Siberian Education Read online

  Every time I went to see Grandfather Kuzya, my mother would give me a bag of home-cooked food. My mother was an excellent cook; in our district she was renowned for her red soup, her wels catfish stuffed with rice, vegetables and apples, her pâté of caviare and butter, her country-style fish soup and, especially, her cakes. Grandfather Kuzya called her ‘little mother’: that’s how the criminals express the greatest respect and admiration for women. Whenever I took him something made by my mother, he would say:

  ‘Lilya, Lilya, my sweet little mother! Kiss your hands all the time, there’s nothing else we can do!’

  Outside Grandfather Kuzya’s house there was an old wooden bench. He would often sit there and watch the river. I would settle down next to him and we would sit there all day like that, sometimes till evening. He would recount to me the adventures of his own life, or the stories of the Siberian Urkas, which I loved. We sang songs. He was very good at singing, and knew a lot of criminal songs by heart. I had a good memory; I only had to hear a song a couple of times and I’d remember it instantly. Grandfather Kuzya was very pleased about this, and he would always ask me before he sang:

  ‘Do you remember this one?’

  ‘I certainly do! It’s my favourite!’

  ‘Well done, young rascal! Sing along with me, then!’ And we’d sing together, often arriving late for supper.

  What I liked most of all was when Grandfather Kuzya told me about Siberia: the stories of the Urkas, of how they had opposed the regime of the tsar and that of the communists. It was wonderful, because in those stories you felt the thread that held my family together, and connected the people of the past with those of the present. Thanks to this thread everything seemed much more believable, real.

  While he was narrating, he would almost always emphasize the link between the characters and the people we met every day in the street, to make me understand that although times had changed, the values had remained the same.

  Grandfather Kuzya had been one of the first Siberians to arrive in Transnistria. He told the story of that move with sorrow, and it was clear that he had many dark feelings inside him, connected with that time.

  ‘The soldiers arrived in the village at night. There were lots of them, all armed, with bayonets fixed, as if they were going to war… I was only small, about ten years old; my parents had died a long time ago, and I lived with some good people who had raised me as if I were their own son. The men were all away, in the Tayga; there was no one in the village but the old men, and the women with the children. I remember they entered the house without knocking and without taking their boots off. There was a man dressed in a black leather jacket and trousers. I remember the smell of that leather; it was sickening, unbearable. He looked at us and asked Pelagea, the lady of the house:

  ‘“Do you have any news of your husband? Do you know where he is?”

  ‘“He’s gone hunting in the Tayga. I don’t know when he’ll be back…”

  ‘“I thought as much. Right, put on some warm clothes, take only the most essential things, go outside and line up with the others.” This man was a commander; he had the air of someone who knew he had power in his hands.

  ‘“But what’s happening? Why do we have to get dressed and go outside? It’s night; the children are asleep…” Pelagea was agitated and her lips trembled as she spoke.

  ‘The man stopped for a moment, looked carefully round the room and went over to the red corner, where the icons were: he picked one up and hurled it against the wall. The icon broke in two. He picked up some other icons, put them in the stove and said:

  ‘“In ten minutes we’re going to set fire to the village. If you want to stay here and be burnt alive, please yourselves.”

  ‘Pelagea had five children; the youngest was four, the eldest thirteen. In addition she looked after me and a fourteen-year-old girl, Varya, who had also lost her parents. She was a good woman, and very brave. Calmly she explained to us children that there was nothing to be afraid of, that everything was in the hands of the Lord. She made us dress in warm clothes, fetched the gold she kept in a safe place and hid it in our clothes. She took some ash from the stove and dirtied Varya’s face; she did this deliberately, to make her ugly, because she was afraid the soldiers would rape her.

  ‘“If they ask you anything, don’t speak, don’t look them in the face, let me do the talking. Everything will be all right.”

  ‘She took a big bag full of bread and dried meat and we went out.

