backpack for the express purpose of transporting Ace. Ace’s shaggy face, popping out of the backpack, looked so endearing that everyone around fell under his spell, and no one, ever, had a single unflattering thing to say about the friendly little mutt.
And then a terrible thing happened.
One day, Vladik was walking next to Moscow State University’s main building with Ace, as usual, trotting at his side. On a parallel course with them, but in the opposite direction, Academician Kombatov was walking his dog, a boxer named Prana. The Academician was credited with founding Soviet Indology, which he did by tracing the Slavic people’s roots to ancient Hindustan. Kombatov found rich evidence in support of his theories; we refer those with a more-than-passing interest in this question to the full list of Academician Kombatov’s publications available from the commemorative edition of Academician Kombatov: 80 Years of Soviet Indology. Nothing at the scene foretold disaster. The men and their dogs aligned; suddenly and without any warning, Academician Kombatov’s giant boxer rushed at poor Ace, and – imagine! – snapped the little dog’s front paw in half. Vladik, as eyewitnesses told us, didn’t lose a second. He dashed to the university’s fence, ripped out a cast-iron rod (whether it was loose or badly attached, we don’t know) and, wielding it like the Roman legionnaire he’d been brought up to emulate, struck the Academician’s dog, piercing it through and causing it to expire on the spot, in the shocked Academician’s arms. Then Kombatov had to run for his life, abandoning his pet’s lifeless body on the scene – Vladik, like a heavily-armed hoplite swinging a bloody spear, pursued him to his door. Later, in a fit of righteous vengeance, the spear smashed an innocent telephone booth.