Книга - The Messiah Who Might Have Been

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The Messiah Who Might Have Been
Rafael Grugman


The first story The Messiah Who Might Have Been based on real events which take place in Siberia during the Cold War, when tensions between the Soviet Union and the USA affected the fates of ordinary people in a terrible way.





Rafael Grugman

The Messiah Who Might Have Been

I Was Churchill�s Mistress

Two Novels and Short Story Collections













The�Messiah�Who�Might�Have�Been




Translated from Russian by Geoffrey Carlson



I�m already nine weeks old. Two weeks ago, she didn�t know that I existed, but she was worried about a vague pregnancy. As far as I could tell, she had three girlfriends � Zina, Valentina and Olga � and she told all of them: �I think I�m in serious trouble.�

To be honest, I didn�t realize at first that she was talking about me. When she called Olga from the editorial office, Olga didn�t get it at first either.

�Mila, what�s up? What do you mean, �you�re in trouble�?�VD?�

�No such luck. Olya, it looks like I got knocked up.�

�Really?! When did it happen?�

�I think�� she started doing the math. ��about seven weeks ago. Maybe earlier. I�ve been late often, so I didn�t figure it out right away.�

�Are you sure? Maybe you should go to the doctor?�

�I know it without the doctor. All the signs are there. The nausea, the colostrum� I�ll have to get another abortion.�

I shuddered, hearing that abominable word. She reacted immediately when she felt my emotion. �Excuse me, Olya, I don�t feel well,� she said gruffly and hung up the phone, grabbing at her throat with both hands.



I realized that I�d been found out � now she knew for sure that there was another life glimmering under her heart. Maybe this was for the best; she would calm down and give up her wild life.

I knew that I existed before she knew it. Modern medicine erroneously considers a child�s date of birth to be the day he or she comes into the world, although it does not deny that the embryo�s heart is already beating at four months. This means that even before the officially recognized date of birth, the fetus is a living being, gathering enough strength so that five months later it can break out of its shell and begin to live in a new world.

I gathered this information when Mila (that�s my Mama�s name) was studying The ABC�s for Pregnant Women. This book even included my name, Embryo. I don�t like it � it sounds pretentious � but I don�t want to argue over trifles. Let them give me whatever name they like. Even Fetus. I don�t care.

The book says that a woman who is about to become a mother should take care of her future child�s health by eating well, avoiding psychological stress and spending more time outdoors. Alcohol, nicotine, excessive physical exertion and strict diets are off limits to pregnant women.

Going by the book�s recommendations, if one were to rate Mila�s readiness for changes in life on a scale of one to five, she wouldn�t get any higher than a two. I don�t mean to complain about the food, although I�ll admit I�m already sick of French fries. Of course it wouldn�t hurt if my Mama varied the menu, but I won�t get hung up on food. There are more substantial problems. Besides Mila�s harmful predilections for alcohol and smoking that have haunted me from the moment of conception, there is now a third enemy: nervous breakdowns.

There�s nothing I can do for her; she�s in no condition to control her feelings. Her stresses are my headaches. If she�s not able to build a soundproof wall around her heart and protect herself from unnecessary suffering, I�ll have to take care of myself. So far, this is just a declaratory statement. We are joined by a single thread, and I am powerless to change anything. If she sneezes, I tremble as if there were an earthquake. If she becomes nervous, I grow faint from the stuffiness.

How can one find psychological independence while in the womb?! The nine-month incarceration is the best time of life, but for me it�s a test of endurance! Instead of a contented and carefree life, I have to be alert, listening to conversations and thinking about my own protection. Maybe these experiences will be useful to me in the future. Who knows, perhaps many great leaders, before they became great, were forging their characters and achieving the elements of survival inside their mothers� wombs, just as I am doing. They may have also been threatened by the surgeon�s scalpel, but they maintained their self-control, confidence and faith victoriously. Am I a future Emperor Bonaparte? Russian Generalissimo Suvorov? Admiral Nelson? We�ll see, we�ll see� We can talk about my career later. First I have to win my freedom.

The book my Mama was reading contains several stupid mistakes, which may cause Homeric laughter. It says that a child begins to see and hear consciously at the end of the first month after birth or at the beginning of the second. At the same time, the first cognitive reflexes appear.

