Yevtushenko Yevgeny : другие произведения.

Zima Station. Poem

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  • Аннотация:
    Yevgeny Yevtushenko's early poem "Zima Station" decribing his sojourn at his hometown when he was a student at Moscow Institute of Literature

Yevgeny Yevtushenko.

Zima Station

Poem

Translated from the Russian by Alec Vagapov

   0x01 graphic
   As we get older we become more open,
   and therefore  we  bless our lucky stars...
   The changes taking place in life quite often
   coincide with changes taking place in us.
   And if we have a different point of view,
   if  we have changed
   the estimation scales,
   if, viewing people,
   we discover something new,
   it means  we first revealed it in ourselves.
   Of course, I haven"t lived too long,  and yet
   at twenty I reviewed my life throughout:
   I should have never said
   what I had said,
   and what I hadn"t said
   I should have spoken out.
   I saw that I had often been too prudent,
   had not been thoughtful, sensitive, pretentious,
   that in my life, quite smooth, there wouldn"t
   be real deeds, but rather good intentions.
   But still there is a way of coming round
   and gaining strength for new ideas, just
   stepping down, once again, upon  the ground
   I used to tread, barefooted, raising dust.
   This thought has always helped me everywhere,
   a simple thought it seems to be, by far,
   that I"ll  be seeing you again  somewhere
   near Baikal Lake[i] you, station called Zima.
   I"d like to see the old familiar pines,
   the witnesses of the old-old  bygone times,
   when great-granddad, along with other peasants,
   were banished to Siberia as rebels.
   From far away
      to God forsaken place,
   through mud and rain, deep in disgrace,
   along with their wives and kids they were driven,
   Ukrainian peasants, from Zhitomir [ii] region.
   They  plodded,  trying to forget about
   the things they treasured most of all, perchance...
   The watchful convoy guards on the look out
   would look askance at their heavy veiny hands.
   The corporal would be playing cards as night would fall
   while great-granddad, absorbed in thought all night,
   would skilfully  pick up a piece of coal
   straight from the fire, to have a light.
   I wonder
          what his thoughts were about;
   perchance, about that land, unknown, new...
   Would it be friendly or the other way around?
   What it was really like God only knew.
   He didn"t bet on tales there were
   about the place which "wasn"t really bad"
   that "simple people lived like nobles there"
   ( Where had ever people lived like that ? ).
   Nor did he trust the feeling of distress
   which would come over him  all over sudden:
   for, after all, there was a plot, for  kitchen garden,
   where he could plough and sow like anywhere else.
   What is in store for us?
                                               Now go!
                                                              We"ll see.
   There is a long-long way to go as yet.
   Where is Ukraine?
           Sweet homeland,  where is she?
   There"s no way back  from here, you bet.
   The places are impassable.
   No roads. It is impossible,
   for human or a demon,
   on horseback or on foot,
   on horseback or on foot,
   to cross the rugged wood.
   New settlers, not withstanding their wishes,
   the peasants should have, naturally,  thought
   that land to be a  twist of fate and a malicious
   misfortune which had  fallen to their lot.
   They had to change their homeland for another
   and should have felt resentment and dismay,
   for, after all, however good, stepmother
   would not replace one"s mother, anyway.
   But as they touched its soil, to see what it was worth,
   and as they let their kids taste water, crystal clear,
   they realised:  it was the good old  earth,
   They felt
                          that it was  theirs,
                                                       near and dear !..
   However,   they would  gradually come to harm of
   the yoke of poverty,  and hardship would begin.
   It"s like a nail  one  drives in with a hammer,-
   is it to blame
   for being driven in?
   They were early birds and never waited
   for crows to wake them up at dawn,
   but all was vain: however hard they sweated
   they would be swallowed by the harvest grown.
   They mowed,  threshed grain,
   made hay and  weeded,
   they did  the house-chores and cleaned  the shed;
   sufficiency of bread was all they needed, -
   the truth,
           they thought,
   was in the daily bread.
   My great-granddad believed in bread devoutly,
   and, having gone through miserable days,
   he dreamed about the truth, undoubtedly,
   but not the kind of truth he had to face.
   The great granddaddy"s truth was insufficient for it,
   the new, unusual truth was to be trusted in:
   a girl of nine, my mother got to know it,
   the year of  nineteen hundred and nineteen.
   One autumn day, amidst the skirmish thunder,
   there came a horseman, riding from afar,
   a man with golden  forelock
             seen  from under
   the hat embellished with a metal star.
   Then, galloping headlong, in jubilation,
   across the bridge, which couldn"t hold the load,
   cavalrymen rushed passed towards the station
   with sabres glittering in flight along the road.
    
