times.“ She waves her left hand, as if rejecting the nonsense she has spoken by accident.
The party committee leader is implacable and does not respond to her guileless tricks.
„This is political immaturity. Scoundrels like him turn into ‘dissdents.’“
This is a new word for me, „dissdents,“ and although I feel a nervous chuckle running through Mama’s stomach, she remains impenetrable on the outside; not one muscle moves in her face.
„Aleksey Ivanovich,“ Mama fawns, contorting her suffering face and pressing her arms against her chest, „His father died recently. The fellow is twenty years old… I’m sure he didn’t mean to…“
„Age is no excuse for committing anti-Soviet activities! When I was his age, I was defending the Motherland. This is provocation. Most likely premeditated. Think, Kotlova – think about whom you are sheltering!“
Every word the party committee leader speaks sounds like a hammer blow and conceals a threat. I am in shock. What does he think he’s doing? Is it conceivable that one could treat a pregnant woman in such a rough and callous manner? Mama should reveal her news immediately and tell him about the pregnancy. She must defend herself! However, I don’t recognize her – she stiffens herself and continues her resistance. She is presently silent and humbly listening to his insults.
„You need to find someone more suitable for the editorial office. So far, you’ve managed to attract all sorts of riff-raff. Where did you find him? In the gutter? On a trash heap? You seem to have an amazing instinct for finding this kind of crap. It must be pathological…“
Stiffened and grown limp, Mama listens without objection to the insults that are pouring down on her like peas, one after the other.
„Kotlova, I hope this incident will teach you something. Choosing the staff for ideological agencies is a very serious matter. And what do you do? Everywhere you look, there’s this rabble of Schwartzes, Krugmans…“
The party committee leader becomes silent. I hear the rustle of a newspaper. Mama calmly waits for a pause, then figures that the dressing down is over, and it’s time to „make tracks.“ She stands up and heads dejectedly towards the door.
„Kotlova!“
Mama turns around at the shout.
„I’m not done with you! What kind of verses have you published in the newspaper?“
„Verses by our students, members of the literary association,“ Mama answers timidly.
„Have you even read them?“
„I have, and so has the editor. Is something wrong?“ Mama sits down without objection on the last chair, the closest to the door.
„I’ll say!“ snorts Aleksey Ivanovich, and begins to read:
Disarmament. Not waiting
For a bomb in an envelope, or a mine concealed within its lines,
Not summoning or invoking those things
That are hidden in a flask of gin.
Not being blown to pieces
By the sound of a falling line,
And not taking the dots you have written down
To arrange them in rows.
He throws the newspaper onto the table and yells:
„What do you think this is?!“
Mama trembles from the sharp cry, and without understanding the question being asked, she answers cautiously.
„Verses. About love.“
„You’re so shortsighted! And you’re a member of the Communist party!“
„I don’t understand…“ Mama says timidly.
„There are Soviet-American disarmament negotiations going on right now in Moscow. If Johnson reads this opus, he might think the Soviet Union is against concluding this agreement. Listen to what this scoundrel is writing!“
Aleksey Ivanovich reads, deliberately distorting his voice, and he speaks in his infamous falsetto that grates on the ear:
Disarmament. Carts
Carry the bombs away to the casemates.
And I go limp and cry
„Save my soul!“ at the top of my voice.
He becomes silent. Mama begins to understand his train of thought and quietly curses: „Damn! I’m a total idiot! How could I have overlooked this?“
„How would you interpret this?!“ screams the party committee leader, and without waiting for an answer, he continues howling. „Are we against disarmament?! Are we against taking the bombs away to the arsenals?!“
I am frightened by the sharp cry, and I instinctively draw in my knees and pull my head down to my shoulders. Mama almost cries, and with a voice shaking with agitation, she tries to explain.
„Aleksey Ivanovich, this is a lyrical image. I agree, it’s not entirely successful…“
The party committee leader interrupts her.
„Completely unsuccessful. If someone in the City Party Committee sees these verses, they won’t be patting me on the back. As for your political shortsightedness, you’ll have to hand over your party membership card.“
Mama breaks into a flush. I feel as if I am in a stuffy, overheated room and begin to choke. Mama puts her hands on her stomach to calm me, and afraid she would be cut off before she could explain herself, she begins to babble:
„Aleksey Ivanovich, you’re right. The metaphor is unsuccessful. But… this isn’t what Krugman meant. He told me so himself. The hero of the poem has his own personal drama. He is waiting for a letter from the girl he loves. His feelings are on fire. At a certain moment he says to himself: „That’s enough! If no letter arrives by a certain time, it is useless to wait. Our love is over.“ The fateful day arrives. There is no letter. The lyrical hero’s feelings go into the ground like a bolt of lightning. He is devastated. He is completely discharged. That’s where the poetic image comes from. I agree it’s unsuccessful; it leads to the analogy: detente – disarmament. He should have chosen a different metaphor. But there is nothing political in his words. I swear!“
Mama becomes silent, content with her explanation and with her subservient look, implicitly ready to carry out any order to gratify Aleksey Ivanovich.
„That’s nonsense!“ screams the party committee leader, not yielding to her innocent charms. „I can understand Boris Fedorovich’s oversight. He’s a scientist, an associate professor. The party committee decided to appoint him to the post of editor. But you’re a professional journalist, which he isn’t. You need to look closely and recognize the difference between poetry and intentional provocation designed to undermine Soviet-American negotiations. Where is your sense of politics? You’re a member of the party!“
„Yes, of course…“ Mama mutters, not daring to contradict the authorities.
She is seized with panic. For some reason, as she weeps, she recalls that after Stalin’s death her