This is complete nonsense! But the things that are described in the book are only the tip of the iceberg. Perhaps when they cut the umbilical cord that connects me to Mama, I will actually begin to perceive the world again. After being blinded by the bright light and losing my ability to think logically during the first minutes of life outside the uterus, I will learn to see again during the second or third week. By the age of four months, I will be able to distinguish colors, and towards the end of my first year of life, I will pronounce my first distinct word. I will also learn to walk. In any case, these are the stages of life ascribed to the Embryo in The ABC�s for Pregnant Women. Mila was looking through this book with interest in the library yesterday. This led me to conclude that despite the threat of abortion, I still have a chance to extricate myself from this situation healthy and unharmed.

However, despite the auspicious signal, I have to be cautious. Mila�s actions are contradictory. My future is vague and depends entirely on Mama. I am a helpless, passive observer. Tangled in the umbilical cord, I am in a dark and closed space, and I cannot influence her decision in any way. The only way I can entertain myself is to hold onto the umbilical cord, float in the intrauterine pool and perceive the world the same way Mama sees it.

I don�t know what my Mama looks like, or what her male and female friends look like. But for the past nine weeks I have been able to hear clearly, or rather feel, or rather consciously perceive all her words and actions. I can even read thoughts, a skill which is considered a miracle in the real world. When she smokes a cigarette, I choke from the oxygen deficiency; when she drinks a shot of vodka, it gives me hot flashes. It is especially oppressive if a man puts his weight on her stomach and presses with all his strength. His thrusts cause me pain. Resisting with all my might, I strike madly against the walls of my cell: �Stop! That�s enough!�

She feels my anger and pushes away my tormentor. The next day she lies in bed for a long time, holding her stomach and asking forgiveness saying: �Lord, why am I in such misery?�

I feel sorry for her. I try to calm and comfort her: �Mommy, forget about him. We do so well, just the two of us.� She agrees with me and curses the tormentor: �He can go to hell!�

Unfortunately, our heavenly pleasure is short-lived. A person cannot go without food for long � I know this about myself � and that person is always occupied in searching for nourishment. But what does a woman need a man for if she is already pregnant?! Everything that was required of him has been done. Many women, Zina being one of them, can do quite well without physical intimacy. Their health does not suffer in any way because of this. But not my Mama! She has some strange, drug-addiction-like dependency! I am willing to resign myself to the presence of a strange man in my room. But let her suitor make a conciliatory step: he should keep his emotions under control and stop beating me up. What have I done to him?! Even if by chance he happened to be my father, that doesn�t give him the right to subject me to torment. I will not endure seven more months of torture!

But I cannot influence my Mama. Her fateful passion is etched in her genetic memory. During the past few weeks I have not had time to study this as I should, although I discovered to my surprise that unlike me, my Mama is not able to access many of the cells of her genetic memory. Only some individual subprograms are accessible. Ignorance of the past is not a mitigating circumstance; my Mama is coolly repeating the errors of her parents. For instance, if she had the information that I know about her great grandmother, who was a former call girl and contracted venereal disease, perhaps she would behave more prudently with men.

The telephone rings again. With a sense of doom, Mama picks up the receiver and says automatically: �Editorial office.� I hear Olga�s agitated voice.

�Mila, are you OK?�

Mama sighs heavily:

�I feel better already.�

�That�s not what I mean. I�m talking about the pregnancy. Are you serious?�

�Olya, I�m not a young girl anymore.�

�Can I come over today?�

�Just don�t come before seven. I still have to put together the materials from the party conference, and then get groceries. My refrigerator is always empty before payday.�

�Should I bring anything?�

�A man��

When I hear this vile word, I bang against the wall of my cell in vexation. She stammers and explains.

�I don�t have anything to lose now.�

�All right, keep your chin up. See you this evening.�

�So long.�

Mama slowly puts down the receiver. She stares dully at the table, not thinking about anything. I don�t understand what�s going on with her now. Why doesn�t she want me? Why isn�t she happy that she is carrying a son under her heart, the way any woman would be? Would she be more reasonable if she knew that? Many women dream of having a boy for their first child. I have no idea how to give her a hint that I resemble her long deceased father. And when I grow up, I will be just as handsome, tall and broad-shouldered.

Several times my grandmother told my Mama the story of her marriage, about how Dominic, her future father, had lured my grandmother away from her fianc�, who was a famous arctic pilot and a hero of the Soviet Union. Grandma was proud of this and had no regrets that she had not acquired the good things in life that fate would have bestowed on her, if she had become the wife of a courageous pilot.

My Mama is still in a sour mood. Although I feel sorry for her, I don�t make any effort to lift her from her depression. Sometimes it�s useful to whine a little and spend some time alone. It�s impossible to feed yourself with nothing but sweets; life would become too saccharine. Bitter tears are a protection against diabetes.

