“She lies on a dirty stone floor, at the exit from the casemates. In the slanting opening of the open door – a painfully blue March sky, a large and flat plate of the prison yard in mirrored blots of puddles. Several more people are lying nearby, groaning, pressing their hands to their eyes. Someone leaned against the wall, someone squatted down, knelt down, mooing … ”The path to a new life for the heroine of the novel“ Zuleikha opens her eyes ”, where the winner gets everything.
– Zuleykha Valiyeva!
– I AM.
She hadn’t said “I” as many times in her entire life as she had in a month in prison. Modesty decorates – it is not proper for a decent woman to yak for no reason. Even the Tatar language is designed in such a way that you can live your whole life – and never say “I”: no matter what time you talk about yourself, the verb will get into the right form, change the ending, making the use of this small conceited word redundant. In Russian, it’s not like that, here everyone only strives to insert: “I” and “me”, and again “I” …
Pass the tests
- Are you an anxious person?
The soldier at the entrance shouts out the names loudly, diligently. And then suddenly:
– To the exit! With things!
Zuleikha jumps up as if from a blow with a whip. Presses the bundle to the chest. The human mass around moves, agitates, opens its mouths, stretches out its arms.
– Where? Where are they? And us? Where are we?
– The rest stay where you are!
Wolf Karlovich stands up with dignity, shakes off the dust, lets Zuleikha go forward. They make their way to the exit, stepping over bodies, heads, bags, suitcases, hands, bundles, swaddled babies… Together with them, an unknown soldier takes the mullah’s widow and the family of a gloomy peasant with his countless children from the cell.
After many days of darkness, the light of a kerosene stove seems bright, like a piece of the sun. The cold air of the corridor after the stale spirit of the cell is intoxicating. Tired from constant sitting, the legs are weakened, barely weaving, but the body rejoices in movement. How long did they stay in the casemates? Neighbors claimed that for several weeks they counted by daily roll calls. They go along the corridor, in front and behind – the convoy.
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Sometimes they stop and call more people from other cells. At the exit from prison there are already a lot of them, not to count. Rural, Zuleikha understands, looking at the faces and clothes of her companions as she walks. Some – with fresh, even ruddy faces (recently brought). And some – like her fellow countrymen – can barely stand on their feet. The widow of the mullah has aged, turned gray, but stubbornly drags the empty cage left over from the cat. The peasant’s wife has dried up to yellowness, still clutching two swaddled baby bags to herself.
– Get tighter! Forward jogging – march! – the soldier in front commands and opens the door to the street. Daylight hits the face like a shovel. Eyes burst red behind the blinking lids. Zuleikha grabs the rocking wall and lies down on it. The wall wants to throw Zuleikha, but she only slides to the floor. Comes to life from a cry:
– Get up! Everybody get up, you bastards! Do you want to go back to the cell? I said go ahead! jogging! march!
One by one, squinting like moles, people get out into the street. Staggering from the fresh air, holding on to each other, they huddle into a loose, lame, now and then sprawling pile along the road, unevenly jogging along Tashayak Street to the station. On all sides they are surrounded by vigorous escorts. Rifles in the hands at the ready – in full accordance with paragraph seven of instruction number one hundred twenty-two bis four of February XNUMX, XNUMX “On the regime for escorting former kulaks, criminals and other anti-Soviet elements.”
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Soon the eyes get used to the daylight, and Zuleikha looks around. On both sides, giant snakes are trains of dozens of wagons. Underfoot are endless ribbons of rails and ribs of sleepers, along which felt boots soaked from sticky snow, broken shoes, mud-smeared boots of settlers hurriedly walk. It smells strongly of oil. A horn sounds ahead – a train is approaching. “Let’s skip!” – command in front. The escorts stop, they show with bayonets: get off the tracks. And already rushing towards us, breathing hot furry vapors, a huge locomotive. Fiery red skirt – a wedge forward, cuts the air. Flywheels are like mad millstones. The roar, the clang – it’s scary. Zuleikha sees a train for the first time in her life. Uneven letters “Fortunately – forward!”, painted with white paint on the side, flicker, dense air whips over faces, and the locomotive is already flying away, dragging a long chain of rumbling cars behind it.
One of the sons of a peasant with many children, a lanky boy of about twelve, suddenly takes off from his place – jumps, clings to the handrails, dangles like a kitten on a branch, leaves with the train. The escort raises his rifle. The roar of the shot merges with the whistle of the locomotive, a cloud of thick ragged steam envelops the train. The noise of the train moves away as quickly as it hit. The steam dissipates – a small body remains lying on the tracks, drowned in a sheepskin coat that is not in size. The mother only manages to silently open her mouth – and her hands hang like ropes. The baby bags almost fall to the ground. Zuleikha picks up one, the peasant – the second. Older children huddle in fear at their father’s feet.
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– Let’s move on! We don’t delay!