  ‘Outside there were a lot of people; the soldiers were looting the houses, breaking doors and windows and carrying off various objects, especially the golden frames of the icons. They had made a bonfire in the middle of the road, onto which they threw icons and crucifixes. Everyone was standing outside their houses, helplessly watching this disaster.

  ‘An officer went along the lined-up people with a soldier, and whenever he saw an old person he ordered the soldier:

  ‘“This one, out!” and immediately the person he had picked out was run through with a bayonet. They were eliminating anyone who might slow down the trek.

  ‘A young woman, the mother of three children, was taken by a group of soldiers into a house, where they raped her. Suddenly she rushed out naked, screaming in despair, and from the window of the house a soldier shot her in the back: she fell down on the snow, dead. One of her children, the eldest, ran towards her, crying out; a nearby soldier hit him on the head with the butt of his rifle, and the boy fell to the ground unconscious.

  ‘Then an officer shouted angrily:

  ‘“Who fired that shot? Who was it?”

  ‘The soldier who had fired out of the window emerged, looking sheepish.

  ‘“It was me, comrade!”

  ‘“Are you out of your mind? The order was only to fire in an emergency! Use your bayonet – I don’t want to hear any gunfire! If those in the woods hear us, we’ll never make it to the train!” He was agitated, and immediately afterwards he ordered an NCO: “Hurry up! Set fire to the houses and get the people lined up, start the march!”

  ‘The soldiers pushed everyone into the middle of the road, forming a column, then they ordered us to walk. We went away, full of hatred and fear; now and then we looked back and saw our houses burning in the darkness like little paper boxes.

  ‘We walked all night, till we reached the railway in the middle of the woods; waiting for us there was a train with wooden wagons, without windows. They ordered us to get on, and when we did so we realized that the train was already full of people from various other villages. They told their story, which was a duplicate of our own. Someone said he’d heard the train was bound for a distant region, in the south of Russia; it would travel across Siberia for another week, collecting people from the various burnt-out villages.

  ‘They distributed firewood to burn in the little stoves that the wagons were equipped with, and a little bread and ice-cold water. The train left, and after a terrible journey lasting a month we reached our destination, here, in the region called Transnistria, which some also called Bessarabia.

  ‘When the train stopped we realized that the soldiers were no longer on it, only the drivers and a few railwaymen.

  ‘We didn’t know anyone here; we only had a bit of gold with us; a lot of people had managed to bring their weapons too.

  ‘We went to live by the river: we’d grown up on the Siberian rivers and were good at fishing and sailing; and that was the origin of our district, Low River.’

  In present-day Russia hardly anyone knows about the deportation of the Siberians to Transnistria; some remember the times of communist collectivization, when the country was criss-crossed by trains full of poor people being moved from one region to another for reasons known only to the government.

  Grandfather Kuzya used to say the communists had planned to separate the Urkas from their families so as to make our community die, but that instead, by an irony of fate, they had probably saved it.

  From Transnistria many young me
n went to Siberia, to participate in the war against the communists: they robbed trains, ships and military stores and created a lot of difficulties for the communists. At regular intervals they returned to Transnistria to lick their wounds, or to spend time with their family and friends. Despite everything, this land has become a second home, to which the Siberian criminals have bound their lives.

  Grandfather Kuzya didn’t educate me by giving lessons, but by talking, telling his stories and listening to my opinions. Thanks to him I learned many things which have enabled me to survive. His way of seeing and understanding the world was very humble; he didn’t talk about life from the position of one who observes from above, but from that of a man who stands on the earth and endeavours to stay there as long as possible.

  ‘Many people desperately seek what they are not able to keep and understand, and consequently are full of hatred and feel bad all their lives.’

  I liked his way of thinking, because it was very easy to understand. I didn’t have to put myself in someone else’s shoes, I just had to listen to him, remaining myself, to understand that everything that came out of his lips was true. He had a wisdom that came from deep down, it didn’t even seem human, but as if derived from something greater and stronger than man.

  ‘Look what a state we’re in, son… Men are born happy, yet they convince themselves that happiness is something they have to find in life… And what are we? A herd of animals without instinct, which follow mistaken ideas, searching for what they already have…’

  Once, while we were fishing, we were discussing happiness. At one point he asked me:

  ‘Look at the animals: do you think they know anything about happiness?’

  ‘Well, I think they feel happy or sad now and then, only they can’t express their feelings…’ I replied.

  He looked at me in silence and then said:

  ‘Do you know why God gave man a longer life than that of the animals?’

  ‘No, I’ve never thought about it…’

  ‘Because animals base their lives on instinct and don’t make mistakes. Man bases his life on reason, so he needs part of his life for making mistakes, another part for understanding his mistakes, and a third for trying to live without making any more.’

  I often went to visit Grandfather Kuzya, especially when I was a bit depressed or worried about something, because he understood me instantly and managed to make all my unpleasant thoughts disappear.

  That morning, after I’d been beaten up by the police, I felt such a weight in my soul that it almost hurt me to breathe. When I thought about what had happened to me I was close to tears, I swear it – tears of despair and humiliation. The boat trip with Mel had done me good, but now I really needed Grandfather Kuzya and his warm words. I walked towards his house like a sleepwalker who doesn’t know where he’s going; it was a kind of instinct that guided me at that moment.

  Grandfather Kuzya always woke up very early, so as soon as I reached the gate of his sister’s house, where he lived, I found him already on the roof, launching the first pigeons into the air. He saw me and beckoned to me to come up. I got an old, twisted ladder with two rungs missing, rested it against the roof and started to climb. Grandfather Kuzya in the meantime was watching a female pigeon fly off into the sky; she was already quite high. Then he looked down at me and said:

  ‘Do you want to fly this one?’ showing me a male pigeon which he was holding in his right hand.

  ‘Yes, I’ll try…’ I replied. I knew very well how to launch pigeons – we had a lot of them in my family. My Grandfather Boris was famous for his pigeons – he travelled all over Russia looking for new breeds, then crossed them and selected the strongest ones.

  Grandfather Kuzya didn’t have many pigeons – no more than fifty or so – but they were all exceptional specimens, because the many people who came to see him from all over the country brought him the finest pigeons they had, as gifts.

  The pigeon Grandfather Kuzya was holding in his hand was of an Asiatic breed. He came from Tajikistan. He was very strong and handsome, one of the most expensive on the market. I picked him up and was about to launch him, but Grandfather Kuzya stopped me:

  ‘Wait, let her get up a bit higher…’

  To wait was to risk losing her – if they fly too high, many female pigeons drop down dead. They’re used to being in a pair, together with the male: without the male to help them descend they can’t return to the ground; they have to be guided. So it’s essential to launch the male at the right moment: he rises, and the female, hearing him beat his wings and turn somersaults in the air, starts flying down towards him. But our female was already a long way off.

  ‘Now, Kolima, let him go!’ said Grandfather Kuzya, and at once, with a vigorous sweep of my arms I launched the pigeon.

  ‘Well done! Good boy! May Jesus Christ bless you!’ Grandfather Kuzya was pleased; he watched the pigeons approach one another in the air. Together we witnessed that spectacular union: the male did more than twenty somersaults, and the female flew in ever tighter circles around him, almost touching him with her wings. They were a beautiful couple.

  Eventually the two joined together in the air, and one beside the other they began to descend lower and lower, in wide circles. Grandfather Kuzya looked at my face, pointing at my bruise.

  ‘Come on, let’s make some chifir…’ We got down from the roof and went into the kitchen. Grandfather Kuzya put the water for the chifir on the fire.