No one interferes with my Mama�s grieving; classes are going on at the university, and during the morning hours the editor�s office is empty. This is the best time to work. Mama has a very important responsibility at the Energy newspaper: secretary in chief. I don�t know what people in this position do at other newspaper editors� offices, but Mila is a copy editor, typist, layout artist and proofreader. On Wednesdays she has additional responsibilities dumped on her, and she has to hang out all day in the printing shop. This is called being �in charge of the issue.� Fortunately, the printing shop is in the same building as the regional newspaper, Soviet Siberia. This setup works out well for Mama. On days when the latest issue is being published, she spends her free time in the correspondence department of Soviet Siberia conversing with Zina, the head of the department. Her conversations with her friend help the time go by faster.

Mama continues to be depressed, drawing meaningless circles on her paper. It�s best not to disturb her. Let her get used to the thought that there are two of us, and that we are a unified whole, an indissoluble bond: mother and son. I turn over � I�m not content lying on one side for too long � and like a true man, I assume a comfortable position. Now I can invite her into the conversation.

�Mama, talk to me,� I ask affectionately, calculating that the brief pause has gone on for too long.

She seems to hear me, and she places her hands on her stomach; I feel the warmth of her hands and gratefully cling to the wall of my pool, enjoying the new sensations. I am in ecstasy; I have never felt so good before. �Mommy, I love you!� I whisper enthusiastically, reveling in the heavenly pleasure.

The telephone rings shrilly. Mama jerks back her hand, grabs the receiver and raps out her words in a mechanical voice: �Editorial office.�

�Lyudmila Dominicovna, come to the party committee office.�

Mama grows cold, hearing the stern voice of the party committee leader; she has grown accustomed to recognizing his mood immediately. She grabs her keys and rushes up to the third floor. I hold tightly to my cord, afraid of being hurt; she is running down the hall at such a breakneck speed that anything can happen. I don�t need any pre-birth trauma that could turn me into an invalid for life.

�Be careful!� I yell in fright.

It is too late! Mama misjudges a step, stumbles and nearly falls down the stairs. Fortunately, a helpful bystander catches her. Mama thanks her rescuer and slows down.

�Please watch where you�re going,� I beg, but Mama isn�t in the mood for a conversation with me. As she runs, she is mentally going over the last issue of Energy, trying to guess what went wrong.

�I don�t think there were any errors,� she thinks, determined not to lose her nerve. Her intuition tells her that the committee leader is dissatisfied. Mama is stressed out to the limit. I feel uncomfortable and cold.

�Don�t worry,� I beg her, rolling up into a ball. �Don�t panic too early.�

Mama approaches the party committee leader�s office, stands in front of the door, counts to five, takes a breath and rouses herself with this cheerful farewell: �Hang in there, Mila! We�ll get through this!�

Encouraged, she opens the door a little and sticks her head into the office.

�Come in, Lyudmila Dominicovna,� says the party committee leader in a thundering voice. �Come in. Don�t hide behind the door like a mouse in a hole.�

Mama enters and carefully closes the door behind her.

�Sit down,� Aleksey Ivanovich instructs her.

Mama obediently sits on the edge of the chair and puts her hands on her knees like an exemplary student.

�There�s been an emergency with your artist, an emergency,� Mama�s boss says reproachfully.

�What happened, Aleksey Ivanovich?� Mama asks fearfully.

�During the seminar class on Scientific Communism, that doodler of yours�� Aleksey Ivanovich stammered and asked with disgust. �What�s his name?�

�Schwartz.�

�Yes, Schwartz. He called Trotsky a comrade. And when Associate Professor Yukhatov reprimanded him, he insolently declared that he was talking about the time when Lenin himself called Trotsky his comrade. That�s what happened! We�ll recommend not allowing him to take the State Examination in Scientific Communism and expelling him from the University. Of course you realize he can�t be permitted to work in the editorial office.�

�Aleksey Ivanovich, could it be that he misspoke?� Mama asks ingratiatingly. �All kinds of things can happen. Sometimes I blurt out things like that too,� she tried to think of an excuse, �and them I regret it. I have to apologize a hundred 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 father�s brother, a colonel for the KGB, was arrested and accused of fictitious crimes.

�Mommy, don�t worry, that was a long time ago,� I beg, sensing that she is in a semiconscious state. I pick up on her mood, and I have a hard time finding the strength to whisper to her: �A lot has changed now.�

I don�t know whether I manage to get through to her, but I hear her give herself a mental command: �Be quiet! Don�t you dare contradict him!�

�How dare you?!� rages Aleksey Ivanovich. �Has this edition been distributed to the departments? Or not yet?�

�Yes it has,� Mama whispers in a dejected voice.

