while we were supposed to be napping. They would sit in the corner talking quietly. Today, the cook, Zhanna Kirillovna, stopped by.
“How are you doing, Maria?”
“The same old story…”
“Perhaps you should forgive him. After all, you have your daughter.”
“I just can’t take it any longer. I don’t remember when I last saw him sober. There’s not one kopeck at home, and he’s drunk away the television set.”
“Drive his buddies away. Perhaps he won’t drink alone.”
“He drinks with his buddies at work. Can I possibly establish order there? Now there’s peace and quiet at home. No one runs wild, no one curses.”
Maria Petrovna began to cry quietly.
“I know what you have to put up with. It’s the same with mine… Sometimes he gets so plastered. So, what’s to be done, Maria? Men don’t drink because they want to. Life’s hard.”
“Who’s talking there?” the teacher asked threateningly on hearing someone’s whisper. “This is the quiet hour. You must all take a nap.”
“I understand that life is hard,” she resumed their conversation, “but what are their brains for? Our daughter is growing up. Who should she learn from? They should be ashamed of crippling so many innocent souls. Is life easy for women, Zhanna? No, but we don’t turn into alcoholics. No, I don’t want him back. I’ve had enough of him. We’ll manage without him somehow.”
“All right, Maria. God be with you. I’ll go get some beef. Don’t forget to stop by.”
“Alcoholics, alcohol-lics…lics…Cursecursecurse… Don’t want him back,” echoed in my drowsy brain for a long time. Then I fell asleep.
Chapter 5. Happy Birthday, Little Redhead!
That day, as I returned home from kindergarten, I saw Father in the yard. He was sitting on a chair under our mighty apricot tree, his hands resting on his knees. He looked as worn out as he had in the hospital. He was still breathing with difficulty.
Misha, Yura’s father, squatted next to him rummaging through a nice-looking blue thing. Wow, it was a car! It had wheels! And it was blinking – first its lights lit the apricot tree and the wall behind it, then they went out.
“I need to adjust the contacts,” Uncle Misha mumbled.
Then he saw me, sprang to his feet and shouted his usual greeting, “Look who’s here! How do you do, little redhead!”
Misha always greeted me with enthusiasm, never forgetting to remind me of my former hair color. According to his stories, when I was “little, redheaded and potbellied,” I would walk around the yard with my empty chamber pot in my hands, banging it against the walls. Misha would say, “Look, our rayis is coming,” hinting at my likeness to a local collective farm boss since, as a rule, they were potbellied.
“Happy birthday, little redhead! This is for you.”
Mesmerized, I stared at the blue pedal car in which he had just been rummaging. It had a black steering wheel, seat and wheels, and a blue body. It sparkled and shined all over in its novelty and freshness. And this miracle was mine! And today was actually my birthday – April 7th.
“What do you say?” Mama prompted.
I mumbled “thank you,” unable to tear my eyes from the car. I hardly had any toys, and definitely nothing like this.
Misha picked me up by the armpits and lowered me into the car.
“Vale-e-e-ya! What kind?” he sang imitating Yura and, at the same time, continuing our old game. That was how Misha always asked me about the skeleton of an old car that had long been sitting outside our gate. “What kind is it?” he always asked. And I always answered, “A passedger car.”
But this time my fascination with the present didn’t leave any room for our game.
“Well, little redhead, go!” Misha commanded.
But how could I go if my feet just dangled in the air and didn’t reach the pedals? I was desperate.
“I see,” Uncle Misha obviously hadn’t expected that to happen. “Well, that’s all right. You’ll grow soon enough. Meanwhile, let me give you a ride. Turn the wheel!”
The wheel squeaked, the pedals rattled, the steering wheel shook – I was taking a celebratory ride around the yard. The animals and birds were panic-stricken. The hens cackled in fright. The pigeons took flight. Jack stood motionless, staring at us in bewilderment. Uncle Misha zoomed around with all his might. The cherry trees, the water pipe, the kennel flashed by fast. That was some ride!
As I was having a great time, I heard a shrill shout, “Vale-e-ya!!!”
This time it wasn’t a plea for help. I knew my little cousin well. Everything new that appeared in the yard had to belong to him.
“Don’t give it away,” I commanded myself, ready for a quarrel.
“Yu-ya, come congratulate Valera,” Misha tried to prevent a conflict. “It’s his birthday today.”
Yura ran up to us. He didn’t want to listen to anything. He wanted the car, the car alone. He had to satisfy his wish and he didn’t give a hoot how he did it.
He could have yelled, stomped his feet, bitten or started a fight, ignoring the size of his opponent.
Only one person was capable of dampening his anger, though only for a short time.
Disobedience inevitably led to punishment – that was the rule established in the yard by my father. And he was the one who enforced it.
Yura was the one to whom my father would often give a flick on the forehead. He called that popping “champagne” for the sound it made, similar to that of popping the cork of a champagne bottle. He sometimes spanked him lightly on his bottom, which would send Yura flying across the yard. And when Father opted for ear-pulling, it was definitely far from pleasant.
All the children who visited Grandpa’s yard knew how strict “Uncle Amnun” was. His glance alone was sufficient to stop boys from dashing around the yard and make them tiptoe.
Naturally, they sometimes got carried away and started quarrels or fights. Father was always ready to ease the situation. He would beckon to the culprit, without a word, just motioning with his index finger, and dish out a dose of “medicine” to the guilty party.
While doing it, Father expected full cooperation from the punished one. At the sounds of “champagne,” they would count ten “flicks.” If a poor devil counted without enthusiasm, the whole thing was repeated. The memory of a punishment, long and bumpy, sat on one’s forehead.
When Yura saw that it was impossible to kick me out of the car, he grabbed hold of my hair but was immediately lifted into the air, where he remained hanging. It was my father who had lifted him by the scuff of his neck and pulled at his ear.
“And who did I beckon to?” he said quietly, drawing a breath
