to count! Can’t count! Those years that went by – every one of them counted as two. So they add up to many more!»
While she felt a swelling in her legs, and wondered whether, indeed, she would make it home now, she was nevertheless completely free of not only fear but even concern. True, the thought did cross her mind that once at home she might go crazy, but since that had happened a number a times already, she dismissed it with a wave of her hand. In any case, she had done everything right. They had been so little together in life that Ziama was probably in full agreement with her.
«Bring the three-wheeler, on the double!» Filippovich barked, and the worker quickly set off back down the allée. He presently returned with a rattling three-wheeled mini-truck sporting a fresh mat on the seat of the cab.
«Okay, granny, get in!» the worker chortled, and he and Filippovich lifted the old woman over the low running-board and sat her down on the seat of the cab.
«Head for the office!» Filippovich commanded as he started to follow them. Upon reaching the office the woman waited until he could catch up with them and help her out.
It took them quite a while to decide what to do next. She flatly refused to take a taxi, asking only that they accompany her to the bus stop. After extensive negotiations she finally agreed that Filippovich could take her as far as the trolleybus near her home, as it was on his way, but after that she would be on her own.
«My grandson wants to write the story of my life,» she told him as they drove. «I tell him there’s no point: we all lived the same kind of life, nothing special, and the fact that I’ve managed to stick around longer than others in this world, well, it still remains to be seen whether that’s an advantage.»
«Mm-hm!» sighed Filippovich, and took a good look at her. «You don’t look a day over seventy! You’re sure you’re not kidding me?»
«What for?» the old woman asked in surprise. «Just think: I was born when Alexander III was on the throne – I was born in the residency perimeter.»
«And what might that be?»
«What was that? A za jahr af mir! (I should have lived like that!) What was that, indeed? A perimeter for Jews.»
«What kind of perimeter?»
«Designating where we could live, where we couldn’t!»
«Some kind of border?»
«It’s obvious, isn’t it – you have to agree I’ve got to…»
«Got to do what?»
«Tell my story, of course! Seeing youngsters like you don’t know anything! Where did you go to school?»
«I graduated from the Bauman,»14 Filippovich boasted.
«What’s that supposed to mean?»
«I was an engineer!»
«An engineer, and here you’re looking after a cemetery?!»
«Gelt (Money),» was Filippovich’s only answer.
«Maybe you’re Jewish?» queried the old woman in amazement.
«No, I’m just a regular guy. You think Jews are the only smart people?» Filippovich took offense. «Don’t you remember it all?»
The old woman didn’t answer for such a long time that the driver was already starting to get concerned and stole a glance over his shoulder.
«The things I remember – well, they’re better to forget,» she said quietly. «Back then I could have been sent to jail just for talking about them. Even now they still won’t publish my memoirs. Why get my grandson all worked up about it? Better they go to the grave with me. He’s not to blame that I’m his grandmother!»
«Know something? I’m going to drive you right home! Where are you headed? It’s dark out, and with those legs of yours?»
«No,» the old woman protested. «I ought to get home on my own. That’s the way it should be. Besides, I owe it to him.»
Filippovich didn’t understand who the «him» referred to, but he wasn’t about to ask for clarification. He let her off at the stop, helped her on to the trolleybus, and then spent a long time just standing there, reflecting on what had happened and envying a grandson he had never met. There weren’t any elderly relatives in his life. They were all dead and buried – either in battlefields far away on the western front, or in the Siberian labor-camps far to the east, and nobody could even tell him where to find their graves.
Спи, Малыш
Спи, Малыш, спи… Эта вечная луна тихонько положила на пол квадрат окна, часть его оказалась на кроватке и согнулась вместе со свисающим одеялом. Он сидел рядом на стуле уже который час, наклонившись вперёд и положив руку на маленькое горячее тельце ровно между лопаток. Вторая рука его свисала с распущенной ладонью и полусогнутыми пальцами.
«Вся усталость и боль стекают вниз, вниз по этим пальцам», – мысленно повторял он, как учили мудрецы ушу. И в полудрёме усталости ему представлялось, что он насос, и рука, лежащая на этом тельце, втягивает всю болезнь в себя, а потом жар и боль стекают на пол по другой, опущенной руке, перемешиваются с лунным светом, растворяются в нём и исчезают.
Пространство становилось бесконечным, глаза закрывались, и ему казалось, что это уже он сам много, необозримо много лет назад лежит с раздутой от свинки перевязанной щекой на старом топчане в угловой комнатке у добрых знакомых в доме, один – с самого дорассветного утра и до позднего вечера. Непереносимо хочется есть, но он знает, что кроме двух кусков чёрного клёклого хлеба ничего нет в тумбочке на кухне и что, если взять в рот