   There was some merit  and some simple vision,
   which obviously were acquired traits,
   about the way the man from State Commission
   had stopped the robbery and looting raids;
   about the way the comic from the squadron
   ridiculed enemies,
            performing in the club;
   about the way
    the lodging  soldier-man was bothering
   with his jackboots
             he"d give a good hard scrub.
   He fell in love. She was a high-school teacher.
   He lost his head and couldn"t say the word,
   he"d talk about this and that but feature
   the subject
   of the hydra of the world.
   He was quite smart  in theoretic sphere
   ( as soldiers in his squadron said ).
   The main thing , he would claim, was the idea,
   it didn"t matter if there wasn"t bread.
   He would go wild and argue with devotion,
   resorting to quotations and his fist,
   the bourgeois, he said, must drown in the ocean,
   the rest was simple,
   like the twist of wrist.
   What would come  after? Life would be so lovely:
   line up,
        unfold the flags and banners, red!
   The International,
          the trumpets playing lively,
   in flowers,
             march to Commune,
   straight ahead !
   As tough as old jackboots, the "preacher",
   the valiant horseman, loaded down with grain,
   got on his horse
   and, turning to the teacher,
   said dashingly:
       "So long! See you again!"
   He rose
          to look ahead into the distance
   where winds were filled with powder smell,
   and off he rode,
        the horse now took him eastwards,
   in burrs and bands its forelock swayed  farewell.
   I was a boy then.
          We would play around.
   At hide at seek we"d find a little nook,
   the place where we would not be found,-
   the barn with bullet holes through which we"d look.
   We lived in our world of fun and mischief
   when Moscow was within the reach of
   Guderian[iii], who standing on the tank,
   gaped at the Kremlin on the river bank...
   We were carefree, we"d run away from class,
   across the schoolyard through the field of grass,
   on to the river we would come out,
   we"d cut a twig, a fishing rod, self-made,
   we"d have a line, a hook and bait,
   with  no one there to order us about.
    
   I would go fishing, fly a kite,
   and  often
   alone,  bareheaded,
   I would take a stroll,
   I"d wander, chewing clover,
            out in the open,
   my sandals green from grass, from top to sole.
   I"d walk along  beehives
        and fresh black furrows
   and watch the clouds floating, soft and white,
   I"d  see them, slightly trembling,  stretch as far as
   horizon, where they"d drown, filled with light.
   I"d see a  farm-yard and,  walking by it,
   I"d listen to  the horse"s  neigh,
   and I would fall asleep,
      tranquil and tired,
   relaxing in a stack of hay.
   I had no worries living life of ease then,
   but life,
        which was as smooth as it could be,
   did not seem hard to me just for the reason
   that I would have my problems
   solved for me.
   I knew that I would get the answers, surely,
   to all my questions: "how?" and  "what?" and "why?",
   however, it was  no one else but I
   who had to answer all these questions duly.
   The difficulty, as  I pointed out,
   came by itself, as some unwitting chance,
   and it was my anxiety, no doubt,
   that made me go to see Zima, for once.
   Returning to the near and dear forests,
   to streets where I liked to walk about so,
   I brought my current complication and my worries
   to the simplicity of former times, for show.
   They  looked intently in resentment, or they rather
   were feeling mutual offence, an anger streak:
   two ages, Youth and Childhood,
      faced each other
   awaiting  
          who would be the first to speak.
   It was my Childhood that began:
      "Hello,
   I hardly recognised you.
        It"s your fault.
   I used to dream about you,  and, you know,
   you"re different from what you were in my thought.
   I"ll tell you openly that you upset me.
   You are my  debtor, and you owe me a great deal".
   Youth , slightly puzzled, answered:
         "Will you help me?"
   And Childhood , smiling, said:
   "I will".
   Then,  stepping softly, as we said our goodbye,
   watching the houses around and the passers-by,
   I made my way, in joy and trepidation,
   about the streets of
   ofdear Zima station.
   I had been thinking, and I wondered whether
   I would see any changes when I got in.
   I figured if it wasn"t any better
   at least it wasn"t worse than it had been.
   But everything appeared to be small,
   the chemist"s shop, the city park and all.
   It seemed that things had shrunk and therefore
   were smaller than had been nine years before.
   As  I was circling around the vicinity
   I gradually came to realise
   that it was not the streets that had become diminutive,
   it was my steps that now were big in size.
   Like in my own flat I used to live in it
   where I, without stumbling, even in the dark,
   would, practically, find within a minute
   things like the bed, the wardrobe and or the rack
   It made me really sick to watch the sight:
   the fence with an offensive scribble,
   the tea-room with a drunk man outside,
   the local shop with the disputing people.
   It wasn"t somewhere else, it was a challenge
   to homeland, to my  place of birth and youth,
   my dear land where I had come for courage,
   strength, virtue, fortitude  and truth...
   The carter cursed officials from the council,
   somebody laughed at roosters  breaching peace,
   the dusty burrs, without the slightest rustle,
   incuriously listened to all this...
   I was anticipating some refreshment,
   something I really needed, something great,
   as I approached my dear and near threshold
   and turned the iron ring upon the gate.
   Indeed,  the happy exclamations such as:
   "Yevgeny, you!
       So nice that you have come!",
   the warm embraces, kisses and reproaches:
   "You might as well have sent a  telegram!",
   the jokes:
            "We"ll fan the samovar for drinking  bouts!",
   the hindsight:
   "It"s been years! I can"t believe!"-
   all this, as I had thought, dispelled my doubts
   and filled my heart with comfort and relief.
   Aunt Lisa, full of bother,  was quite clear
   and firm about her decision now:
   "You need a bath after the journey, dear.
   Those trains! I know what the are like, and how !"
   The tables were already being taken out
   into the yard; the spoons and plates as well,
   as I walked,  murmuring a  song aloud,
   across the bed of onions, to the well.
   It was awaken and  appeared to be listening
   to "Song of Stenka Razin[iv]" which I sang.
   Like in my childhood days, the bucket, glistening,
   was coming up from darkness,  with a clang.
    
   A short while after, surrounded by kinship,
   amidst the bustle of enquiries, toasts and  that,
   wet-haired, wearing a clean well ironed T-shirt,
   as an important guest from Moscow there I sat.
   I was too weak for huge Siberian dishes,
   so I was looking wistfully at lavish food.
   "Have cucumbers
                 aunt Lisa said -
                              they are delicious.
   What do you eat in Moscow? Is it any good?
    