The steel fingers of the bayonets point the way. One of them touches the woman on the shoulder: they say go ahead! The peasant takes his wife by the shoulders. She does not resist: her head is turned back, like that of a dead chicken, she stares intently at her son’s body stretched between the rails. Still not closing his mouth, he obediently walks away with everyone, moving his legs along the sleepers. Walks for a long time. Suddenly he screams in a low voice, beats in the hands of his husband, waving his arms and legs senselessly, – he wants to return. But a new train is already flying across, roaring, and the cry is drowning in the mighty iron chorus of flywheels, pistons, hammers, wagons, rails, wheels …
Zuleikha clutches a warm soft bag to her. Alien baby – doll-pink, cheeky, with a tiny button nose and a delicate fluff instead of eyebrows. Snoozing in a dream. From birth – two months, no more. Not a single daughter of Zuleikha lived to this age. Settlers flow along the rails in a wide long stream. Towards them, from the station, another, small stream of chilled people, not dressed for the weather, runs. And across the path, obliquely, a lone figure in a pointed helmet, with a gray folder in his hand, strides swiftly. Everyone meets at a large wagon, knocked down from crooked, poorly planed boards covered with red paint.
– Stop! the man with the folder says softly. Zuleikha recognizes him: the Red Horde Ignatov is the murderer of her husband. The head of the convoy is already hurrying towards him, whispering something in his ear, pointing to the peasant’s wife, who continued to howl. Ignatov listens, nodding from time to time and glancing gloomily at the crowd gathered in front of him. Meet Zuleikha’s gaze. Did you know? Or did it seem?
– Listen to me carefully! says finally. I am your commandant…
She doesn’t know what a commandant is. He said yours? So, for a long time together?
– … And I will take you, dispossessed citizens, and you, citizens of the former people, to a new life …
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Former people? Zuleikha does not understand: former people are dead people. She looks around at the handful of people who have just joined them. Pale tired faces. They tremble, huddle close to each other – dressed in autumn: in frivolous drape coats and stupid thin shoes. The rim of a cracked pince-nez sparkles with gold, an absurd lady’s hat with a veil burns with a bright emerald spot – the townspeople, you can immediately see. But not the dead, no.
– … In a difficult life, full of hardships and trials, but also – honest labor for the benefit of our beloved homeland … For a long time you drank the blood of the working peasantry. The time has come to atone for your guilt and prove your right to live in our difficult present, as well as in a wonderful bright future, which will come, without any doubt, very, very soon …
The words are long and complex. Zuleikha understands very little – only Ignatov’s promise that everything will end well.
– … My task is to deliver you to this very new life safe and sound. Your task is to help me with this.
Sharply waving to the escort at the car: come on! He pulls the door, and she, squealing, drives off to the side: the car opens its black rectangular mouth.
“Welcome to the Grand Hotel!” – the escort smiles.
– With great pleasure, citizen chief! – A nimble little man with dog habits and a tenacious look is the first to jump to the car, throws his leg in a high opening with a swing (the terry edges of wide trousers become visible) and disappears inside.
A dangerous man, a prisoner, Zuleikha guesses. You need to get away from this.
And now the settlers, shoving each other with their elbows, climb into the car to take their seats. The men quack, springy push with their feet, jump in with a running start. The women groan, pulling up their felt boots in a pile of skirts, climbing somehow, dragging the squealing children behind them.
– And those who do not know how to monkey, will you carry them in your arms? – a calm voice is heard among the din. A stately lady with a high hairstyle, half-gray hair twisted in a tower – that same bright green hat with a veil. It stands, raising its powerful arms to the sides, as if inviting you to pick yourself up.
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This one cannot be lifted, Zuleikha decides, it is too heavy.
Ignatov looks straight at the lady – she does not look away, only moves her thin eyebrow: so how? An old man in a cracked pince-nez tugs at her shoulder in fright, but she obstinately brushes his hand away. Ignatov leads with his chin – the guard pulls out a thick board from the brackets on the car door and puts it with a ladder from the car to the ground. The lady, graciously nodding her hat in the direction of Ignatov, heads to the carriage. Her big feet in lace-up boots step resolutely and inexorably – the board bends, trembles.
“Votre Grand Hotel m’impessionne, mon ami,” she says to the escort, who freezes in bewilderment, hearing unfamiliar speech. Zuleikha follows carefully, holding a bundle of things in one hand and a sleeping child in the other. And Alla, where has this been seen: to argue with a man, and even a military man, and even a boss … What an old lady, but brave. Or because and bold, that the old? But climbing the board is really more convenient. Behind him, a door screeches on the skids. It becomes dark again, as in a cell. The heavy clang of one bolt, then another. That’s all: a veal wagon (or, in popular terms, a wagon) number KO 310048, with a carrying capacity of twenty tons, a planned capacity of forty human or ten horse heads, equipped with fifty-two settlers, is ready for shipment. Exceeding the planned configuration by twelve heads can be considered insignificant – as the head of the TU “Kazan” wisely noted in the morning, soon ninety heads will go, standing up like horses.
G. Yakhina “Zuleikha opens her eyes” (AST, 2015).