  Chifir is a very strong tea which is made and drunk according to an ancient ritual. It has a powerful stimulant effect: drinking one cup is like drinking half a litre of coffee all in one go. It is prepared in a small saucepan, the chifirbak, which is not used for any other purpose and is never washed with detergent, only rinsed in cold water. If the chifirbak is black – dirty with the residue of tea – it is more highly prized, because the chifir will come out better. When the water boils, you extinguish the fire and add black tea, which must be of whole leaves, not crumbled, and must only come from Irkutsk, in Siberia: there they grow a particular tea, the strongest and tastiest of them all, and beloved of criminals all over the country. Very different from the famous tea of Krasnodar, which is highly popular with housewives: a weak tea, widespread especially in Moscow and in southern Russia, and good for breakfast. For a proper chifir you use up to half a kilo of tea leaves. The leaves have to be left to brew for no more than ten minutes, otherwise the chifir becomes acidic and unpleasant. You put a lid on the saucepan so that the steam doesn’t escape; it’s advisable to wrap the whole thing in a towel, to keep the temperature. The chifir is ready when there are no more leaves floating on the surface: hence we say the chifir has ‘fallen’ to indicate that it’s ready. It is filtered through a strainer: the tea leaves are not thrown away, they are put on a dish and left there to dry; they will be used later for making ordinary tea, which can be drunk with sugar and lemon, while eating cake.

  Chifir must be drunk in a large mug made of iron or silver, which can hold more than a litre of tea. You drink it in a group, passing round this mug, called bodyaga, which in the old Siberian criminal language means ‘flask’. You pass it to your companion in a clockwise direction, never anticlockwise; each time you must drink three sips, no more, no less. While drinking you must not speak, smoke, eat or do anything else. It is forbidden to blow into the mug: that is considered bad manners. The first person to drink is the one who has made the chifir, then the mug passes to the others, and the one who finishes it must get up, wash it and put it back in its place. Once that has been done you can talk, smoke, or eat something sweet.

  These rules are not the same in all communities: for example, in central Russia they don’t take three sips but only two, and blowing into the mug is considered an act of kindness to the others, because you are cooling the boiling drink for them. In any case, offering a chifir to someone is a sign of respect, of friendship.

  The best chifir is that made over a burning wood fire. Consequently in many crim
inals’ houses the fireplaces have a special structure for making chifir; otherwise we use a stove, but never one heated by gas.

  In Siberia, once it has been made, the chifir must be drunk straight away: if it gets cold it is not warmed up again, but thrown away. In other places, especially in prison, the chifir can be warmed up, but not more than once. And warmed-up chifir is no longer called chifir, but chifirok – a diminutive, in all senses.

  We drank the chifir in silence, as the tradition requires, and only when we had finished did Grandfather Kuzya start talking:

  ‘Well, how are you, young rascal?’

  ‘I’m fine, Grandfather Kuzya, except that a few days ago we got into some trouble, in Tiraspol, and we were roughed up a bit by the cops…’ I wanted to be honest, but at the same time I didn’t want to exaggerate. With someone like Grandfather Kuzya there was no need to boast or to moan about what happened in your life, because he had certainly been through worse.

  ‘I know all about it, Kolima… But you’re alive, they didn’t kill you. So why are you in such a bad mood?’

  ‘They took my pike, the one Uncle Hedgehog gave me…’ When I uttered these words I felt as if I were attending my own funeral. What had happened became even more terrible, and broke my heart, as I described it.

  When I think about what I must have looked like at that moment I feel like laughing, which is exactly what Grandfather Kuzya did:

  ‘All this gloom just because the cops took your pike! You know that everything that happens is in the hands of God and forms part of His great plan. Think about it: our pikes are powerful because they contain the force that Our Lord puts in them. And when someone takes our pike and uses it without honesty, the pike will lead him to ruin, because the force of the Lord will destroy the enemy. So what have you got to cry about? A good thing has happened: your pike will bring many misfortunes to a cop, and eventually kill him. Then another will take it, and another, and your pike will kill them all…’