    
   Why don"t you eat? It is improper, really...
   Take some pelmeni[v]. Do you want some gourd?
   "You like "Stolichnaya[vi]" ?
                          my  uncle  asked me drearily -
   now let us drink the local  brand, it"s good.
   Come on!
                    But , mind,
   it"s bad for you, young people.
   Once you begin you"ll learn it fast.
   Make sure you do it in a gulp! It"s simple.
   Now cheers!
   Let us hope it isn"t  last".
   We drank and talked
   and joked. in exaltation,
   and then, all of a sudden, silence fell: so much
   were all intrigued
           by my young sister"s question:
   "Did you attend the funeral [vii]in March?".
   The conversation turned to serious issues,
   the issues of the year of which there"d been  a lot,
   and the  events concerning utmost wishes,
   arousing anxiety and thought.
   My uncle put aside the home-brew he was drinking,
   and said: "All people are philosophers to-day.
   Such is the time.
        We all have started thinking..
   You can"t make out what is happening right away.
   The doctors [viii]were not to blame, as it comes out.
   Why did they hurt them, penalise and scold?
   It was a scandal nation-wide, no doubt.
   The wicked  Beria[ix], it was his fault !".
   He told me,
   speaking clumsily,
   about
   the things that worried  him and weren"t  plain to see:
   "You are from Moscow,
   and you know it all throughout.
   Will you explain it properly to me?"
   He was demanding, pushing, so to say,
   and didn"t feel ashamed. No way.
   He started rolling cigarettes, in expectation
   of my response to his momentous question.
   I had to answer him for he was so impatient.
   I think that my response was justified,
   I calmly said (as though I knew the explanation):
   "I"ll explicate it later on, all right?"
   My bed was  in the haystack.
   I lay  musing
   and listening to the sounds of the night.
   They danced somewhere to accordion music,
   while I had nobody to help me, by my side.
   The bed was prickly,
   and it was getting cooler,
   the hay was rustling, stirring my pillowslip.
   to crown it all, my younger brother Kolya
   would bother me, preventing me from sleep.
   I would be puzzled with the questions put:
   "What is  pineapple? Is it a veg or fruit?
   A helicopter, have you ever seen one?
   Goalkeeper Khomich[x], do you know the man?"...
   When I got up the sky was dull but clear;
   I stretched myself sitting on sacks with corns.
    
   The light of dawn,
            beginning to appear,
   descended  on the cocks" purple  combs.
   The morning mist, still there, was now bound
   do dissipate, and far away  therein
   like nestling-boxes, slowly  fading in,
   the houses
   emerged up from the ground.
   Along the streets staid cows were proceeding,
   cracking the whip, the herdsman walked behind.
   I saw that all was steady, good and fitting,
   and all I wanted was to free my mind.
   At breakfast time, despite reproachful glances,
   my pockets stuffed with bread, and lightly clad,
   the way I used to run away from classes,
   I ran off to the river -  just like that.
   Along the strand,  on warm and silty ground,
   I walked up to a willow and  lay down
   upon the sand, relaxing in the shade.
   In front of me the river babbled softly,
   down the stream the logs were  floating slowly,
   colliding now and then they pulled ahead.
   There were distant sounds  of hooter,
   mosquitoes rang,
          and  down the strand
   a railwayman was standing in the water,
   his trousers rolled up, a fishing rod in hand.
   He frowned at me, and  by the angry glare,
   by his appearance  he seemed to say:
   "He isn"t fishing...
            Well,  I wouldn"t care ...
   The thing is that he is in the way".
   Then looking carefully he said : "Ah, Zhenka!"
   and coming up continued:
          "Let me see.
   Aren"t you the son of Zina Yevtushenko?
   You look like one...
              Have you forgotten me?...
   All right.
   Are you from Moscow? For the summer?
   Now let me settle down somewhere".
   And, sitting down,
   he unrolled the pack of meal:
   a piece of bread, tomatoes, salt and dill.
   He asked me questions, and there were many;
   I had to answer though I was tired and vexed -
   how big my  grants were, if  I got any,
   and when the Exhibition [xi]would be opened next.
   A biting man, a vigorous debater,
   he tried to catch me out in some way.
   "The youth -he argued - used to be much better,
   the Komsomol [xii]is tedious today.
   I knew your mom at seventeen or thereabouts,
   admirers ran after her in crowds,
   but they were cautious
   fearing her speech,
   a sharp-tongued girl,  she was beyond their reach.
   In overcoats remade to their sizes
   young people,
   like your mom,
   as I recall,
   at meetings cried, rejecting compromises,
   that plaits were bourgeois survivals, after all.
   They"d  always  have ideas and suggestions
   and would hold forth on something, out of wits.
   Say, they would seriously discuss the question
   of  "socialisation of the kids".
   There were funny things of course, no doubt,
   at times things were even  very bad.
   There is one thing
   that I am worrying about:
   you haven"t got the ardour that  they had.
   I"ll  tell you
   ( though I know I may be censured ):
   your thoughts, my friend, are not the youthful kind.
   In point of fact,  our  age is, is always measured
   by our thoughts and our turn of mind.
   There"s youth but there"s no youthful spirit.
   Examples?
   Well, my nephew is the one.
   He"s not yet 25 but you will not believe it,
   you"d say he"s a 30-year-old man.
    
