Rafael Grugman - The Messiah Who Might Have Been

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

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

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

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

„Lyudmila Dominicovna, come to the party committee office.“

Mama grows cold, hearing the stern voice of the party committee leader; she has grown accustomed to recognizing his mood immediately. She grabs her keys and rushes up to the third floor. I hold tightly to my cord, afraid of being hurt; she is running down the hall at such a breakneck speed that anything can happen. I don’t need any pre-birth trauma that could turn me into an invalid for life.

„Be careful!“ I yell in fright.

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

„Please watch where you’re going,“ I beg, but Mama isn’t in the mood for a conversation with me. As she runs, she is mentally going over the last issue of Energy , trying to guess what went wrong.

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

„Don’t worry,“ I beg her, rolling up into a ball. „Don’t panic too early.“

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

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

„Come in, Lyudmila Dominicovna,“ says the party committee leader in a thundering voice. „Come in. Don’t hide behind the door like a mouse in a hole.“

Mama enters and carefully closes the door behind her.

„Sit down,“ Aleksey Ivanovich instructs her.

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

„There’s been an emergency with your artist, an emergency,“ Mama’s boss says reproachfully.

„What happened, Aleksey Ivanovich?“ Mama asks fearfully.

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

„Schwartz.“

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

„Aleksey Ivanovich, could it be that he misspoke?“ Mama asks ingratiatingly. „All kinds of things can happen. Sometimes I blurt out things like that too,“ she tried to think of an excuse, „and them I regret it. I have to apologize a hundred times.“ She waves her left hand, as if rejecting the nonsense she has spoken by accident.

The party committee leader is implacable and does not respond to her guileless tricks.

„This is political immaturity. Scoundrels like him turn into ‘ dissdents .’“

This is a new word for me, „ dissdents ,“ and although I feel a nervous chuckle running through Mama’s stomach, she remains impenetrable on the outside; not one muscle moves in her face.

„Aleksey Ivanovich,“ Mama fawns, contorting her suffering face and pressing her arms against her chest, „His father died recently. The fellow is twenty years old… I’m sure he didn’t mean to…“

„Age is no excuse for committing anti-Soviet activities! When I was his age, I was defending the Motherland. This is provocation. Most likely premeditated. Think, Kotlova – think about whom you are sheltering!“

Every word the party committee leader speaks sounds like a hammer blow and conceals a threat. I am in shock. What does he think he’s doing? Is it conceivable that one could treat a pregnant woman in such a rough and callous manner? Mama should reveal her news immediately and tell him about the pregnancy. She must defend herself! However, I don’t recognize her – she stiffens herself and continues her resistance. She is presently silent and humbly listening to his insults.

„You need to find someone more suitable for the editorial office. So far, you’ve managed to attract all sorts of riff-raff. Where did you find him? In the gutter? On a trash heap? You seem to have an amazing instinct for finding this kind of crap. It must be pathological…“

Stiffened and grown limp, Mama listens without objection to the insults that are pouring down on her like peas, one after the other.

„Kotlova, I hope this incident will teach you something. Choosing the staff for ideological agencies is a very serious matter. And what do you do? Everywhere you look, there’s this rabble of Schwartzes, Krugmans…“

The party committee leader becomes silent. I hear the rustle of a newspaper. Mama calmly waits for a pause, then figures that the dressing down is over, and it’s time to „make tracks.“ She stands up and heads dejectedly towards the door.

„Kotlova!“

Mama turns around at the shout.

„I’m not done with you! What kind of verses have you published in the newspaper?“

„Verses by our students, members of the literary association,“ Mama answers timidly.

„Have you even read them?“

„I have, and so has the editor. Is something wrong?“ Mama sits down without objection on the last chair, the closest to the door.

„I’ll say!“ snorts Aleksey Ivanovich, and begins to read:

He throws the newspaper onto the table and yells:

„What do you think this is?!“

Mama trembles from the sharp cry, and without understanding the question being asked, she answers cautiously.

„Verses. About love.“

„You’re so shortsighted! And you’re a member of the Communist party!“

„I don’t understand…“ Mama says timidly.

„There are Soviet-American disarmament negotiations going on right now in Moscow. If Johnson reads this opus, he might think the Soviet Union is against concluding this agreement. Listen to what this scoundrel is writing!“

Aleksey Ivanovich reads, deliberately distorting his voice, and he speaks in his infamous falsetto that grates on the ear:

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: