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A Letter Back to the Homeland
by Vitaliy Kononov The beautiful 23rd of July shone over the secret city of Honcharovsk in the year 1974. The rays fleeing their source hit the salad-colored veins of the poplar leaves, and the latter shook out of their night's fast under the hits. They thirstily sucked the photons of sunlight into their chlorophyll blood; they sipped in the carbon dioxide, like a drunkard downing a morning beer to get rid of the hangover. The leaves oozed out oxygen
– clean and pure O-2. Well, it was not without use; below the poplars were the
tents of a bunch of students from the Kyiv Polytechnic Institute, decorated
with the “Order of Lenin”. These students were not used to the soldier’s diet, and
throughout the night in Chernihiv the audible discharge of their intestinal gases
had played indecent overtures while they dreamed of stars and decorations on the
shoulder straps.
The 12-person lavatory reeked of chlorine and urine, was ugly to look at, but was cherished as the only place where the grip of total control on the spirit and life of the soldier was not allowed. Here they could sigh, recall who they were, who their parents are, what crosses they were carrying and what their missions on this earth were. They could even dream here, and they dreamed of "The Dembel" (Demobilization) - approaching and inevitable as the rising Sun!" This slogan, the background of a painting composed on "Syever" cigarette boxes was more realistic even than the one "Under the flag of Marxism-Leninism" in Lenin's room. The Sun, meanwhile, had filled in secret Honcharovsk and its army base with its photons. Bored and exhausted, it yawned and waited like a discipline-loving soldier for the favorite command in the world: "Wake Up!" And there is was! "Paaad-yom!" Enemies of the people used to say that in fits of bullying the sergeants sometimes woke the soldiers up with "Auf Stehen!" just to make them think of past horrors, of sons torn from their mothers' breasts, and current ones as well. But now they used the broad minded command in Russian - "Pa-a-ad-yom!" And this means that the recruits, with the last glimpses of dreams in their eyes, needed to quickly dive into their vests, riding-breeches style trousers, impatiently bind their feet in cloth and very lightly, and carefully, step into their boots. They needed to be careful,
because their buddies might have racked their brain all night to think up a surprise
for them. Of course idle and racked brains are the Devil’s workshop, and this
was surely where those surprises were created. They include ideas like nailing each
other’s boots to the ground, or filling them with half a bucket of urine. If they
were not careful they would need to explain to the sergeant where they have been
and “What the hell happened to your boots, soldier?” The “pilotka,” Russian field
cap, under their soldier-straps reached the tops of their heads at the last
moment, just before they reached the file, but at least they stayed firmly on
when they got there. That was in strong contrast to the peaked service caps
used during parades, which had a tendency to fly away in the most
unpredictable moment, undermining a brave soldier’s valor. The name “pilotka” was something of
a misnomer; theoretically it meant they were for pilots, but practically they
were for ordinary riflemen. Nevertheless, they
needed the pilotkas in order to obey
the order: “Remove your headgear!” prior to the most important, even holy, command in the Armed Forces – “Start the process of food-intake!” That made the pilotka the
second most important element in a soldier’s wardrobe after the boots. A soldier in underpants, boots and pilotka would be capable
of performing any statutory task entrusted on him except obeying the command: “Untie your belt”. This
command was only given in the “guba” detention cells of the soldier’s prison. It
was meant to prevent the suicide of the poor damned souls it was given to. The
belts were sacred symbols of relative freedom and usually, were hung in the sacred
place at the end of the bed during sleep. It was worn when you are awake and on
the move, just before filing up. One such sacred object was suddenly
kissed by the rising Sun and shone like gold. It hung unnoticed on a peg jammed deep into