   He was an ordinary young  man,
   like any other,
   then he was put on the committee"s [xiii]list.
   Imagine him preside, debating , full of bother,
   the way he bangs  the desk  with his commanding fist !
   He walks and talks
   in an imposing  fashion,
   and as a speaker he"s such a gifted man! -
   as though fine words spoke louder than actions,
   forgetting that it"s easier said than done.
   To listen to him all is smooth and clear.
   Can he be called an ardent youth ?
          Not half !
   He has forgotten football and his near and dear
   because, he thinks, it isn"t serious enough.
   He has become a  serious man,  but where
   are arguments,
      discussions, striving mood?
   The youth are not the same as they once were.
   Nor are the fish,
       ( he sighed ),
             they aren"t  so good.
   So we have snatched a mouthful, it appears...
   Now let me throw the line. Just have a look".
   A minute later, smacking,  to my silent cheers,
   he took a perfect  crucian off the hook..
   "It"s grown thick indeed ! Oh what a fortune!" -
   amazed at such a gorgeous  fish, he beamed.
   "You said the fish weren"t good" - as if reproaching,
   I smiled.
          "I didn"t mean all fish..." - he grinned.
   He shook his finger  at me  with a sneer
   as if he wished to say:
   "I"ll tell you what:
   the fish has fallen for the bait,  my dear,
   but you may rest assured that I won"t..."
    
   At table talks,
   over my aunt"s abundant
   and hearty meals,
   I couldn"t speak at all.
   Why was I thinking of that man, I wondered .
   There were many suchlike people, after all..
   "I"m not your mom- in- law " - complained aunt Lizzie
   Why are you always gloomy, in a foul mood ?
   Come, come   cheer up, boy,   take it easy!
   We"d better go for berries, to the wood.
    
   There were two girls in petticoats, three women
   and I...
        Through rye fields we were driven,
   and from the lorry platform carrying hay
   we watched the mowers flashing here and there,
   caps, kerchiefs, horses glimpsing all the way,
   we got the rolls of bread, prepared for the day,
   and drank fresh milk, to while the time away.
   Quails fluttered off the road escaping wheels,
   the deafening sounds grated on my ears,
   the world was bustling , trembling, growing green,
   while I kept listening and just watching all that scene.
   Some boys were tossing stones down by the stream,
   and though the sun was getting hot and burning
   up in the sky dark clouds were stirring
   and breathing heavily, accumulating steam.
   Now it was dark,  with signs of rain  before us,
   some climbed the haystack for shelter to attain,
   at breakneck pace we flew into the forest,
   along with lightening and the pouring rain.
   We rearranged the platform making room in
   the heaps of hay we raked up leaving space,
   but there was one among us,
   a young woman,
   who said she didn"t need a hiding place.
   She"d been reserved all day and looked worn out,
   at lunch and breakfast time she wouldn"t say a word;
   but now, all of a sudden, she came out
   in front of us and looked so young ! My Lord!
   She took her kerchief off, and waving with it,
   in outburst of fervour,  with a swing,
   wet to the bone, but  joyful, showing spirit,
   she moved her shoulder and began to sing:
   "Little girlie walked about
   picking berries in the wood,
   she would take the bigger berries
   as for little ones she  wouldn"t."
   She straightened, proud, daring and dashing,
   her eyes, her heart turned forward, full of grace,
   but there were tears and a storm upon her lashes
   and lashing pine tree needles on her face.
   "Now don"t be silly,
   you will get some ailment" -
   aunt Lisa pulled her, giving her a stir,
   but she bestowed herself upon the rain, and
   the latter gave itself entirely to her.
   She ran  her swarthy hand through her dishevelled hair
   and looked ahead into  the distance
   as if shesaw
   somethingextraordinary
         there,
   something the others couldn"t really see.
    
   It seemed to me
                                    that in this world  there were
   no other things
        except for this terrain,
   this ride against the wind,
         this country air,
   this singing woman
   and this pouring rain...
   We found lodging for the night
   I n a small house,
   it was a barn, or  granary, quite plain;
   the air was stale and smelled of  sheep and cows,
   dried mushrooms, bilberries and grain.
   The twigs of besoms smelled of leaves and foliage,
   up on the wall, in sliding beams of light,
   horse-collars, obviously kept in storage,
   looked like tremendous flying bats at night.
   I couldn"t sleep;
         the faces were drear,
   I heard a woman"s whisper, full of grief,
   I listened to the voice :
   "Oh Lizzie, dear,
   you really  can"t imagine how I live !
   We"ve got a metal roof,  which makes me proud,
   a brand new oven, house plants and all.
   The rooms are orderly,
    shipshape,
      cleaned out,
   I"ve got my husband,  kids,-
   but what about my soul?!
   It"s cold in there, and the cold is vehement...
   My mother says:
          "Your Peter is quite good,
   he doesn"t beat you,
   and he doesn"t  go with women,
   he drinks...
               Well, yes, like any other man he would."
   Just think,
   he  will come home, intoxicated,
   and he will growl, saying he is bored,
   and he will take me, silently,
   oh how I hate it!
   as if I weren"t a human,  oh my God!
   I used to cry,  it wasn"t really funny,
   I had insomnia,
   now it is all over, though.
    
   The way I look..
        A forty year old granny!
   But Liz,
         I"m only thirty five, you know !
   What shall I do? What will the future bring me?
   I wish I had  a loving man, my dove!
   I would do all for him... and let him beat me...
   if only he could give me faith and love !
   I"d stay at home and never leave the house,
   and I would keep it tidy, nice and good,
   I"d wash his feet, like a devout spouse,
   and drink the water then, I really would !"
   It was that very  woman who was singing
   as in the pouring rain we made a rush.
    
