As a friend of mine said, you have to decompress after work. There are two effective ways: run several kilometers or drink a bottle of vodka. Naturally he prefers the latter. My women friends don’t drink vodka, but they watch TV or spend hours on the phone. It never occurs to them to go for a jog or a swim at the pool. Of course, we don’t have many such opportunities. You have to spend several hours in line to buy a pool membership, and that’s after checking in to get a place in line several days before that. Sports in our country are for the elite.
But laziness takes its toll too. Every so often I vow to exercise in the mornings. Two or three days later Em making up excuses: I didn’t sleep well today; tomorrow I’ll exercise later in the day, it’s even better for you; or I’m not in the mood, and so on. It’s easy to persuade yourself. Then, however, I’m filled with scorn for my own weakness, which creates even greater stress. But I still don’t reach for the vodka.
JULY 15 . I always had a clear assessment of our life. I knew more than others about the past, and I had learned to understand that past properly. But now I am lost. Either the world around me seems so gloomy because of my bad mood or my mood is caused by our gloomy life. I have an equally morbid reaction to everything—first indignation, then rumination, a desire to express my attitude, a painful search for thoughts and words, and last, a sense of impotence, at overcoming my depression or understanding what is happening, at expressing myself or changing anything with my anger. And I’m not very verbal—a result of my Soviet education. But I will continue my diary, even if it’s not very good and I’m not happy with it.
Today I thought that the harshness of our everyday lives deforms our personal lives. A normal sexual, spiritual, or whatever kind of relationship with a man turns into something that is not a manifestation of femininity. Soviet women have gone mad. Five minutes “after” in bed we’re talking about politics. So we select only smart men as bed partners, mostly for that “afterward.” From what my friends tell me, we’re all doing that. Does that mean that there is no hope at all for normal love?
THE INTIMATE DIARY OF A RUSSIAN WOMAN 21
JULY 17. I think I’m beginning to understand the cause of my strange condition. Until recently we lived in the world of ideas, emotions, suffering—but not action. Why bustle? You can’t change anything any way. But now something’s started moving. It’s time to wake up, but we don’t know how.
It’s hard and scary to start over at thirty-five. What am I worth; what haven’t I forgotten how to do yet? For a while I was lying low, gathering strength, and now I’m taking my first baby steps. Tragedy left our family unscathed; no one spent time in the camps, even though by all standards someone should have. Everyone died a natural death. But fear stalked us, too. It was the fear of saying too much, the fear of meeting with foreigners, the fear of acting. It’s not completely gone yet, but the fear of freedom is already here. We’ve forgotten how to make decisions and take hold of our own lives. I, for one, am afraid to take a wrong step. I don’t have time for mistakes. I’ll never make up what I’ve lost as it is. On the other hand, Father’s death freed me of many fears.
What a mix my diary is. But man is a mix. So who am I? Medium height, not badly built. Hair darker than blond, with straight bangs to the brows. Rather large features; animation bordering on nervousness. Good white teeth still, which allow me to smile often and with pleasure (I’m told my smile looks good). I try to dress either elegantly or sportily, depending on my mood. I pay attention to color combinations. I like jewelry in moderation. On the whole I tend to dress conservatively. Extravagant clothing requires intense behavior, which tires me. I have rather beautiful hands, and I use them boldly in conversation. The freedom of my gestures and movements depends on my mood. My attitude toward my looks varies. Sometimes I see
an attractive woman in the mirror, and other times someone who’s almost ugly. I think that God gave me a reasonable amount of looks that allow me to live in harmony with my inner sensations.
JULY 18. I had a strange dream last night. I was walking through rooms with some people. Ahead was a man I knew was Stalin. In a room with light gray walls were tables holding light gray machines—instruments of torture. I realized what was about to happen to us. I ran and found myself in a large, airy vestibule, and I hid in a doorway. I was safe; no one saw me. I went down a broad staircase. At the building entrance I was approached by a young woman, I think a Bulgarian. We decided that we couldn’t go home. “They” could be waiting for us there. We walked along a line of houses beyond which was a beach. We undressed and got into the water. For a long time we swam with great pleasure. Then a huge wave came, threatening to engulf us. Where did it go? We were safe.
I dreamed of a threatening gigantic wave last year. Mother and I were swimming in the open sea. It was dark. Heavy water hung over us. It looked as if we would die, but we saw the lights of a big city with skyscrapers. It was New York. We calmly swam to shore and came out on a sandy beach. A miracle or clairvoyance?
JULY 2 0. And so our trip to Kaluga came to pass. My most horrible and tormenting moments were not at the cemetery. It was strange even for me that I felt good and at peace there; my tears were almost not bitter. Father’s whole family had gathered there. They were no longer threatened by any misfortune, and they were surrounded by the graves of people they had loved in life. Old Kaluga, scattered in little islands throughout a city that has retained almost nothing but the name, is alive at the cemetery. Everything is still the same at our old St. George’s Church, thank God, but now it is connected with the funerals of Grandfather and Father more than with my childhood. We found only fragments of the old life on Pushkinskaya Street. The street is now called Korolyov. The gates are gone, as is our small front yard. The courtyard is open to the whole street, along which huge trucks race. In the past there was a trolley with its soothing and familiar sound every fifteen minutes or so. At the back of the courtyard stand the remains of the sheds where we stored wood and other household necessities and kept some chickens. There I tried to smoke for the first time with Seryozha, a boy from our block. We ate sprats to kill the tobacco smell, and our hands stank from them. The trash bin, which the garbage men emptied regularly, is gone. We used to call the garbage men pilots, probably in sarcastic contrast since being a pilot was considered very romantic.
A vile old woman and her mad daughter live in our former house. They wouldn’t let me in. Maybe that was for the best. I managed to peek in through the mail slot and saw the wall of the main entrance. The boards are still painted light blue, but the padding on the door is ragged. That was when I really cried.
I saw some of the old neighbors. They have such horrible,
joyless lives. All that’s left of the past is the life that destroys human dignity: a huge, filthy kitchen for a dozen families; an antediluvian sink with no hot water; dark hallways leading to cell-like rooms. In the past this pathetic communal life was made more pleasant by the shared life of the courtyard. We had our own singer and our poet and the hardest-drinking drunk and the best skittles player. My grandparents told me what it had been like even before that. Among the inhabitants of the houses that opened on the inner courtyard were a general and a priest, a helpless blind old man who was shot by the Bolsheviks. Now fat, frowsy women wander in the courtyard. One woman’s son drove up in his car. He was still young, but he had already lost all his teeth. We talked about those who had died, who had become drunkards, who had served their time, and who were still inside.
J U L Y 2 1 . I have my passport and my visa and money in my wallet. All I have to do is pack and get on the plane. I’ve been waiting for this for the last four years, actually for my whole life, and now I definitely don’t want to go to Munich. I want to go to Paris. This is too much, I tell myself. By Soviet standards this isn’t merely snobbery; it’s total moral corruption: I don’t want Munich; I want Paris. There’s a simple explanation: I need J-P. I haven’t wanted anything serious, for Wolfgang is waiting for me in Munich, and our two-month-long telephone affair is going to begin for real. And now I’m completely confused. A million versions whiz through my brain: I go to Munich and from there to Paris; I get to Munich, meet J-P, and then I don’t know what;