the frame of the grilled window of the dormitory. Beside the window was a
cracked brick wall which separated the belt from its owner: junior sergeant of the Soviet Army Gayik
Karapetovich Ter-Akopyants. Gayik was deep asleep on a line of wooden slats. The wake up call did not concern
him today. He was deservedly resting in the prison. Even in his most “righteous
Armenian-style” dreams, he would have never guessed that his gentleman’s habit
of going around on unauthorized leave with a knife in his boot sheath would set
off a chain of cause and effect that would lead to such commotion in this
secret sleepy town. Honcharovsk lived by its
own rules. It was not on the map and clandestine forms of entertainment of the
servicemen served as the bases for gossips of officers’ wives. Yesterday evening, a call
had gone out around the town: “ChePe!” – “Emergency!” Some soldier of “oriental
appearance” had gone on unauthorized leave and used a knife to carve out a
caricature of the commander-in-chief Colonel Lebedenko, the prestige and glory
of Honacharovsk. Frankly, unauthorized leave
was common. To reach the nearest villages required an Armed Personnel Carrier,
and only the very brave would risk using one. Since the army did not produce great
numbers of such brave entities, sneaking out on unauthorized leave was
synonymous to crossing the concrete boundaries of the unit and hanging around
in the street between the officer’s canteen and “Zvyozdochka”café. The high command and the
bosses generally closed their eyes. Occasionally they would open them and
express a certain pique, but they closed them up again so quickly that one
would hardly notice anything was wrong. The ChePe emerged out of
nothing. Sergeant Ter-Akopyanets, with his buddies, was simply sitting by the
Colonel’s four-wheeler, hiding from the sticky July rain. The driver was one of
his “native folks” – a full-blooded Armenian. Tovarish Lebedenko employed him
as a driver for his striking similarity to the famous Armenian actor and
comedian Frunzik Mkrtchyan. The commander-in-chief occasionally told other tipsy
Colonels that the actor had lost a bet while resting in The compatriots, safe from
the rain, had just made peace when suddenly the doors opened to admit in the rain
and the grim face of sergeant Nedyelin – the Colonel’s lackey. He was a faithful
and eternally unsatisfied serviceman, and considered himself the second most
influential figure in Honcharovsk. To him, having a group of
merry Armenian “khachyks” seated in the boss’s car was a personal humiliation. No one could have known how and where it would
have all ended up had the exchange of greetings taken place in the usual,
vulgar, soldier’s jargon. It just so happened that the
day before, Nedyelin had peeped into “Uncle Tom’s Cabin”, while bringing it
back from the library for Lebedenko Junior’s “extra-curricular reading.” From
it he had picked up a unique notion of the racial capacities of good white
boys. Looking at the Armenian
interlopers, he forgot to take into account some of the deeper racial
complexities: Get lost! You go to hell;
this vehicle is for whites only! The descendants of a thousand
year old So you are the white, and I
am the black? Afterwards, the servicemen
from the sunny lands of Hayastan beat
their hairy chests with no less hairy fists, and sang an unflattering song
about the sergeant’s mother. The rain stopped and the rainbow in the sky arced
over the unhappy racist Nedyelin as he was pushed away to the medical sanitary
battalion. In the medical sanitary
battalion, Colonel Lebedenko sat and silently drank his cup of tea at public
cost, while his better half, a doctor in service, was applying blood-red
“Lancome” lipstick to her massive lips. She was about to go to the cinema to irritate
the officers’ wives, disadvantaged by the “rare deficits” she could manage to
have despite the “hardships of army life”. At that point, the blood-soaked orderly
showed up at the door. An end to the idyllic family moment! Couldn’t he come 15
minutes later, thought Lebedenko’s better half. “What a worthless prat,” the
Colonel didn’t not even understand which
made him more angry – the untimely appearance of the orderly or the failure of
the “process of political upbringing” in the regiment. “Well I shall show you!”