   I really  envied her
   and I
   believed in
   her open mind, her recklessness and dash.
   The whisper died away.
     A creaking sound
   came from the well,
   and then there was a hush,
   all was serene and quiet all around
   but for the champ of spinning wheels in slush.
   We were awaken by a youngster in the morning.
   He had a jacked on,  appearing "grand",
   a scab upon his nose, a sort of warning,
   he stood a copper kettle in his hand.
   He glanced disdainfully at me, my auntie
   and  those who were still  asleep and said:
   "You"re going to the wood for berries, aren"t you?
   I wonder why
                                you should be still in bed."
   To catch up with the herd a cow was scurrying,
   a woman chopping wood some logs was carrying.
   A rooster shrieked.
            We were on our way.
   The chirring of grasshoppers pierced the air,
   there were haystacks towering  here and there,
   the sky was blue,  it was a clear day.
   We went across the fields,
           then through the forest
   to sounds of bustling  birds" chorus,
   and in the in glamour of the morning dew.
   There were already some enticing samples
   of   tender smoky raspberries and brambles
   amidst the bushes, showing red and blue.
   We picked the bilberries as we proceeded,
   the cowberries were burning underfoot.
   But we were after strawberries. We needed
   the best of all the berries in the wood.
   Now someone suddenly cried out loud:
   "Oh there it is! Look, there"s another one!"
   Oh joy of grasping, wishing more and  picking out !
   Oh sound of berries bouncing in the can!
   The youthful leader stirred us, speaking drearily,
   and somehow we obeyed him when he said:
   "Hey people ! You"re being funny, really,
   we haven"t reached the berry fields as yet!"
   Then suddenly a field broke out of the forest,
   a field of flowers, berries, sunlight glow.
   We were dazzled, -
   what we had  before us
   was like a sound of amazement: "Oh!"
   The strawberries were thrilling and exciting,
   with bins and cans we ran to them by leaps,
   and going down on the ground,
   lying,
   we tore them off the stems  with our lips.
   The grass on hills looked like a misty shroud,
   the pines and midgets were buzzing, after rain...
   It wasn"t berries
         that my thoughts were about,
   it was that  woman, and I looked at her again.
   There was a touch of joy in all her motions,
   her kerchief had slipped down her forehead low,
   she"d pick a strawberry revealing her emotions,
   she laughed,
   but I believed it was a show.
   Confused and puzzled, brooding, as it were,
   I rose from trampled  grass, now warm and good,
   I gave my berries to somebody  there
   and walked away, at random, through the wood.
   I didn"t leave a single moment out
   but summed up all I had in memory....
   From  humming pines I gradually  came out -
   I saw a field of wheat and greenery.
   Up in the sky
       a solo bird was flying.
   I settled on a heap of twigs to rest from stroll,
   and turned my question to the wheat,
   inquiring
   how  happy life could be ensured for all.
   "Do tell me, wheat,
             I know you"re wise and clever,
   I"m helpless, and I feel ashamed  of it,
   perchance, I am no good , and I will never
   be capable of doing it?
   "No, - replied the golden ear,
   slightly shaking, looking sad, -
   you are just too young, my dear,
   and you"re  neither good nor bad.
   I accept you question, really,
   Sorry, but I"ll let it pass,
   and although I get  it  clearly
   I can"t answer it, alas !"
    
   And I went on my way, walking down
   country road,  past a  horse-driven cart,
   and I met with a man with a frown,
   looking angry but cheerful at heart.
   A remarkable, small , young man an"
   bare-footed ,
      dusty and weak,
   in a practical businesslike manner
   he was carrying his boots on a stick.
   He was telling me quite in the earnest
   that the harvest was coming to harm,
   that Pankratov, the boss was dishonest
   and a real disgrace to the farm.
   He went on: " I will not pay lip service,
   I will get law and justice restored.
   If the local officials don"t solve this
   I will go to Irkutsk [xiv]for support".
   There appeared a car from somewhere
   with a pompous official inside,
   bag at hand, he was sitting in  there
   like a chairman up to preside.
   "Do you want your mom to shed tears?
   Are you going to lodge a complaint ?
   You"ll remember Pankratov for years!
   I will teach you a lesson, just wait!"
   He was gone,  and I felt real power
   was not in that big man at all,
   I believed it was rather in our
   man of will,  barefooted and small.
   Then we parted. The little man hurried
   straight ahead on the dusty road,
   I could long see the boots which he carried
   sway and swing on the stick as he trod.
    
