“Yes, it’s only six months,” the one with the small mustache confirmed.
“Five months, Margarita Avetisovna,” Gleb Ivanovich, who had his own mustache, said. Very politely, so Mikha knew that she was indeed the director.
Ten minutes into their little tea party, Mikha knew that if they wouldn’t take him on as a teacher, he would stay here and work in any capacity: whether as a janitor, a stoker, or a gym teacher.
They showed him the classrooms; there were four of them. And only forty-two children in all.
In one of the classrooms a girl was standing at the chalkboard and communicating something with her hands. The others listened to her—by watching.
“We don’t renounce sign language completely. But we feel that if one begins teaching our methods early enough, most children can learn to speak.”
“I would like to work here. I lived in an orphanage until I was seven, until my relatives took me in. I know I’m probably not the sort of person you’re looking for … I’ve already begun studying sign language, but I’m not proficient yet. But if you would agree to take me on…”
They welcomed him with open arms.
He signed a contract that no one else would have accepted, and started work without even taking the vacation that was his due as a recent university graduate.
Everyone was dissatisfied with Mikha’s departure for the boarding schooclass="underline" Aunt Genya, who cried on the day he left as though he were departing for the next world, although he would return again the following Sunday; Marlen, who would inherit some of Mikha’s responsibilities for looking after his mother; Alyona, with whom his on-again, off-again romance was at a low point, but who shrugged her shoulders in consternation nevertheless, saying, “Why a boarding school? Why?” Alyona’s father, the extremely clever Chernopyatov, felt that the closer one’s job was to the city center, the better the job. And the provinces, anything beyond the capital city limits, were not even fit for living.
Even Anna Alexandrovna expressed concern—not about his career, but about the hygienic conditions there. She believed Mikha would be lice-ridden and dirt-encrusted in no time. Sanya thought about how long it would take to travel from that back of beyond to the Conservatory, but he didn’t say anything. Ilya was upset that he was losing his friend just at the moment when they might have been able to earn a decent income working together.
Mikha was now teaching Russian language and literature to deaf-mute children. He worked alongside a speech therapist, and things were going very well. Mikha developed an approach that even earned the praises of Yakov Petrovich. He introduced rhythm exercises into the lessons. He clapped out the various poetic meters, and the children hummed their iambs and trochees. How happy they were when he expressed his delight with them; and how generous he was with his praise!
The school was unique in both its poverty and its plenty. The government subsidies were paltry, and even with extra compensation the salaries of the staff were incommensurate with their qualifications and with the time they invested in their work. The materials they had at their disposal were insufficient. But the absolute dedication of the teachers, their selflessness, and their pride in the results of their efforts, which were evident to all, outweighed all these other factors. Not to mention the atmosphere of creativity and love.
Almost a third of the children had been chosen from orphanages. The rest had been brought by their parents, who hoped that the school would enable them to communicate with the world more easily. The children from orphanages had an easier time than the others, since they were already used to life in an institution. The children with families usually stayed for only a year or two, at most.
Almost every Sunday Mikha returned to Moscow. He visited Aunt Genya and caught up on all the chores and errands he had missed during the week—from washing the floors and windows to buying groceries. Since the time Mikha had started college and the financial help from his relatives to his aunt had stopped, she had become tight-fisted and capricious. The sausage had to be Mikoyan, the cheese had to be Poshekhonsky, the milk Ostankino, and the fish—fresh carp or frozen perch—from a store that was closed on Sundays. So Mikha occasionally came to town on Saturdays just to buy this carp, if it was available.
After finishing his household chores and errands, he flew over to Alyona’s. She would either be waiting for him with mascara on her lashes, which meant that she had turned her face toward him that day, or without any makeup at all. This suggested that her thoughts were elsewhere. Why her moods were so volatile he didn’t know. He would try to find out from her, but she would just shrug her hair off her shoulders and slip away without explanation.
Then he would sit down with Sergei Borisovich in the kitchen and drink tea or vodka, depending on the time of day, the presence or absence of guests, and the mood of the host.
What an incredible human being! What a life! Mikha marveled at Chernopyatov. Sergei Borisovich Chernopyatov’s father, born in Batumi, had been one of Stalin’s closest companions. He was killed later than all the others, in 1937, when the leader had already done away with most of the friends of his youth. Sergei Borisovich was still just a boy the first time he was imprisoned, several weeks after his father’s arrest. This was just a trial run—a children’s penal colony. When he was eighteen they transferred him to a prison camp. In 1942, he was released from the camp and sent into exile. In Karaganda he met an “Algerian”—his future wife, Valentina. That was when he learned the meaning of that satanic geographical moniker, ALZHIR. It meant: Akmolinsky Camp for Wives of Traitors of the Homeland. Among the thousands of women were the mothers of Maya Plisetskaya, Vasily Aksyonov, and Bulat Okudzhava. Alyona’s grandmother on her mother’s side was the widow of a prominent Party member from Ryazan.
Valentina fell under the “FMTH” category: Family Members of Traitors of the Homeland. She was seventeen when they executed her father and arrested her mother. She managed to escape the fate of 25,000 FMTH minors who were sent to orphanages. She followed her mother, and ended up in the village of Malinovka, a forced-labor settlement. Her mother died a year later.
That was where she met Sergei. They were both twenty years old, and both of them dreamed of having a family. They married young, thus saving each other’s life. Alyona was born in 1943. In 1947 they received permission to return to Russia, and they moved to Rostov-on-Don, where they found Valentina’s relatives. Sergei Borisovich passed his high-school graduation exam, then entered college. The life about which they had dreamed began. In 1949, he was sent to prison again. Stalin’s hand refused to loosen its grip. He was released in 1954; and his life began again for the third time …
Alyona was sick to death of hearing these stories. She would lock herself up in her room and turn on loud music. Sometimes she sat in her room for hours on end, scribbling with a slate pencil on rough paper: whimsical patterns of curlicues and cascades. Sometimes she simply left, without saying a word, ignoring Mikha altogether.
* * *
Mikha sat with Sergei Borisovich, picking up commonsense wisdom. And what a talent he had for sharing it! You would say something to him, and he would hold it up to scrutiny and then reveal its full significance to you, like a picture that blossomed into color when you held it underwater. He had such a deep understanding of life, of its inhumanity and absurdity and cruelty!
And the people! The guests who visited Sergei Borisovich, for all their diversity, had one thing in common: they were inveterate, implacable enemies of the authorities. They understood the nature of the system, its deep-rooted injustice. One was a geneticist, another a philosopher, yet a third a mathematician. And at the very center of all of them stood Sergei Borisovich—hardheaded, astute, clever—actively committed to the public welfare.