he angrily told his wife. “ChePe, Emergency!” Nedyelin’s lack of
etiquette in communication and political correctness on ethnic matters led to a
lot of noise in the camp. The whole garrison was alerted, and a whole lot of poor
soldiers suffered for no reason. The local dens of vice were
no military secret and were known to all the rank and file. Under the strict emergency
rules, the MPs easily got hold of those enjoying unauthorized leave and
accompanied them to the detention cells with a brotherly feeling as strong and
inevitable as death, “Today it is you, tomorrow it will be me!” The offenders
were tied near the kvas barrel, where they continued justifying themselves and muttering
the same type of mantras as the unflattering song sung earlier about the
sergeant’s mother. Sergeant Potebenko was
unlucky enough to be taken into custody from the throes of Nina the librarian. She
was hunchbacked, and for this reason enjoyed enormous popularity among the
younger sergeants. Her sexual services were not only passionate, but they also
gave the Don Juans the opportunity to eat a meal. No drinks allowed, of course,
as she was a person of very stringent morals as far as alcohol was concerned. On
the other hand, she did occasionally treat her favorites to “Stewardessa” Bulgarian
cigarettes, with filters. She herself would smoke these after a round of passion,
eyes closed. Every one in the town knew of
this, gossiped about it and laughed at it. As the librarian, though, she was
given some indulgence by the collective, even by the hawkish officers’ wives. As Potebenko was caught while
performing his male functions, his offense of unauthorized leave was aggravated
by one of “moral decay.” Private Lampetov was taken along with him, for he
could, in no way, explain his presence in the kitchen of the hunchbacked lover.
He was also accused of moral decay for, it was presumed, looking down from the roof
at how the things progressed in Nina’s room.
Poor private Lampetov was not
just an ordinary soldier, he was not only the youngest soldier in Honcharovsk,
but also the youngest in the whole Soviet Army.
He wore the face of a child
on his thin neck. He had a dirty collar on a knee-length shirt, huge dirty boots,
and his pilotka, a cracked pie on his head, was a simple illustration of his
inadequacy and unfitness for the surrounding environment. Everything in the army was
against him. He did not run right, did not shoot right, and he walked in a way that
made sergeants redden like beetroots. Any soldier fortunate enough to witness
this spectacle had not just a moment’s laughter, but something to remember of
army life till their last day. Private
Lampetov was the symbol and caricature of two juxtaposed worlds – the blue-color,
happy and cloudless civil life, and the khaki-colored, ruthless, cruel world, which
will exist until all the people on this Earth become better, merciful and
gentle. Since the advent of this age
is not foreseen in the near future, many more Lampetovs are expected to be
stunned and frightened by the command: “Attention!” They will not know what to
do with their hands at the command: “At ease!” And they will always be grateful
for the command: “Dismissed!” Lampetov, caught red-handed,
was to be an example for all who would risk stepping beyond the world of
Honcharovsk, warning them that they would be led to the detention cell. That had been yesterday.
Today was a beautiful day for everyone, except, of course, for the detained. The Sun hurriedly rose to its
zenith, the flora was enlivened, and the fauna chirped in accord. Lieutenants
were keen fulfill their spousal duties. Captains, on the other hand, grimly
turned away from their plump wives, thinking of money problems, snotty children,
unaffordable “Zhiguli” cars and were little enlivened even by the more
affordable and “Zhigulyevske” beer. Senior officers thought of the fate of the homeland
and regiment inspections from high command. Students of the Kiev
Polytechnic Institute lined up for the lavatory, obeyed the command “Urinate!” and
moved on. The laggards from the barracks on the opposite side looked at the
ordinary world with suspicion, wondering why the morning should be so unusually
fine. Soldierly instinct, sharpened by everyday army life to deal with the crap
coming down from high command, was something they never set down until they
were demobilized. As a rule, the soldiers were marched
to the tune of a foolish song by a music composer and poet of the garrison. His
name has been erased by time, but the lines were forever engraved into the
brains of many generations: O, Glory to you, the Strongest in the world! Glory to the Soldier! The singers even believed in
what they sang, at least in July of 1974, and continued to believe in it as
something to drink to and eat until the Afghan or the Chechen stories took
things to a different turn. They were not going towards the
canteen, though, but towards the parade ground. There everyone in service were
taken, including the students, and the military sermons started. In contrast
with the usual boring military sermons, this one was peppered by the spicy
stories of those caught on unauthorized leave yesterday. Students felt like the
Decembrists on the The poplars stood stunned;
birds grew silent and even the kolkhoz tractor, silenced its slavish drone,
announcing its solidarity with forces of nature. The “execution” started. “On grounds of serious breach
of military discipline, involving unauthorized absence from the territory of
the unit …” roared the voice of Colonel Lebedenko. The sergeant approached the
victims, and under the accompaniment of the regiment drums, tore apart the stripes
from their shoulders. “Lance corporal Mnatsakanov!