�Such efficiency,� the party committee leader says sarcastically. �Just what we need! Usually they bring the newspaper late. Three days late��

Mama keeps silent, knowing it is better not to argue with the authorities. The party committee leader stops for a moment, takes a deep breath, and begins to rumble with renewed strength:

�Take the papers away! Throw them in the garbage! And you can thank God that no one else but me has seen this slander. Get going!�

Mama stands up reeling. She takes a step to the door and thinks with relief: �Thank God the flogging is over.� But before she can grab the doorknob, she receives another blow.

�From now on, all poetic verses must be submitted to me. They can only be printed in the newspaper with my approval! We�ll have a talk with Boris Fedorovich at the party committee meeting.�

Mama slowly turns around.

�You�re free to go!� shouts the party committee leader. Mama shudders and runs out of the office.

We return to the editorial office. Now Mama is nervous. She walks back and forth around the room, biting her lip. Then she dials the telephone. She puts down the receiver before she finishes dialing. She dials again. She puts down the receiver again. On her fourth attempt, she makes her decision. Without saying hello, she speaks haltingly, as if afraid that she might be interrupted at any moment:

�Zina, do you get visits from editors of factory newspapers?�

�Sometimes��

�Could you tell me if anyone needs a literary editor?�

�What happened?� Zina exclaims with alarm. �Are you looking for work?�

�Not yet. But� I got such a scolding� I think they�re going to fire me.�

�For what?�

�For the poetry. The devil deceived me, and I trusted Krugman. Anyway, remember what I asked you. OK?�

�All right, I�ll ask around,� Zina says hesitantly.

Mama is even more upset, realizing that she cannot count on her friend for help. I try to distract her by pulling on the cord several times and calling sorrowfully: �Mama! Mommy!�

It is useless. She doesn�t hear me, or she pretends not to hear; there is no reaction. She lights a cigarette. She takes Krugman�s poem that she is preparing for the next issue, reads two lines, and without finishing it, tears up the paper and throws it into the wastebasket. Before she finishes her cigarette, she puts it out in the ashtray, paces around the room nervously, and starts smoking again. She grabs the �Student Literary Organization� package from the table that contains poems by Gorkin and Soldatov, and without opening it, throws it into the wastebasket. I begin to choke and cough, and don�t remember anything after that. My memory fails me.


* * *

We are at home, and I am back to my senses. I hear the voice of Olga, and I am immediately on my guard, realizing that the conversation is about me.

�What are you thinking of doing?�

�An abortion,� Mama says dryly.

I roll myself into a ball and instinctively grasp for the umbilical cord, pulling on it carelessly. Mama cries out, feeling a sharp pain, and put her hand on her stomach.

�What happened?� Olga asks anxiously.

�Nothing,� Mama cuts her off. �At my age it would be foolish to have a baby.�

�But you don�t have anyone now. This could be your chance.�

�What chance?�

�Your chance not to remain alone. That would be terrible in old age. No one to bring you tea, call the doctor or go out for medicines.�

�Please tell me,� Mila says angrily, �how the hell am I going to raise him? You know perfectly well that I�m single.� She jumps up and paces nervously around the room, then stops abruptly and hurls her reproach in Olga�s face, as if she were personally responsible: �There�s no one I can count on for help!�

An oppressive pause hangs over us. Mama goes limp, ashamed of her unfounded accusations, and says quietly: �I�m sorry.�

�I understand,� Olga answers sympathetically and carefully inquires: �Can you at least say who the father is?�

I hold my breath � this is the first time anyone has talked about my father. Up until this time I have only been able to guess whom I owe my life to. Mila avoids giving a direct answer, not wishing to speak candidly:

�What difference does that make? I�m not planning to marry him. It was just a one-night stand. It was my fault � I misjudged the timing and didn�t use protection.�

�Victor?� Olga asks persistently.

�No, a poet from Moscow,� Mama answers quickly and elaborates: �From the Youth magazine. Remember when they had that banquet in the student cafeteria after the Day of Poetry?�

�Of course I remember. Slitchenko got drunk and passed out, and they beat him up.�

�That�s not exactly what happened. Schwartz told me about it. When Slitchenko got smashed, they took him outside. He couldn�t even stand up, and the guys dragged him back to the dorm. And then he started yelling: �Filthy Kikes! I�ll kill them all!� Makhankov lost his temper � he was walking behind him � and gave him a kick in the rear.�




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