The Messiah Who Might Have Been

„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.“