Demoted to pr-r-r-r-ivate!” Crack! Crack! “Lance corporal Mamoyan! Demoted to pr-r-r-r-ivate!” Crack! Crack! “Sergeant Potebenko! Hm! And
the surname is fitting! Demoted to pr-r-r-r-ivate!” Crack! Crack! The Colonel was slim,
sun-tanned, dressed impeccably. His special-order aviator cap with strips of
orders and shinning chrome boots hypnotized the soldiers; they conquered
everyone under his control. The letter “R” was pronounced by him in such a way,
that he was amazed by it himself. He was the Prosecutor, who
detected and exposed the black sheep, so that they might not spoil the whole
flock. He exposed them to the regiment, before which stood the supreme task of
“protecting the earth from fire”- nothing more, nothing less. The main offenders of today’s
drama, junior sergeant Ter-Akopyants and sergeant Nedyelin, were not there to
appreciate Lebedenko’s military finésse. The former was awakened by the
military prosecutor, the latter, his face covered in plaster like Pharaoh’s mummy,
slept at the medical sanitary battalion. Their place was taken by a representative
of the worriless non-aggressive civil world, the last one (how else could it
be) in the row of condemned. Private Lampetov waited his
turn. He did not care about the demotions any more than any civilian would care
about military foolishness with drums, parades and fireworks. And this was dangerous for the authority of
the armed forces. However, the Colonel sensed
this danger. He could see the regiment waiting tensely, in dead silence, hoping
to see the military humiliate this “the f…-it-all” pacifist, representing the indifference
of the civilian world. He knew he must make an example of this boy. His weapon was not the one
authorized in the Statute. But the Colonel had the right to possess killing
implements. Lebedenko measured the untidy,
hopeless stature of his opponent. “And for private Lampetov,” he
said, pausing for breath. In a masterly way, he waited while the soldiers said
to themselves: “Come on! Come on, Commander! Tear apart his face, what he’s got
of one, anyway.” Lebedenko set his grim look upon all those in civil dress. His
irony was for all those who would never become good military personnel: “Send a photograph of his bride
back to the homeland!” He pushed his right hand carelessly into the pocket of
his trousers. The regiment continued in
silence, while the Colonel’s memorable phrase was indelibly written in the
golden book of the history of secret Honcharovsk. Then, after a moment more,
they roared with a thousand larynxes contracting with laughter and were joined
by sniffling noses and crying eyes. The leaves waved and the
birds squeaked. The tractor faraway started up. The Sun smiled and went on its
journey. But the regiment continued laughing. Lampetov cried loudly. He
believed. He believed in what the Colonel said and the laughter of the
soldiers. He imagined his gentle mother opening the letter bearing garrison stamp
and seeing the photo of the bride: that long-nosed, sullen Baba Yaga in wedding
gown. He imagined it falling from the envelope – a present from the Soviet
Army. He cried out in helplessness
at the utter unfairness and disharmony between the worlds. Meanwhile, the regiment had already
gone to the dining room to have its morning porridge and bread. The soldiers laughed.
They drank tea with potassium bromide to suppress the sexual urges, and laughed.
They exchanged butter and sugar and wondered at how crafty their commander was.
The regiment did not feel
any disharmony between worlds. |
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