style="font-size:15px;"> I MISS MY FATHER. My wife and I were walking around the shops attempting to buy something «typical of Moscow» to take to Semipalatinsk. There were queues everywhere for everything, people were snatching pieces of sausage wrapped in polythene, from each other, jostling each other for meat and cheese. Good quality candy, which my father used to like very much, had disappeared. I can’t find anything for my mother. I’ll just have to accept the fact that this evening, for the first time, I will fly to my homeland, to my father’s grave, with empty hands.
My wife and I walked silently down the Arbat. It was crowded. There were street artists, photographers, singers, poets and lively discussions. Young people like everywhere in the world were enjoying themselves, loving, hating and arguing.
The underpass leading to the Metro was filled with painters. I pushed my way through the crowd out of curiosity, and – was dumbfounded. A painting depicted the Genghiz Hills. I would have recognized those long bends and ravines anywhere. I touched my wife’s elbow.
«Look, can you see Genghiztau? Can you see how the fiery clouds tear the picture apart and how the evil dirty-grey mushroom hangs suspended in the sky?»
At the foot of the hills, incensed horses, their teeth bared, snorted wildly. The whole scene was being observed by a little girl dressed in white, with enormous demented eyes. «It can’t be,» I thought. «This is no mere coincidence. This has been painted by someone who has seen everything with his own eyes…»
But this painting hung above a bearded, young man who swiftly and confidently was painting the portrait of a young woman who sat before him, rigid with tension.
«Where does this painting come from? Is it yours?» I asked.
«Why, do you like it?» the painter answered the question with another.
«It’s not a question of liking it or not liking it. It’s terrifying,» I said, not being able to tear myself away from the painting.
«Terrifying for some and not for others,» the young man said indifferently, smirking and handing the finished portrait to the young woman, «I’ll draw you, if you like,» he offered. «If you’re in a hurry I can draw you in pencil, but if you have time I can paint you and you’ll have a solid portrait. They like solid portraits in Central Asia.»
«How do you know what they like in Central Asia?» slipped out from my lips.
«I know, I’m no fool,» barked the painter.
It was obvious that there was something in my face that made him look away and change his tone of voice.
«The person who painted this picture was much smarter than I. He understood Central Asia with his soul.»
«It’s Kazakhstan,» I said. «The hydrogen bomb test.»
«You’ve guessed it. Kazakhstan. Some hills, the name of which I can’t remember. The painting is by my father,» confessed the painter after a brief silence.
«They’re the Genghiz Hills,» I said. «Is your father alive?»
«He died at the end of the sixties. Cancer of the gullet. My mother said that it was in these very hills that he contracted his illness. He only began to paint just before his death.»
«Is the painting for sale?» I asked.
«Everything is for sale,» he grinned. «If only there was money…»
His cynical, philosophical reply took away my inclination to ask him any further questions. It was clear enough that the self-styled painter had either been an eyewitness or a participant in those evil events. I paid for the painting. I paid the fellow handsomely. The painting now hangs above my desk…
In the plane I began to read Hiroshima by Makoto Odo. I had first heard about this novel from my father. Over several days I had scoured the library for this book to take with me on my trip.
It took several days to make our way into the depths of the Genghiz Hills. As we walked, we drove the cattle forward and holding the horses by the reins, urged them on.
The high mountain passes, the valleys, the green pastures, trees, rivers, springs – I, who had come for the first time to the summer pastures, was struck by their glorious, pure beauty, enticed by their mystery. Is man capable of destroying such divine beauty with his own hands? Sheer insanity…
It was late autumn. Once after dark, we stopped over for the night. We lit a camp-fire and began hastily to prepare some soup. The old men went to tether the horses. The old women and I dragged some dry branches and twigs for the fire from the forest. The overhanging, dark, gloomy rocks seemed like malicious devils from a tale. Fear emanated from the rocks – a terrible fear. It was as if the fear hung in the very night air.
White-faced, with huge camel-like eyes, the little girl, Kenje, wrapped in a camel-hair blanket, sat by my grandmother’s side. Her grandmother, who was gathering brushwood with everyone eke, had not yet returned from the forest. Kenje was trembling either from the cold or fear. I threw an armful of wood onto the fire. It flared up and I saw Kenje’s frightened eyes.
«But where is my grandmother?» she asked.
«She’ll be here in a minute. She was right behind us. What’s the matter? Are you afraid? Chicken,» I began to tease her gently. She remained silent and I felt ashamed that I was making fun of the youngster. «Are you hungry? Do you want some dry cottage cheese?» I asked her and she nodded, «Thank you.» «I’m here, I’m with you, don’t be afraid!» I started to say, offering her the cheese. I had spoken loudly, louder than was necessary in the situation. She sighed.
Kenje was a sickly, anaemic little girl. Those eyes of hers always looked at you with trust and devotion; they were the eyes of true innocence, of an angel. Her mother had died giving birth and no one had either seen or known her father. She was brought up by her grandmother and grandfather who were quiet and modest folk. Their three sons had been swallowed up in the war and their daughter had died, but nevertheless they carried themselves with dignity and tried not to show their grief, nor to lose heart. My grandfather used to say that it was sheer honour which kept them alive. If you took away their honour, they would die immediately. They would not be able to continue to live like others, as if nothing had happened. «They are that sort of breed of people,» grandfather used to say. Breed… Grandfather used to love this word but would never use it in vain.
The fire crackled happily. Pitch blackness enveloped us and intensified the feeling that we were surrounded by the cold loneliness of the world. Only the twinkling of the stars in the sky sowed a faint, undefined hope in our hearts. Grandmother mumbled something, lifting the lid of the cauldron to stir the broth with a big wooden spoon.
«Do you want to live, Rollan?» Kenje asked suddenly.
Puzzled, I looked at her, not comprehending the meaning of these words. Patches of light danced on her pale face, her long lashes were half-lowered and tears flowed from her eyes. «Don’t cry,» I said. «I know that’s inviting misfortune, but I can’t help myself,» she quietly sobbed. «Tomorrow they’re going to explode a bomb! I’m scared!» She could not stop shivering and I wrapped her in a fur coat over the blanket. «Do you think dying is terrifying?» she asked and then replied herself, «Death comes in all forms – difficult and easy… A terrible death awaits me…» «What are you saying? You’ll never die, Kenje,» I objected. «You’re a good person, a very good person,» she touched my hand with her timid fingers. To me she was like a thin Teed which swayed in the merciless wind. Gloom. Darkness. Was it possible that Kenje and I would never be able