   A few days later we were hurrying home, worn out,
   We took a passing lorry and set out.
   The house holder came to see us off,
   we shook his hand ,  the parting was warm-hearted,
   we wished he came to see us, as we parted,
   he hoped to see us many a time and oft.
   He was a firm old man, a man  of ration,
   a forester, a true Siberian man!
   He passed the buckets in a stately fashion
   onto the platform of the lorry, one by one.
   The stars were fading, and we had to hurry,
   and in the crawling hazy break of day
   we started once again, the little lorry,
   with bits of grass on wheels, took us away.
   The host was  waving to us -  an aware man!
   He knew Siberian forests inside out,
   but he, undoubtedly, didn"t know about
   the things  I chanced to hear in his barn.
   But I don"t want to talk about , really...
   I"d better dwell on
                                  how I got up early,
   I"d have a glass of milk
                                           and would be gone,
   on how I would admire bright green meadows,
   surrounded by forests,
                                        and the lawn
   where I would wander
                                          stepping on the shadows,
   of clouds floating in the sky at dawn.
   I"d take a hunting gun with me.
                                                      However,
   it was in vain, to no avail as ever,
   but I would take it with me anyway.
   I would sit down, gun in hand , in contemplation,
   recalling everything, including my relations,
   my uncles,
                     both Volodya and Andrey.
   As for Andrey,  the elder one,
                                                  I"ll say the following:
   I like the way he sleeps
                                          when after work he comes,
   the way he washes
                                  early in the morning,
   the way he cuddles children in his arms.
   The manager of motor transport-depot,
   he"s always smudgy,
                                     always out of temper,
   a stocky figure, sitting in his office jeep,
   he drives from place to place letting it rip.
   Sometimes, after a quarrel with his people,
   he"ll disappear for a day or two,
   and he"ll come back , exhausted,  kind and simple,
   smelling of gasoline and forest dew.
   When shaking hands
                                    he"ll  give a squeeze and pressure,
   at wrestling he will throw two men over his head,
   he can do everything with taste and pleasure,
   he can chop wood and salt a slice of bread.
   Uncle Volodia is a wizard, I declare!
   The plane makes wonders when he works at home,
   when he, from top to toe in golden foam,
   shakes pine wood shavings off his bang of  hair.
   Oh what a skilful man! Oh what a joiner!
   And as a story-teller he"s so great -oh my!
   I"d often listen to him standing nearby
   outside the barn or in his  joiner"s corner:
   about a cook  who was shot dead for cheating,
   about soldiers who, as they marched along
   somewhere in a village,  heard a greeting:
   a woman named Francesca sang a song.
   I loved my uncles so! As for he  the rumour
   I didn"t care. It wasn"t true, I bet:
   "You know, Andrey  is flirting with a woman,
   a driver"s wife" - the next-door neighbour said.
   -Talk to your aunt and have the matter out!
   -Well,  no! Why should I?. Somehow she will know.
   Volodya[xv] is a perfect joiner, there"s no doubt,
   All people know him as a drinker though".
   She drummed into my head  (we had a tangle)
   that I should be concerned about the case,
   but I did not. And then my younger uncle
   all of a sudden vanished in the haze.
   From day to day there came all sorts of people
   with a request to  fix a toy, a bed, a shoe.
   The answer was laconic and quite simple:
   "He"s gone on business. For a day or two".
   Then suddenly the neighbour  woman shouted
   her lengthy nose appearing in the door :
   "They are ashamed to tell you straight about it,
   he"s lying there  down on the floor !
   This is a lesson which you should  learn with care.
   Come on! Let"s go!" - both vexed and glad,
   as if she were  the hostess there,
   she took me to the larder in the yard.
   And there he lay, spread on floor, in underwear,
   his breath was reeking  of some liquor, cheap and strong,
   he tried to breath a tune into the air
   confusing  it with a prevalent Georgian song.
   On seeing us he sat up looking drear,
   still at a loss but coming round  now,
   and said addressing to me : "Zhenka[xvi], dear,
   you"ll  never know  I"m fond of you. And how!"
   I couldn"t  see him in such a situation,
   he discomposed me once again. So  I was gone.
   I didn"t want to eat at home with my relations,
   I had refreshment  in the tea-room, on my own.
   The tea-room breathed a sultry summer air,
   they were stabbing pigs, to jeers and cries,
   there were flashing trays and faces here and there,
   and sticking bands on windows, to catch flies.
   A teacher stared at me,  short-sighted, squinting,
   a country woman damned the soup  with grunt,
   a lumber-man, appealingly was clinking
   the glass, a fork in his enormous brown hand.
   It was too noisy, the waitresses were working,
   there were crowds of them flying here and there.
   At tea I gradually started talking
   with open heart and feeling, unaware.
   The man I talked to was big-faced and earnest,
   an intellectual, as far as I could see,
   he called himself a Moscow journalist,
   "I"m writing a report"  he said to me.
   He poured me berry liquor, soft and mellow,
   and waving the tobacco smoke of blue
   he commented: "You"re naОve, my fellow,
   there was a time when I was just like you.
   I wished to know what things were all about,
   and I was confident of my abilities and skill,
   I was a fighter, and I tried  to make things out
   and rearrange the course of time at will.
   Like you,  I was steadfast,  persistent, and devout,
   and I would never  give up in advance;
   and then I failed to have my book put out,-
   I had my family, and  had to have my chance.
   I am  a newsman now and not a bad one either.
   I drink, and I am a  sullen man, they say.
   I don"t write books, no, well, what is a writer?
   He"s nothing but a man of influence to day.
   There are some changes, yes, but there"s a hidden
   and shrouded game behind the things we say-
   today we say what yesterday we didn"t,
   and we don"t mention what we did yesterday".
   But from the way he glared at everything
   and from the way he scorned and censured all
   I saw that he did not believe in anything,
   love is belief, so it was not belief at all.
   "Gosh! I forgot about my feature story!
   I"m going to the sawmill. Time to stroll.
   I didn"t like this food, it"s really horrid.
   Well, what can one expect from such a hole?"
   He wiped his lips, and, then all of a sudden,
   as he caught sight of torment in my eyes,
   he said: "This is your birthplace, pardon,
   I just forgot, and I apologize".
   I had to pay  for his oppressive stories
   by walking round, listening to the forest;
   Andrey said : "Well, I really need a go
   to take you out, silly you. This evening
   we"re going to the central club, they"re giving
   a concert there. It"s a philharmonic show.
   We all have got the tickets, don"t you grumble...
   Look at your trousers, go have them pressed"
   And soon I walked along, dressed up and humble,
   the warmth of iron on my shirt,  I looked my best.  
   Beside me, with a measured tread, and  taking
   a careful look at their jackboots all along,
   my sedate  uncles sauntered radiating
   the smell of polish, liquor and cologne.
   The highlight of the show was a promoted Russian
   weightlifter giant who was really great!
   He could do everything!
                                         In a majestic fashion
   he lifted with his teeth a fifty pound weight.
   He"d jump about on swords, adroit and restless,
   and then he"d play  the violin,  for a while,
   and,  juggling skillfully with balls and vessels,
   he"d toss and drop them in a splendid style.
   He cast out  kerchiefs, as many as he wanted,
   then rolled them all in one and then unrolled
   to show the a dove of peace embroidered on it
   as the idea and the moral of it all.
   My uncles clapped their hands:  "Isn"t it clever!
   Oh what a skilful man! Look, he is grand!"
   I, too,  applauded,
                             just to do a favor,
   they would have got offended if I hadn"t.
   The artist, showing  off his muscles,  bowed,  overjoyed...
   It was dark night when curtains were drawn.
   "How did you like the show? Did you enjoy it?"
   But I just wanted to be left alone.
   "I"ll  take a walk".
                               "That"s what we"re grieved about,
   "cause all the family keep wondering where you are.
   You never stay at home, you"re always out.
   Have you a love affair here in Zima?"
   I took a walk alone, unnoticed, quiet,
   I didn"t dream,  I had my land in thought.
   The show ? I hadn"t much admired it,
   these kinds of things I"d seen a lot !
   I"d seen so many tricks, gone by and dated,
   but rearranged and set as costly shows,
   I had applauded, though not much elated,
   I"d been to quite a lot of those.
   Like signs on silver spoons, the concerts
   were out place when hardship was the price,
   I"d brood about false and truthful concepts
   and the transition of the truth to lies.
   Let"s think. We"re all to blame for the occasions
   of mournful little things oft taking  place.
   of empty rhymes and numerous quotations,
   as well as standard speeches and clichИs...
   There are two kinds of love,
                                                I contemplated,
   some lovers
                      flatter their sweethearts, with a wink,
    however serious the wound, they will forget it
   without making an attempt to think.
   We"ve gone of late through very   many grievous
   events;  - we see it  when  we look behind.
   Our love for Russia should be fixed and serious,
   and shouldn"t be insouciant and blind !
   Let us consider every little thing
   so that we don"t live fast, but live and think.
   A noble cause will never lie but can be cheated
   by those who always try to outwit it.
   I do not justify the week and helpless,
   but I just wouldn"t pardon those
   who are engaged in gossip, petty, endless,
   and squander Russia"s great prophetic cause.
   Let fuss and  bustle be the fate of weaklings,
   it"s easy to blame others and feel free;
   it"s actions,  big and small,
                                              not weakness
   that Russia  really expects from me.
   What do I want?
                              I want to be a fighter.
   I want to bravely fight  so  everything I do
   and all I struggle for might have a lighter
   to burn the flame of truth I would adhere to.
   So that wherever I may be,
                                             or walk about,
   along the road,  on fields or  rusty sand
   I"d have a banner over me,
                                              spread  out,
   and the sensation of its handle
                                                   in my hand.
   I know that disbelief arouses contemplation;
   while our thoughts are the result of love,
   we get to know the truth by revelation,
   for those who for its sake have given life.
   We want to live, and not just  float and wander,
   we"ll  understand all our  "whats" and "whys".
   A great cause calls us! Let us ponder,
   let us come up to it, and show that we are wise.
   I took a casual route to walk around
   along the wooden pavement resonating loud,
   there were sporadic creaks from gates and huts.
   A group of girls walked past me chatting:
   "He loves me so! I must do something".
   "And do you love him?" - "No! I am not nuts!"
   As I walked on dark night lay all around
   and hidden in it,  there deep inside,
   there was a  powerful state which had come out
   with locomotives, rails, electric light.
   There were heaps of metal shavings, glistening,
   there was a funny  pusher. I was listening
   the way it rattled steaming to and fro;
   two fellows, hammers in their hands, were working,
   the muscles on their shoulder blades twitched, jerking,
    their teeth on  oily faces white as snow.
   White clouds of steam, belligerently hissing,
   were coming sharply from beneath the wheel,
   the rails and locomotive were glistening
   and filling the night air with a chill.
   The watchman, rolling a cigar for his companion,
   a little flag under his arm, said with a sigh:
   "The train is late. Behind the time we"re planning on.
   Vasily is divorcing, Did you hear why?".
   Now suddenly I stopped and stared recalling:
   across the tracks with a habitual step, a guy
   dressed in an oily jacket, holding
   a suitcase in his hand,  was coming bye.
   Impossible! Could it be Vovka[xvii] Drobin?
   But he had left Zima, it seemed to me.
   I went up to him, and  my voice was dropping:
   "We used to know each other, didn't we?"
   We laughed. He was the same except that he
   would have, stuck in his belt,  a book of Defoe.
   "You haven't changed! As thin as rail, I see.
   Still writing rhymes? Come join us in the Depot".
   "Remember how we gave his due, that odious
   Sinelnikov for dirty tricks he'd done?".
   "And how we sang in hospital for soldiers?".
   "And how you had a sweetheart? It was fun!"
   I felt like chatting to him, speaking  out
   my grieves and sorrows,
                                                 I just wished to talk.
   "But you are just from work, you are worn out!"
   Oh come!. There"s the Oka[xviii] River, let us walk".
   The little path stretched through the dark night shadows,
   with prints of boots and feet and horse-shoes, left by day
   amidst tall  bushy plants along the furrows
   and huge tin-colored  burdocks all the way.
   I was alarmed and calm as I was  speaking out,
   expressing all my thoughts I criticized a lot.
   My classmate listened to me  cautiously, without
   responding to my argument and thought.
   And so we walked towards the river, talking,
   we could already  feel the  smell of sand,
   of willow trees, and fish and saw the fishers smoking,
   The Oka was approaching.
                                               It was close at hand.
   We jumped into the water, black, enormous,
   he shouted:  "Come on !Don"t lag behind!"
   And, unaware, I recalled some moments,
   while some things suddenly had slipped  my mind.
   And then we sat upon the moonlit bank of yellow,
   the good refreshing water turned my brain,
   not far from us up in the meadow
   some horses browsed, neighing now and then.
   I was reflecting as I watched the flowing Oka
   I had a guilty conscious,  in a way.
   "You"re not the only one who thinks - said Vovka,
   all people tend to contemplate today.
   The way you sit, you"ll get you jacket rumpled.
   You can"t know all at once, I"m afraid.
   With time all things will be unfolded and unscrambled.
   it takes some time, my friend, you have to wait.
   The night was calm but for some distant hooting,
   and presently my friend got up and said :
   "That"s fine, but I must think about my duty.
   I must be off.  I"ll go to work at eight".
   It was the break of day. All things around
   had grown young, the night had come to naught,
   now it  was cold. The contours, faded out,
   were putting on a colored overcoat.
   The rain had stopped. A drizzle late in summer.
   My friend and I walked by the river, running deep;
   I could imagine that Pankratov somewhere
   was riding round in his haughty  jeep.
   He was a dauntless and convincing story teller...
   But walking somewhere in  the neighborhoods
   there was a stubborn barefooted fellow
   with an amusing stick for carrying boots.
    
   It was an ordinary day,  and it was lovely.
   There were so  many  pigeons over me!.
   I also was agreeable  and lively!
   And I was young , as young as I could be!
   I was departing. I was sad and clear.
   I was a little desolate because
   I"d learnt a lesson, something very dear,
   I couldn"t say exactly what it was.
   I drank some vodka to my near and dear...
   I walked about Zima for the last time.
   As usual, the day was warm and clear,
   the sunlit trees were green, in their prime.
   Some boys were tossing coins and playing,
   there were lines of lorries on the roads,
   and at the market women were selling
   all kinds of berries, cattle, cows and goats.
   I walked on further, sad and free as air,
   and then at last I passed the final block,
   and gradually got up a sunlit hillock,
   and long stood looking down from there.
   I saw the building of the railway station,
   sheds, houses, barns, and stacks of hay,
       I listened to Zima"s preceptive revelation,
   and this is what my town had to say:
   "I live a modest life, crack hazel-nuts for eating,
   with quiet engines steaming night and day,
   I think a lot about the time we live in,
   I love it, and I tolerate it anyway.
   You"re not the only one, so resolute, I fancy,
   in your ambitions, thoughts and in your fight;
   you shouldn"t  worry that you couldn"t answer
   the question which was put to you that night.
   Keep watching, listening and you"ll make it later,
   keep searching, knock about, roam and cruise.
   The truth is good,  my son, but happiness is better,
   and yet there is no happiness without  truth.
   Go round the world, be proud and dashing,
   be firm of purpose taking heart to grace
   with tears and a storm upon your lashes
   and lashing pine tree needles on your face.
   Love people, you will understand them, dear,
   I"ll keep an eye on you at any time of day!
   And in the hours of trouble do come here.
   Now go!"
                 And off I went.
                                          I"m on my way.
    
   1955
   Zima Station-Moscow
    
   0x01 graphic
   [i]  Baikal - lake in the Russian Federation, in S Siberia: the deepest lake in the world. 13,200 sq. mi. (34,188 sq. km); 5714 ft. (1742 m) deep.
   [ii] Zhtomir - a city in central Ukraine, W of Kiev. 244,000.
   [iii] Guderian - A Wehrmacht general, commander of a tank army in the eastern front during World War II
   [iv]Stepan Razin  - Leader of a peasant uprising
   [v] Pelmeni  - Russian Cookery.
   a Siberian dish of small pockets of dough filled with seasoned, minced beef, lamb, or pork and served boiled, fried, or in a soup[vi] Stolichnaya - a brand of vodka distilled in Moscow, hence the name "capital"
   [vii] funeral - the funeral of Josef  Stalin who died on March 5th, 1953.
   [viii] doctors -a group of doctors put to trial for alleged conspiracy in the wake of  Stalin"s death in 1953
   [ix] Beria -1899-1953, Soviet secret-police chief: executed for treason
   [x] Khomich - a Russian goalkeeper, popular among football fans in the 50 ties
   [xi] The Exhibition - the all Union Agricultural Exhibition in Moscow which was shut down in late 50ties
   [xii] Komsomol  - a communist organisation in the former Soviet Union for youths 16 years of age and older
   [xiii] put on the committee"s list  - started working for the party committee
   [xiv] Irkutsk - a city in the  Russian Federation in Asia, (550,000).West of Lake Baikal.
   [xv] Volodya - a common Russian name  short for Vladimir, see also Vovka, Vova  below
    
   [xvi] Zhenka, also Zhenya  - a common Russian name short for Yevgeny
   [xvii] Vovka, also Vova, Volodya - a common Russian name , short for Vladimir
   [xviii] The Oka - a river rising in the Sayan Mountains of south-central Siberian Russia and flowingabout 965 km (600 mi) generally north to the Angara River, not to be confused with  the river of the samename,  the Oka,  about 1,488 km (925 mi) long, of central European Russia. flowing north, east, and northeast to join the Volga River near Nizhny Novgorod  (A.V.)
  
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О.Болдырева "Крадуш. Чужие души" М.Николаев "Вторжение на Землю"

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