The Adventures of Kesha the Russian Boy

Chapter 1. 1985. The Beginning.

1985. Kesha.

Let's start with the boy's name in the title of this book.

You must agree that naming a child is a fascinating but difficult task. Many parents will confirm this. In our day, my wife and I also faced this task. We cheated a little, naming our child after the saint of the month she was born. Common practice in the Eastern Orthodox Church and Eastern Catholic Churches that follow the Byzantine Rite.

My mum decided to call me Innokenty, or Innocentius in its Latin form. I lived with that name for almost two weeks. Later it turned out that not everyone liked it, which she discovered when my aunt Nadia came to the baby shower. At the time, she was still at primary school. When they told her what I was called, she said, "Oh, I know, he should be called Kesha! I watched a cartoon yesterday about a parrot called Kesha..." My granny Marina lost her patience and emphatically stated that no grandson of hers would be called Innocentius. The boys would tease him at school!

But if this was no longer his name, then what was? They decided to write three names on three pieces of paper - Ilya, Roman and Konstantin - and mum picked them out of a hat. Lo and behold, I became Konstantin.

To be honest, I would have been satisfied with the first name, but the one I ended up with is much more normal...

1986. My father’s death.

But changing names is just for starters. More significant events were just around the corner. When I was one year and five days old, I found myself without a father. My dad, Dmitriy Voskresenskiy, was killed while serving in the military at the (tender) age of 19.

You may not be familiar with how they recruited for the Soviet Army. Long story short, the USSR conscripted young men from the age of 18. Back then, they had to serve for two years. These days, lads tend to serve one year. This can be for many reasons, for example, men are excluded on medical grounds or defer their service because of academic or familial commitments.

When I was born, the Soviet military system, as strange and erratic as it was, gave my father six months leave to help care for me as a new born. After that, they sent him 3,500 miles away to the remote Amur region on the border with China.

After five months of service, there was an attack by “unknown persons” on a military unit near the city of Blagoveshchensk, where my father was serving with his comrades. For his “main course" my father was served five bullet wounds, and gas poisoning came "for dessert”. No, don’t try and look up this news from 20th August 1986. The death certificate clearly states "Hemorrhagic Fever with Renal Syndrome" because "Killed by bullets and poisoning” is an unproven hypothesis in the eyes of the state. In fact, it’s not even in any archives. This has been contested many times to Russian Defence Minister Sergey Shoygu, until in 2016, the Military Prosecutor said: “Would you care to explain who told you about this?” If you’re not working within the military system or the state, there’s no point in trying to find out what really happened.

Apparently, it doesn’t matter how he died: in any case, Cargo 2004 means Cargo-200. Only my grandad was there to identify my father’s body. But, oddly enough, it wasn’t my father’s father, but my mum’s father, Nikolay Timanov. At one point he started to tell me about it, but then he stopped immediately and pressed pause on this conversation. He never got around to telling me before he passed away. Nonetheless, our family gathered much of what he probably wanted to say, even without him saying it out loud. After all, we had another source; my babushka’s5 friend worked at the morgue the year father died, and she let a lot of information slip. Nowadays you can write to Putin (I’ve written, but more on that later). But back then, times were different. No one in our family ever tried to find anything out while the trail was still hot. I can’t say I blame them, but I think they should have at least tried. Of course, it wouldn’t have brought their husband, son or brother back, but they had a little son, grandson and nephew to think of...

It is not difficult to assume that the death of my father radically changed both my fate and that of my mother.

Footnotes:

4 - Russian: Груз 200. A military code word referring to the coffins used to ship Soviet soldiers’ coffins home.

5 - “Babushka” is Russian for “granny”.

1988. A New Dad.

My mum was a beautiful young woman. Even with a baby in her arms she could stop a man in his tracks. After just one summer of being a family of two, with just 24 years between us, a new dad appeared. I don't remember this, since I was only three years old. I always called him "dad". We are still friends and get on well; he never said a word in anger or laid a finger on me. Actually, he preferred not to interfere, but just help out financially. I can't say it was the most successful strategy, but I'm eternally grateful to him. He gave me space to grow up by myself, without trying to forge me in his own image. I didn’t have to match up to his standards. Some forethought and a light-touch are valuable qualities…

Chapter 2. 1988. First Shocks.

1988. Went for a bite to eat.

In the summer of 1988, a funny little thing happened in Yevpatoria, Crimea. Well, it wasn’t that funny… I got lost. My mother and aunt Ira left me on the beach while they went for a swim. I'm sure they asked some other responsible-looking lady on the beach in a wide-brimmed hat to watch over me. But I’m also sure that she barely took a bit of notice at what I was up to, she was more interested in the sun, the sea, and the beach. When they came back from their swim, I wasn’t there. They called out, shouting for me... Nothing. They ran all over the place and spotted me walking along the tram tracks chewing on a tasty bun.

“Where did you get this from? Where were you?” asked mum.

“I went for a bite to eat...” I said.

Oh yes... a small little man, but a hearty eater. Thank God that ended well enough that it remained funny and relatively short.

1988. Fire.

Another unpleasant story happened the very same summer. Perhaps even more serious: there was a fire. I remember clearly how my grandmother's room in her flat on the second floor of a five-storey brick building was on fire. Thankfully, Grandma and everybody else were fine. Cars, fumes, people rushing around - that's what impressed me the most. This was the first time I'd seen such a commotion and crowd of onlookers. Of course, I didn't really understand what was going on, but the general anxiety made a real impression on me. Since then, every time I see a fire, I literally go numb and mentally fall back to this episode.

1988. Promising to cut my tongue off.

So, summer ended, and kindergarten began, leaving a deep incurable wound in my soul. For me, girls were always the epitome of divine beauty. I don’t know who taught me that or when, but it’s what I believed. So, what stood out most to me in my kindergarten years? A scruffy blonde girl in a black-and-white plaid dress, smeared with porridge. A real mess like I’d never seen before. Good God, this harsh reality broke my little, naïve, childish world. I started to refuse to go to kindergarten, kicking up a huge fuss, for fear that I would have to see her again.

There was one girl I liked. I remember neither her appearance nor her name, but that doesn't matter. It so happened that our little beds were next to each other during nap time, so I started a conversation with her. "Hello,” I would say, “How are you?" As if I was greeting a stranger. Of course, the kindergarten teacher was quickly on me, promising to cut my tongue off for speaking during nap time... It sounded so threatening and so convincing that you would believe it yourself even now. Ever since that day I use my words carefully, often choosing to keep quiet. Because who knows what might happen...

1989. Forgetfulness.

The challenges to my young psyche did not end there.

One day, nobody picked me up from kindergarten. I sat there late into the night until a relative who worked there picked me up. What was I thinking about? Nothing. I just sat there, still as a statue, watching out the window. Outside, everything was quiet, snowflakes were falling and covering the oaks and pathways. It grew dark.

A similar thing occurred during the summer school holidays. I was out all day, and in the evening, nobody let me back inside the house. It wasn’t a nasty joke or out of unkindness, just, there was nobody home. And I didn't have a key. At about nine o'clock in the evening, my neighbour, Vera's mother from flat number 48, took me inside. We all watched a children's TV show together, had dinner and went to bed. I was given a place to sleep in with Vera's brother.

In both cases, many years later, I heard very convincing stories about what difficulties had befallen my parents that meant they couldn’t come and pick me up or let me inside. But the harsh truth is simple: both my mother and my stepfather were, at some point in their lives, drunks. I don’t exactly have evidence, but I'm sure that while these things were happening to me, they were at my stepfather's place in a nearby town or at someone else’s flat. I’m not blaming anyone, but, as it I often say in my anecdotes: "it left its mark..."

1990. Stutterer.

I started to stutter at the age of about five. It all happened very fast...

At that time, I was on holiday, staying with my late father's grandmother in Klimovsk, about two hours outside of central Moscow. I was taking a walk outside. At some point, my rumbly belly told me to go home, and instead of walking all the way around the fence to get back, I decided to take a shortcut by running quickly under other people’s windows. I was fast, so fast that I ran through the entrance to the door and almost went headfirst into one of the nice old ladies from our apartment block. A loud cry echoed through the entranceway…

As it turned out, the old lady was not so nice, and I was a pest worse than the Colorado potato beetle… That bit I just ran through was actually her garden! I don't really remember what happened after that, but I was terrified. Like, off the charts terrified.

Another new page in my life had begun. I switched, of my own accord (or maybe adults encouraged me?) from communicating through speech to the written word. Throughout primary school, I had little contact with anyone and always found it difficult to talk to our teacher, Ms. Tatiana Lazarevna, in class.

A long time has passed since then. At work, I often have to speak a lot and perform to audiences of 10 to 50 to 100 people. And in rare moments of intense nervousness, it can be very difficult for me to start talking. I have to take a little pause, a deep breath of up to three seconds and... slo-w-ly pronounce the first word on an exhale with a little riff. Once the first word is out, the second word follows quite nicely. And before I know it, my mini moment of embarrassment is over.

Chapter 3. 1990. First Adventures.

1990. A one-way trip up the tree.

If my first shocks came from the outside world, about which there was little that I could do, then my first adventures were the fruit of my more or less conscious decisions. My growing inner world was catching up with the outside world, bringing about various activities.

One day my curiosity led me to a tree branch from which I couldn’t climb down by myself. And I didn’t even try to, which was probably for the best. There were a few things to note here. Firstly, this tree was not far away, only in the yard by the next house over from us. Secondly, the boys there said I should do it. Thirdly, although I knew these boys, they were hardly close friends, but they were older. And fourthly, I had been warned that while it might be easy to climb up, it’s hard to get down. Then again, I’d also been taught that “you can do anything if you put your mind to it”.

It wasn’t that high up, just two or three metres from the ground. But this height stirred up interesting sensations in me, as I think most men will understand. It opened up a wonderful view in front of me. That said, I already lived on the sixth floor. What views could I possibly see from a tree that I couldn’t I see from 16 metres high...?

So, up we climbed, sat for a while, then it was time to get down. After taking a little time on trying to get down, I realised that I couldn’t do it by myself, and my friends had already gone. Thanks lads, older boys from the yard over, who I barely knew.

So, there I sat, waiting for something, not sure what. It was lunchtime, so I was beginning to get hungry… Should I shout for help? Nope. First of all, that would be too embarrassing. Second of all, I was a man, not an old lady at a market stall. I can't say that I was sitting there very long, I got lucky. My friends ran by and asked me where my piece of cheese was. I didn’t get it at first, but then I realised they were joking, as if I were the crow from the fable “The Crow and the Fox” that we’d learnt at school. What they were saying was: I should ask for some help. It was lunchtime, so I asked them to call my mother. Soon she came running out, bringing a big strong man with her who plucked me out of the tree just as easily as I’d gotten up there in the first place. When we got in, she didn’t tell me off, she wasn’t cross. I’d already learnt my lesson, no need to shout about it.

1990. As if falling from the second floor.

That feeling I got from being up high in the tree was bugging me, I wanted more. Or maybe I’d just forgotten the previous adventure too quickly, as is often the case with children. This time I tried a ladder. Not like a firefighter’s ladder, and not just a staircase, an ordinary ladder. There was one still in my dad’s yard out in L’vovskaya, outside of Moscow.

Even now, despite modern health & safety regulations, playgrounds are full of dangers. The playground I played in as a kid was made of solid metal: harsh, solid, unyielding. Like life itself. And so, after having mastered what we basically considered Everest, I decided to climb this ladder, without any training or equipment. I almost got to the top before, just like in the movies, I suddenly slipped on the penultimate step and came crashing down backwards. I fell with a thud, got up, brushed myself off, and went home to eat pancakes. And that was the end of that.

Now, that’s quite scary, thinking back. Falling from a height equivalent to the second floor of a block of flat is no joke. But back then? Ah, piece of cake. No one saw, it didn’t hurt, all was well.

1990. Fall off the carousel.

After that I’d realised that vertical ascents were not my forte and decided to experiment with horizontal movements. And it didn’t take me long to sustain an injury: I got five holes in my bum… Allow me to explain.

It turns out that the harsh reality is this: if you sit and spin on a kids’ roundabout, not facing the way you’re going, then when you come to a sharp halt with your feet, your body is probably going to slide right off the seat and hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. Obvious? Not to every five-year-old. And landing on a board of nails at the bottom, well, that’s an annoying detail.

I sent a terrible shrill cry echoing around the playground. Thank God I was only five with the vocabulary to suit, nowadays I would have screeched every swear word under the sun. My mum heard me straight away and came running. She’d been standing just around the corner the whole time…

She took me home, treated my wounds, comforted me, and didn’t even tell me off. Mums are just great, aren’t they?

1993. Left arm.

Having suffered such a public and even slightly shameful fiasco in my horizontal adventure, I decided to return to try vertical ones again. In any case, I hadn’t gotten that hurt. There were only a few things available to climb, so again, I tried a tree. But this time I had everything under control. The first branch, the second branch, the third... Oops... And we’re back down in the dirt again, as if the floor was giving this brave little lad a pat on the back for trying.

As it turned out, I didn’t have a parachute, nor a rescue catapult on me. Fail to prepare, prepare to fail: I dislocated my left arm. Nothing too serious. I mean it was tolerable, and no one was going to find out anyway… The next day, like a good little Soviet boy, I would be heading to a pioneer summer camp. But not just any camp, the summer camp in Crimea named in honour of Oleg Koshevoy6. What if they wouldn’t let me go because of my arm?! I was hardly going to let that happen.

Footnotes:

6 - Russian: Олег Васильевич Кошевой. 8th June 1926 – 9th February 1943. Koshevoy was a Soviet partisan and one of the founders of the clandestine organisation “Young Guard”, which fought the Nazi forces in Krasnodon, Ukraine, during World War II.

1993. Hospitals.

I lay in hospital for the first time with pneumonia when was just one, but I certainly do not remember it. I only know about it from the stories grown-ups told me. But when doctors removed my adenoids at the age of seven - oh, yes, I won’t be forgetting that one in a hurry.

In a large brightly lit room, there was a large table on which lay various white-enamel medical utensils and shiny tools. The soft summer sun shone through large clean windows, pleasantly and mysteriously illuminating the people dressed all in white, like angels. These angels circled around me, affectionately throwing a large white sheet over my chest and politely asking me to say "Ahhhhh". A stormy stream of warm scarlet blood spilled out of my mouth onto the white sheet and dripped down onto the floor.

And now I think: could they not have given me a heads up about that? I understand that doctors don’t usually warn their patients to avoid panic, but my God, this scarred me for life…

1994. Bitten by a shepherd.

Let’s talk about my left arm again. Of course, it had already managed to heal after the last fall, but not for long. My power of deduction says it must have been 1994, but that’s not that important.

It was summer, July. We went to visit my aunt Galya, who was widowed after my uncle, my mum’s brother, Andrey Timanov, passed away. It was hot and we took the shortest path through the garden (a plot of 30 acres or so). Eventually, we saw our aunt entering the house. With joy, I rushed towards her. But as if to catch some kind of lawless maniac, a German shepherd grabbed my left arm by the teeth. He managed to bite right through the palm of my hand. Sticking out of the wound was some thick yellow thread – not from my t-shirt, oh no. It was a piece of muscle, or something.

Weirdly, the dog was usually well-behaved and had never harmed a child before. Perhaps he had just woken up or my movements were too loud and erratic. Well, either way, something wasn’t quite right…

It was quite the family embarrassment. What do we do now? The next day we went to the hospital and got my hand treated. I was prescribed 40 injections to the stomach, which seemed over-the-top and downright troublesome to me and my mum, since the dog was our family’s dog, it wasn’t stray or rabid. So, we went to get an official document to certify that he was indeed rabies free, and as a result, I got off with only 2-3 injections to the stomach. It wasn't very pleasant, but I’d had worse…

1995. Sledging.

I decided to give my arm a break and turn my attention to other body parts. This isn’t going to end well. During the school holidays, I went out, without permission, to go sledding on the hill. Well, it wasn't really a hill, it was more like sneaking behind the local townhall and down towards the stream. The slope was fairly steep there. What we didn’t know was that it was actually a pedestrian area, we barely even noticed the older ladies walking around with their shopping bags, blocking the runway…

At the time, I was ten years old and therefore far too old to be sledging the way I was used to (i.e., on my bum). I wasn’t toddler anymore. If I wanted to avoid being laughed at, I’d have to try balancing on the side of the sledge while going down the hill or going headfirst.

I decided to do it the way the others were – on my belly, headfirst. And I did so almost all day, until I had an unfortunate accident. Blockage on the runway, sledge jam, and a huge blow to the face as I smashed into the sledge in front of me. I walked home with my tail between my legs…

No one was home. I wetted and squeezed a little rag, which my mother for some reason washed regularly, dabbed it on my eye, went to bed and began to wait. No, not for it to get better - I was waiting for my fate. My time came when mum got home and I surrendered, awaiting the telling off I would surely get. But again, she didn’t scold me; I guess she could see that I was already punishing myself for going AWOL and had already received my bad karma for running off like that.

1996. And again with the left arm.

Obviously, the head is more important. So, let's turn our attentions back to the left arm. It had already been through the wars, one more accident wouldn’t hurt. Although I couldn’t help but think, why was this left arm of mine so unlucky?

It was 1995 or 1996, summertime. I was at a sanatorium. Nap time had just finished, I’d been sleeping sweetly. Then, we were allowed a snack and a play outside before dinner.

As was customary at playtime, we were hanging out with the girls in a little gazebo outside with a seating area. I decided that sooner or later I would have to impress them, so I jumped over the edge of the gazebo, hoping to land on the outside. But the jump was immediately unsuccessful; I tripped and slammed to the ground with all my weight on my left hand. Another miserable attempt to show off.

After that, the usual: losing consciousness, regaining consciousness, and waking up to my arm in plaster.

Chapter 4. 1990. Mischief & More.

1990. Got a bus to a nearby village.

A little boy with no pranks is like a pair of shoes that fasten with Velcro: flat, predictable and uninteresting. Little boys should always have at least a little bit of zest and mischief going on in their heads, or else where would we get our brave and daring heroes come from?

It’s hard to tell whether this story is one of recklessness or not, but at the age of five I went out without my parent’s permission and got the bus to the nearby village of Sertyakino, where there was a pea field. I had no adult supervision, I was just with a mate of mine, Roma, from the second floor. He was wise and experienced, two years older than me. At this age, you can feel the difference: it's like a high school student hanging out with a university graduate.

We were quickly ratted out, and on my return home, instead of being greeted with bread and salt7, I got a good spanking from my mum before being made to sit in the corner. By the way, in my time, the corner was often used. We can’t really do that these days, times are different.

Just imagine: a whole field of peas! I don't know if it was a fodder field or not, but either way, it was an unreal even by adult standards. I often have to drive along this road even now, and these memories of it are the best. The smack I got at the end of that day pales in comparison to the joy of that pea field. I’d felt such a rush of freedom, an impenetrable sense of excitement on the edge of a big adventure with a hint of mischief. Just like the Russian poet Sergey Vasilyev said in his song: "Everything around me is kolkhoz8, and everything around is mine!" And it all paid off in the end: stuffing my face with young, springy, juicy peas…

Footnotes:

7 - A traditional greeting in some Slavic, Nordic, Baltic, Balkan and Middle Eastern countries.

8 - A form of collective farm in the Soviet Union.

1991. The lift: riding with open doors.

Of course, it is very risky for children of such a tender age to travel to whole other villages, but that’s not to say home can’t be just as dangerous. We had a lift in our apartment block. Boy, what a lift it was! The coolest! Why? Because, from the inside, you had to open and close the large, wooden folding doors by hand. On the outside, on each floor, there was also a large metal door which you also had to operate manually.

Have you ever taken the lift with the doors open? Oh, you’re missing out. It’s an indescribable feeling. I don't remember who taught us this little trick, probably some older boys in the building. But this is what we did: we headed inside the lift, closing the outside door but not the inside one. Then, we would push our arms to both sides of the lift wall and, feeling steady, would lift up our feet to hang there. The lift senses that there’s no one there anymore, and so will wait until someone presses the button on another floor. Next, your partner in crime (which you need to arrange beforehand) would press the button on another floor and the lift would shoot off and the metal bars from the elevator shift would flash before our eyes. If we got dizzy (which was a common occurrence), then we’d just drop back down to the floor and the lift would stop dead. No need to worry, the ride’s not over yet, you’ll be off again soon.

There’s another trick "for the older ones". Why? Because you want to keep the outside door open too. To do this, your partner needs to get in place before pressing the button to call the lift. They must:

1) Open the outer door;

2) Reach behind the wall and find the little switch that senses when the doors are open or closed. Switch it so the system thinks the doors are closed (when actually, they’re open). Then, reach into the elevator shaft to find the lever and pull it out;

3) Then, they can twist this lever clockwise to tighten it and put it in the “outside door is closed” position;

4) Then, the doors will stay like that until you undo the lever. So, your partner can go up all the floors, doing this, leaving all the doors open;

5) All that’s left if for you to fly up all the floors in the lift, watching all the open doors fly past you!

When these new modern lifts with automatic doors came out in the 00s, parents everywhere breathed a sigh of relief. Now our children will not be able to get themselves into such danger. The elevator shaft isn’t a playground, no sir.

But what I’d give for another go right now! Especially with the new mod cons…

1992. The tunnel under the bridge.

No less dangerous were our little walks through the tunnel under the main road. That’s where the river Petritsa flowed through. We used to go there all the time. What on earth for? First of all, there were lots of crayfish. I didn't catch any of them, but the boys I was with managed to. I was just afraid to stick my hands under the stones - what if it bit me! Even now I would think twice before doing that…

Second of all, me and my friends had made a dam there. I’m not really sure what it was for, but we took joy in the making of it. It was quite fun wading through the wet mud against the current; we had to be resourceful, trying not to drop our building materials but also not falling into the water ourselves. We didn’t always get it right, so quite often our spare parts would float off downstream or we’d lose them. We’d finish the day soaked, wet all the way through, stood in this raging stream. We’d walk home, tails between our legs. When mum always asked "Why are you so wet?" I told her the standard lie "I fell in a puddle..." If she had seen this “puddle”, I’d have got a clip around the ear.

1992. Bike theft.

One day, my list of fibs I used to tell my mum grew one lie longer. It was about a stolen bike. Not my bike, I was the one who stole it... Not exactly GTA, of course, but these criminal acts were barefaced, committed in broad daylight. And the thing was that I was forbidden to ride a bicycle, because, well, the roads were chaos! Gena from flat 36 would drive around in his cherry-coloured Lada Zhiguli9 and there would be at least three Zaporozhets10, including ours, out on the road each hour…

And suddenly there it was, the transport of my dreams. A kind of confusion came over me, an inner tightness at the same time as a rush of determination and a passionate desire. It was impossible to resist. I wanted it and that was enough.

Within just fifteen seconds of riding the stolen bike I saw a whole spectrum of emotions: it went from euphoria, to joy, to lightness, anxiety, burden, fear, and finally horror. The latter was so depressing that I immediately parked the bike behind the khrushchyovka11 opposite us. And immediately the horror turned into annoyance, then even into anger. With that, I ripped off the spoke nipples and threw them into the bush. If I couldn’t enjoy it, nobody could!

The next day, my friend’s father had a polite conversation with me, trying to nip anything like that in the bud. It was very embarrassing, and I couldn't say anything, not even the standard "I won't do it again." I muttered something to myself, and they let me go. I didn’t do it again. At least not with bikes. You know, it’s busy out there, with all these cars about…

Footnotes:

9 - A car designed and manufactured in the Soviet Union.

10 - A series of rear-wheel-drive superminis from the Soviet Union.

11 - A type of low-cost, brick or concrete-panelled apartment block of three to five floors. They were common in the Soviet Union during the early 1960s, named after then-leader of the USSR, Nikita Khrushchev.

1993. Prawns and dentists.

Though not criminal, it was dangerous of me to try and catch prawns underneath an abandoned building. It was when I was at the Oleg Koshevoy summer camp in Yevpatoria. Of course, we didn't realise it was so dangerous, but that’s another story…

When we were caught red-handed, the supervisors made a note of our names. In the evening, they cooked us these shrimps and made us eat them. The next morning, we were sent before the Comrades’ Court12. It was quite the event, you know, but there was an issue: someone lost that list with our names on. The teachers asked us to own up and stand up. All the culprits stood up, except me. I just sat there. What was it to me? Nothing to do with me what they got up to. My mates whispered to me, "Get up!" But I couldn’t. I was an excellent student and an exemplary little lad. I was the first to “perfectly” make the bed, the first to brush my teeth... You name the Soviet summer camp activity, I excelled in it. So, I didn’t own up.

Later these mates launched a campaign of blame against me, and then a terrible punishment. A couple of days later, we were taken to the dentist for a routine check-up. I wanted to go among the first so I could finish earlier. But I was pushed to the back of the queue. Here it was: public shaming in all its glory. I had to wait for a couple of hours and then, when I had almost reached the front of the queue, I lost my nerve, turned around, and left.

The next day, my counsellor caught me by the hand and marched me back to the dentist. She put me in a chair and asked me to open my mouth. It was already scary, but bearable. But when they put cotton wool on one of my teeth, I started to panic and ask her not to hurt me. I sat there for a minute and the kind woman promised that it would not hurt. She pulled out the cotton wool and I began to stutter on about injections, drilling, and so on. When I was really nervous, that lady showed me the cotton wool, upon which lay a baby tooth.

I couldn’t believe my eyes, so I asked, "Is that all?”

"That's all!" said the lady, calmly and even a little sloppy. And off I went...

Footnotes:

12 - A special form of collective justice that existed in the Soviet Union.

1994. Kitten of dreams.

But prawn, bikes, and milk teeth… That’s nothing. Here's a very serious tale that got out of hand. Everything else pales into insignificance and seems like childish fun by comparison...

Ever since I was a child, I had dreamed of having a kitten. A small, fluffy, grey kitten. One day we even got one, but it cried all night, and my stepfather insisted on returning it to its mother.

I was about eight or nine years old. One day, out on another one of my walks, I was walking down some stairs and, through the broken window between the eighth and ninth floors, I saw the kitten of my dreams on a windowsill. I calmly came up to him and stroked him. And what do you think I did next? Did I take it home? Did I take care of this kitten? No. I threw it out of the window onto the street...

Yes, that’s right, through the window. You know, those apartment blocks have these little openings for various kinds of needs. I guess this was one of them…

What happened next was even stranger. I almost immediately forgot about it. I calmly continued about my business, slowly planning my new day. I realised what I had done only when I went outside. The kitten was coming towards me, meowing and limping. I, in my childish naivety, had been sure that it would just have splatted into a flat cake - and that's all.... So that’s how it happened… I felt ashamed and ran away.

А lot of things happened in my life. But I am not as sad and ashamed of anything as for what I did to this kitten. Even making corrections for childish stupidity and curiosity, I can find neither an explanation for the act, nor an excuse for myself. If I had the opportunity to correct just one episode in my life, it would definitely be this one.

1996. Gorodki and a gas mask.

Yeah, that was a pretty serious mistake to make. But life goes on and so does my moderately criminal track record. Now let's switch from pets to items. It was summer, I was at a sanatorium in Stupino, outside of Moscow, and I was in a bad crowd.

Well, they weren’t that bad, but they did force me to climb into someone else's shed. It fit snugly against the fence of the sanitorium. So I broke in, and heroically retrieved one gas mask and Gorodki set13. The gas mask was lost quickly - hidden under a pillow and successfully seized by unidentified persons. But we played Gorodki for ages. When the adults asked where we got it from, our official story was “I got it for my birthday”.

So, yeah, they tricked me again but I recovered quickly. When I was getting ready to go home, I started to gather it up to take it with me. The band of lads started pressuring me to leave it behind for others. Of course, I was hardly going to do that. It was a matter of principle! I said: "It’s my birthday present, why the questions? Do you want to discuss it with the adults?" And as a result, I took it home, which I am still childishly happy about.

At least one lesson was learned from this. Later, I realised I could smell bad crowds a mile off and always avoided them, not getting involved in any confrontations.

Footnotes:

13 - An old Russian folk sport similar in concept to bowling. The aim of the game is to knock out groups of skittles arranged in various patterns by throwing a bat at them.

1996. But I don't want to go to school!

Hooliganism was later replaced by social protests. Perhaps the latter logically ran from the former. In the sixth grade, when I was about 12, I gave myself a holiday of disobedience. I’d told my mother that I would not go to school that day. And, would you believe, I really didn’t go. With mum’s permission, of course!

In fact, I was surprised by my mother's sensitivity and the understanding with which she accepted this riot of mine, because everything happened spontaneously and in the moment. There was no apparent reason for this behaviour. No tests or exams were scheduled for that day, I hadn’t fallen out with anyone in my class. It was an unexpected whim. Or really, I needed to be alone and think about something.

Quickly getting my bearings, my mother gave me a list of chores for the day and rushed off to work. After spending the whole day doing household chores and having worn myself out, I’d knocked some sense into myself. I never acted out like that again. No wonder they say that hard work ennobles a person…

2001. Smoking on the first day back at school.

Not going to school is one thing, but to let down your class leader14 on the first day of school is quite another. In Russia, we all go back to school on 1st September and line up in the playground. It’s all quite a spectacle for everyone involved. I couldn’t miss it.

In those days I smoked quite often. It was trendy, cool and new. I still steal a cigarette every now and again, although much less often, maybe five or six a year. Smoking is no longer new or fashionable, but it still looks cool. Especially when it's not often.

So there we were, first day back, 1st September. People were rushing around, running here, there, reading this, reading that. Why not to go for a smoke? Why not, I thought, and started smoking in the back row. In a flash, my eyes met those of the class leader…

I still wonder at Mr. Yuriy Yarkin’s restraint that day, it was solid, soldier-like, like that of a Lieutenant Colonel. In fact, he had been in the military before becoming a schoolteacher. I’d like to have even a fraction of that kind of restraint. He didn't even say anything to me: his eyes did the talking. They said, “You, my boy, are making a mistake…”.

I didn't argue with him – if said I was in the wrong, I was in the wrong. I wasn’t a baby anymore, I understood everything indeed…

Footnotes:

14 - Your main teacher that stayed with you throughout school, much like a form tutor in the UK.

Chapter 5. 1990. First Disappointments & Grievances.

1990. “I want to be able to fly!”

Frustrations and resentments are a subtler matter than just mischief and messing around. Disappointments bring down one’s inner world, and resentments distort it, deforming your personality. At the age of five or six, I had been lied to. It was a big lie. And it was my family who did it.

One day, I told my mother all about my dream: “I want to fly!” The new school term was coming up and my mother “explained” to me that “if you want to fly, you first need to read 30... no... 50 pages per day..." So, I read 70 or even 100 pages.

Before I knew it, I was starting to be able fly. Very quickly there was a feeling of lightness and airiness, as if I was floating, but for some reason I just couldn’t get off the ground. Apparently, I read a lot, but not carefully enough, I thought. I pushed a little harder. Time passed, and I never learned to fly. Well, what can I say? A young boy getting first place for reading speed in primary school is very rare. It was a point of pride for me, and all good things, as you know, have to be paid for...

1993. "It wasn’t me!"

These disappointments were just the beginning, and the next serious one was waiting for me at the end of my first year at school, when I was about eight. An ABC book for a first grader is what the Bible is to Christians. And one day my copybook had two pages glued together. Where the Russian letter "Щ" is, which sounds like “Shch”. It had a picture of a puppy, in Russian “Shchenok”. When they had been glued together and how – I had no idea. The mystery remains until this day.

Our first lesson was reading. My turn came, and I needed to read the text from the pages that had been stuck. I asked the boy sitting next to me, Edik, to help me. "No,” he said, “use your ABC book.” A technical difficulty.

Our teacher Ms. Tatiana Lazarevna was already quite old and the epitome of a strict Soviet teacher. I almost wrote “caregiver”, but that doesn’t quite fit the bill. She always set the bar high in terms of morals and education. The technical difficulties I was facing were absolutely unacceptable for her, and she quickly pounced on me.

Just 20 seconds later, I was standing in front of the whole class next to her desk, testifying to what had happened. To her, the story sounded unconvincing, it fell apart with lies. Her verdict was clear and sharp: to stand all day in front of the class until I could confess. I wouldn't admit to something I didn't do, even now. I remember how I was going mental inside, and I stood all day. The next day I had to come into school with my mother.

But it turned out to really make my day, because it so happened that the place I was forced to stand was straight ahead of Lena Khryashcheva – my super crush. So, even if I had glued these pages together myself, I would never have admitted it. I’d have stood there gladly all day long.

1993. Russian grammar.

It turned out that this first incident with my teacher hadn’t been enough and she wanted more the next year. I’ll be honest, it was because I used to get mixed up with my grammar. I struggle to this day, but then it was a much bigger problem.

For example, to make the word “November” into an adjective would make it “Novemberish” (I promise, that’s a real word in Russian). Except I used to write Novemborish. Or for December, I’d write Decemborish. You see? So I often failed our homework miserably, to the point where my work was read out in front of the whole class! The teacher’s pet, the good boy, doesn’t even know his grammar!

The stutter, which had almost disappeared, quickly came back. I don't know if it was visible from the outside, but from the inside I was all burning with blue flames. It was that day when a persistent dislike for this subject began to form, and in four years’ time it would be stuck definitively. I'll tell you about that later...

1997. Not guilty and moving schools.

There were no more special incidents, and gradually the end of the sixth grade came. And then a very hurtful and unfair story happened to me. One of the key moments that defined my future life path.

Like all normal children, I had a best friend: Vadim Zagvozdkin. I don't know why he fought with the other boys, Artyom and Alexander, but we were not old enough to be fighting over girls yet. I happened to witness them scuffling after classes outside of our school. In my opinion, it wasn’t a real fight, just a bit of a show.

The next day I was called to the headmistress’s office and asked to explain the situation. When I wrote it, she looked at my writing with a grimace and gave me the verdict: I had egged them on. She didn’t believe my story that I was only an onlooker. Vadim’s mother really fanned the flames. She said things like “you two were best friends…” The investigation of this story was slow and tedious. The last word on the subject came from our class leader, Ms. Vassa Kondratyevna, who just stopped saying hello to me.

At the beginning of the school year, my mother had offered to send me instead to the Lyceum in the nearby town of Lvovskaya. I’d remembered this, and later firmly told my mother that I was moving to the Lyceum – no explanations. In Russia we have this proverb: "He said he would, so he did.” Four months later I moved schools and started a new year.

1997. "I will never snitch on my mates!"

But that wasn’t the final word on disappointments in friendships. A child with such an active life philosophy couldn’t have just one friend. There were also the boys that played out in the yard. The ones with whom I started smoking in seventh grade.

We didn’t smoke that much; it was mostly just to get to grips with the idea and meet modern standards. But full disclosure: I was the first to start. When my mother demanded that I tell on my partners in crime, I said “I will never snitch on my mates, no matter what!” And the case was closed.

At the same time, one of my "accomplices" Alexey Antonov from flat 35 was compromised. He snitched on everyone to his mother. All the mothers in the building made a showdown of the whole thing. But Alexey told everyone that I was the traitor, because I was first exposed.

That's when our long-term friendship ended.

1998. Taras Bulba.

My mood actually improved when I’d run out of friends. There were less ways to get tricked. But I had completely forgotten about my Russian Literature & Language teachers. Clearly I had either a lack of experience or short memory loss.

Ms. Irina Borisovna had always been friendly and kind to me. I liked her too, but a man called Taras came between our love. It was Taras Bulba from the novella by Nikolay Gogol.

I had to write an essay on this subject, but I’d forgotten about it until it was almost too late. I scribbled it down while I was at my mother’s workplace, a kid’s massage clinic.

This time, my grammar was perfect. It was the commas that let me down. I used them so weirdly, that some of my sentences didn’t even make sense. It was just hilarious! And everybody in the class thought so to. Laughter hit 100 dB, no less.

These sentences were read out to the class, with that stuck-up teacher voice, which drew a strong, hard line under my love for this teacher and the whole subject of Russian literature. I hate it.

But hatred, I’m sure you will agree, is a bad feeling, and later fate decided to play a little game on me: my wife Maria is a Russian Language & Literature teacher. Yes, yes, very funny… But years later I learned about Russian postfixes, some parts of speech and some other little things. That said, I still can’t manage phonetics from the third grade, which our daughter Anfisa has already mastered. Indeed, language is not my strong point.

2000. More Pushkin.

Then, Ms. Irina Borisovna went on maternity leave and she was replaced by a trained specialist. She was so awful that I can't even remember her name. Ms. Valentina, was it? At the end of the ninth grade, in five lessons in a row I was asked a question in literature class. It was on the subject of the great genius Pushkin. In the first three lessons, I answered questions about him with all that I could remember from the textbook, no worries. But then by the fourth lesson I began to struggle. Some people weren’t getting any questions, I was being tortured every time! The fifth time came and it started to drive me mad. For all five answers I got five points out of five, again, no problems. But wasn’t there such a thing as too much Pushkin per pound of flesh?

I was asked a sixth time, and I publicly refused to answer.

“Don’t you know?” asked the teacher.

“I know, but you've already tortured me enough. Why do I have to answer every time?” I replied.

“Right, so, obviously, you don't know. Two points15.”

During breaktime, I came up to her to find out what she wanted from me, but she shrugged me off, did not listen, and said that it was impossible to change the grade she’s given me. This brought my marks down, and I would be awarded a 4/5 for the term. F**k you... I thought to myself, leaving in silence. Pushkin, Pushkin, Pushkin... I get it, he’s our national treasure. But you’d have thought someone else would have written something better by now…

Footnotes:

15 - Equivalent to a D in western grading.

Chapter 6. 1995. First Money.

1995. Beer bottles.

Pushkin, lifts, and grammar – I had bigger fish to fry. A real man needs money. A lot of money. For... crisps, chupa chups, and a little later for the collectable Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle stickers.

Сheburashka16 beer bottles were the answer to our meaningless summer existence and the absence of any pocket money. It made us a little more confident and even more grown-up. It was fun.

First of all, we had to know where to look for these bottles: stalls, bins, bushes and pubs. We were a valiant eco-squad scouring the whole neighbourhood. Sometimes even wouldn’t let one bottle split our grasp; we’d sit and wait for someone drinking a bottle to finish it to the end before giving us the empty glass.

But finding or taking the bottles is only half the battle. Now, in order to bring the product to market condition, it must be:

a) Carefully examined for chips and cracks;

b) Delabelled, which would triple its worth from 100 rubles (2.2 US cents back then) to 300 rubles (6.6 cents). I remember the banknote itself: a blue 100 ruble note from 1993;

c) Freed of any rubbish or drunken slugs that might be stuck inside.

We often washed them out in puddles or rivers, and we only ever noticed the chips or cracks when we took them to the place where you can give bottles back in exchange for money. However, on a good day, each boy could earn about 3,000 rubles (66 US cents), which at that time was a pretty decent wage for boys of 10 and 11.

I remember the first purchase I made with this money: a bag of crisps. I didn't even get to enjoy that moment when you open the packet, because the bottom burst and the contents fell out onto the ground into the dirt. I was terribly annoyed, didn't know what to do with myself for the rest of the evening. But the next day I felt better.

Footnotes:

16 - Also known as “Topple” in earlier English translations. It’s a character from Russian children's literature and now a cartoon based on the 1966 story by Soviet writer Eduard Uspenskiy. The bottles were brown, just like Сheburashka, hence why we referred to the bottles this way.

1995. Tutor.

I also earned money through a tutor. The way we saw it, for stupid kids, a tutor is a source of expense. It's actually a source of income. Take money from your parents, get ready to go to the tutor, head off on your way and then... don't go. Bunk off. It's easy-peasy. There were no phones, WhatsApp or other messengers. There was no way to check where your child was. And why would you need to? This is a good, intelligent, well-mannered boy, we’re talking about….

I only did it a couple of times, but boy did I turn myself inside out over it. I bought a toy gun with plastic bullets, stickers, crisps, and so on, and so forth. I felt I needed all of this things to be happy! I also didn’t like doing this because eventually I got to asking myself “why should I have to do this?" There is some kind of cosmic questioning in this, as it seems to me. The law of conserving lazy energy…

The tutor, by the way, was for English. Oh, I'm so tired of this English-chinglish in my life. Apparently, all these plastic bullets I bought flew off to my karma, the crisps were stuffed into my mouth, and stickers were pasted over it…

And even now, when I'm translating this book by myself, I'm using Yandex translator and a dictionary of English phrases, because I don't even know half of all these words. And what I've realised is that I used a lot of Russian proverbs and phrases, most of which can’t be translated directly. Instead, I have to find native English equivalents like “oh, boy”, which doesn’t make sense in Russian. Later, I gave this manuscript to my English teacher Kristina Shlykova-Luneva from Krasnodar. Then, she gave it to her colleague, Christopher Fawcett, from London. He found 10-20 errors per page, sometimes more! That’s right, I'm not the best translator and a bad student indeed...

Special thanks to Chris, who drew our attention to some of the remaining obscure Russian cultural phenomena and expressions in the book. I tried to adapt the text as much as possible (if you’re interested, you should check out the Russian edition), but not everywhere I’d done it well enough before Christopher.

And also, huge thanks to Leah Foden from the town of Wotton-under-Edge in Gloucestershire, UK. She studied at Moscow State University and knows Russian fluently. The three of us, Chris, Leah and me, had an interesting meeting and she helped me to discuss everything properly. Also she helped to encourage me to put the book through a third round of proofreading, just to iron out those last few areas that needed to be explained for the international reader.

Overall, I felt like I was not translating my book, but re-writing it. Some kind of déjà vu. Especially difficult was literary translation, but about this a little bit later…

1996. Non-ferrous metal, a military base and a railway car.

It seemed too risky to earn money from absenteeism. Me and the lads out in the yard came up with the idea of looking for non-ferrous metal. There were three of us: Evgeny, Alexey and me. We didn't want to look for a long time because we needed money, not adventure. So, we decided to look... at the military base.

Now I can laugh about it, but at that time, this idea did not seem even remotely risky or unusual to us. It didn’t even qualify as an adventure, we regularly went to this base to catch minnow fish. Nowadays, the Russian army is mighty, powerful, demands respect. But back in those days, the 90s, well… It was a difficult time for Russia. More havoc than with these little sanctions they release these days.

I had the great honour of being the “lookout”. I was covering my business partners, so to speak. So, I'm on lookout duty, keeping my eyes open. Gradually I began to look at a huge antenna. A very interesting thing, I must say. Time was going by; the boys were out on the search. After, I started to look at the windows – not so impressive… Then a young man appeared. An interesting one: fit, in a simple summer military uniform, but in a t-shirt. He was looking at me with interest… Wait! A man? Looking at me?

Did I mention that I sometimes stuttered? Well then…

You would probably think I wanted to fly away from the scene of the crime. But in fact, I had no less than a stutter attack, so I started waving my arms to get attention. It worked, but the lads didn’t know what I meant. I finally managed to get a word out: “run!” And we were gone in a flash. We left evidence in the form of our fathers' screwdrivers and pliers. We sat for an hour, went back, get all our stuff back, handed over the things we took (perhaps they were radioactive?), and even received some money for the metal. But there was something we didn’t like about that military base. It just wasn’t for us, everything about it was hard. Too far to drag all our kit, and, well, we needed something more interesting.

The second incident occurred at the railway station at Grivno – a three-minute walk from our apartment block. Railway cars with non-ferrous metal pressed into cubes sometimes are parked there even now.

We climbed up, began to throw bits of metal off, until somebody came running, blowing a whistle. How kind of him, it meant I didn't need to shout and raise the alarm myself… What the guys managed to take, they threw into the bushes, and we all jumped over the fence to the industrial site. We sat for a while, went back and hid it better. A week later, we brought it all back.

Both episodes turned out to be almost unprofitable, with unnecessary adventures. We decided not to collect metal anymore - too troublesome.

1996. Bench for grannies.

Well, since non-ferrous metal was not our cup of tea (tried twice with many difficulties), we thought over our next steps. We needed something smarter. We decided to sit in the yard and think about everything. We got together, but there was nowhere to sit! It’s funny, because it’s usually the old ladies of the building that like to gather on a bench to gossip. But unfortunately, someone had broken the old bench the day before.

That was a business idea! We needed to rebuild a bench for the grannies and get a legitimate monetary reward. We would only need nails and planks. We had nails, but we needed the second bit. No time to discuss, we all knew where to find it: the industrial zone just near the station.

We climbed in, searched around, found what we needed, and took it. What was that barking? Oh, I think it’s time to go. Run! We managed to run from dogs while carrying the boards, threw the boards over the fence and climbed over themselves. Not one of us got lost, bitten or caught. Unbelievable!

We built a bench and invited the grannies. Sighs of relief and pats on the back all around. “What good lads, so caring!” they would say, “Our boys’ hands are made of gold, real men.” And so on and so forth... They sat down on the new bench and resumed their gossiping as usual. It’s like they forgot about us. Of course, we had had a lot of life experience by then, but we were still too scared to ask for money. After some time, we decided to ask one of the parents to help us. We got our money at last, but it was such a pitiful sum that we were pretty much speechless.

Well... Perhaps we should have agreed on the terms and conditions beforehand, including the fee.

1996. Sawing a tree branch.

So, these were our main jobs at the time. All of us, working together as a group of mates. But one day I was given some hackwork from my neighbours in flat six. All I have to do was saw a branch off a tree and I would get – wait for it - a whole bar of chocolate! That was unheard of in those days!

The deal was so easy that I already considered it done. I somehow climbed up, somehow cut it down, somehow got back down.

“Well, that’s it, you now have a wonderful view from your window. Chocolate, please!” I said proudly.

“You will receive the chocolate tomorrow...” they replied.

And the next day I got the same. And the next day, and forever more. Summer came to an end, Nadia from flat six went back to her husband up north in Murmansk. And that was that.

Wow... Well, I should not only have negotiated in advance, but also have taken a prepayment or something...

Nadia has not visited us since the late 90s, and in fact, hasn’t been anywhere near our region. But if I see her again, I'll demand my chocolatey fee. With interest!

1999. Underground.

One summer I decided to try my hand at busking in the Moscow metro. I got my guitar from home, said that I was going to visit a friend, and set off to earn some money. Arriving in the centre, I chose a changeover station at random and sat down to play.

I felt awkward and my hands were shaking a little, but I decided to start playing or I’d leave emptyhanded. Especially since I had already paid four rubles to use the metro to get there.

I sat down comfortably on the floor and turned on my boyish charm. By the middle of the first song, the first coins were tossed into my bag. A little inspired, I began to play louder and more confidently. Meanwhile, passers-by, mostly women, tossed over more "gold coins".

By the end of the song, I realised that I could really make a profit here. How much, I didn’t know yet, but it was possible. While I was mentally choosing the next track, two adult men came over. “Boy, what are you doing here?” one said.

“I'm playing…” I replied.

“Are you a stray or something?" the other asked.

“No…” I said.

“Take your guitar and get out of here, before we turn you in to the children's area with the police. This is our turf, understand?”

“I understand…”

There’s a popular Russian song from the 90s that says "Indeed, the music did not play for long". This suited my situation perfectly. I took my belongings and left.

I dared look at my earnings only when I got back on the train. I couldn’t believe my eyes, so I counted three times. "Well, at least I..." I began, trailing off, trying to console myself. I’d earned only just enough to cover the journey.

2000. Night Director.

Next year, I landed a part-time job for a couple of years through relatives. It was the dream: a night director. The night did not bother me at all, it was even intriguing! And a director, well, how worthy of respect I sounded. And I wasn’t embarrassed to tell my friends about it because I was earning good money! 3,000 rubles per month (100 US dollars17). Once for a similar amount I bought a great new guitar in the store - I still use it.

Occasionally I invited my close friends Vasya Kashnikov and Alexey Knyazev to my night office. They were the only people I could trust to let into a shop at night that was full of booze and edibles. The atmosphere was always quite off, with a bit of a risky edge. We chatted, snacking on pre-purchased crisps and grilled chicken. Sometimes we drank beer, but we always kept things very nice, respectable, and cosy. Those boys never let me down.

But there were also some downsides to this profession. I had almost nothing to sleep on, in the back room, in what were basically unsanitary conditions. I almost never saw my own home… I went from school to extra lessons to work. Moreover, at school I had to ask the headmistress, Ms. Inna Levshina, to let me be 10 minutes late every day for the first lesson. Yeah, every day. For two years of secondary school I only slept at home only a couple of months in total.

But I had complete financial freedom. What’s more, in the eyes of many of my teachers that knew I was working, my charisma was sky-high. Or maybe it wasn’t, and I just imagined that part. But I always felt it and appreciated it.

Footnotes:

17 - Yes, that’s right, in 1995 3,000 rubles was 6.6 US cents. In 2000, 3,000 rubles equalled $100. This is because, in 1998, the ruble was redominated, taking away three zeroes. 1,000 rubles became 1 ruble.

2001. Toy Factory

- Lesson number 1: an income from dirty money.

- Check!

- Lesson number 2: wasting money.

- Check!

- Lesson 3: illegal source of income.

- Check!

- Lesson 4: failing to make a proper deal with the customer.

- Check!

- Lesson 5: work without prepayment.

- Check!

- Lesson 6: begging.

- Check!

- Lesson 7: night shifts.

- Check!

- Lesson 8: a legal day job with the documents to prove it.

- What? That’s like, a thing?

I got my first proper job during the summer holidays between tenth and eleventh grade, when I was about 17. This two-month work experience even went towards my pension in our “wonderful” pension system.

The work wasn’t too hard, but terribly tedious. I tied pegs onto string, glued this string onto a wooden toy, and then nailed on the arms and legs. It was a kind of wooden toy where you’d pull the ball on a string and it would make the arms and legs go up. My daily quota was 40 toys, which would then be sent off to the women to be painted by hand. One day, a young girl came to me and asked me to fix some toys – its hands and feet were moving badly. She left a whole tray and went away for 30 minutes. Some of them I fixed, and a couple of others I scooped up in the top drawer of my desk and stashed away. The next day they were discovered missing and searched the whole workshop with no luck. Of course they didn’t find them – I’d already taken them the night before. Now it is very shameful to think of it, but then it was impossible to resist. After all, the toys were so cute and so sweet. I didn’t have the brains to simply buy them, although they only really cost peanuts…

Chapter 7. 1996. To Be or Not to Be.

1996. Pool.

What could possibly compare to the ways I’d tried to earn money before? What is on a par with mischief, immoral behaviour, outright theft? Oh, that’s easy. A near-death experience.

Auntie Ira, my late father’s younger sister, had put aside a lot of money for me. In January 1996, I went on tour to Hungary with a dance group named “Klimovchanka”. We couldn’t even perform our dance because we’d brought our music on reel-to-reel tape, and those kinds of recorders no longer existed anywhere in post-socialist Hungary. What I did have, though, was a magical Polaroid camera, and plenty of places to use it: Buda Castle, the Budapest Museum of History, the zoo, and a swimming pool... It was all brilliant, but I was just 10, and in the pool I almost drowned.

The situation itself was pretty serious, still unpleasant to recall today. Coming out of the men's locker room, I jumped into the pool from the diving board into what I thought was the deep end. As it turned out, it was actually middle of the pool. Drowning isn’t rocket science: I knew I was in trouble in a split second. I floundered, waving my arms and jerking my legs as much as possible, spitting water convulsively while swallowing gulps of it at the same time. It was as if they’d not put anything to grab onto in the pool on purpose…

After 10 or 15 seconds, one of the dads escorting us on the trip, whose kids were on the tour, came into the pool. "Finally, my saviour!" I thought with joy as I began to call for help. But my words came out so slurred that all I heard in return was something like, "No, thank you. I'm not going to swim yet, I’m recording a video.” I broke down, a terrible wave of panic washing over me. Only 30 seconds had passed since that fateful jump, but I was drained of all my energy. I saw a handrail nearby. I waded clumsy over and grabbed it.

I clung to the handrail for dear life, trying to recover and breathe calmly.

No, I can't swim, that’s for sure.

1996. Summer veranda.

Though not a potentially fatal story, this one’s rather funny. This time, I’m at a summer camp sanatorium in Stupino, outside Moscow.

One night, it was particularly difficult for the camp leaders to get the children tucked up in bed and to sleep. Instead of sleeping soundly at 9:30pm, we all heard a huge noise coming from the dorm room.

At our camp were two particularly pretty girls: Tanya Bulanova and Lena Krylova. These young ladies were stunning, even by children's standards. They weren’t exactly quiet or shy, but very well-mannered. Because of all the noise, they asked our teacher for permission to move to another bedroom, an older one. For some reason, it was out of use. The girls were allowed to move, and I didn’t really want to be in the loud room either, so I asked to go with the girls. The teacher let me.

We could not get to sleep for a long time, the three of us were buzzing: telling jokes, discussing all manner of things, giggling. We were all so very happy and comfortable in each other’s company. Being just happy kids, we were still oblivious to the potentially sexy-sounding concept of our gathering. Eventually, we fell asleep. The air in this old bedroom got fresher, chillier, throughout the night. In the morning, the room was so cold that our teeth were chattering.

Actually, it turned out this room was a veranda... with no heating. It’s for summertime. We shouldn’t have been allowed to stay there, we could have caught quite a serious cold. But we didn't. We had a warm, friendly evening together, three young kids hanging out. The teacher, however, seemed not to have gotten so lucky. She was quite new, and after that day, we never saw her again.

1996. Escape.

My friends and another teacher from the same sanatorium once provoked me to make an "escape from the camp". These are the same “friends” that I’ve already told you about: the “bad crowd”.

On this day, in the morning of 19th August, my grandmother Marina visited me. She brought different treats and sweets: cookies, fruits, everything yummy. But in the evening, the gang of boys were pressuring me, saying I’d betrayed them for not having brought the treats back and shared them out. I felt hurt, because everyone’s extra snacks were always taken off them by the teachers and shared out among everyone. It was common practice.

It was about 6pm. We were all getting ready for dinner. In a very joyful mood, I washed my hands and went into the dining room. I was caught by a teacher and sent to wash my hands. I told her that I had already washed my hands and showed them. Almost without looking at them, she declared that I was lying, and sent me to wash them again. The final straw...

One minute later I found myself near the gate of the outer fence, and two minutes later I was out, off, walking through the forest. It may sound crazy, but at that time it was quite easy to escape a children’s camp. I had no plan, neither A nor B. Pure improvisation. All I had was a longing to get home. By any means possible.

I wasn’t familiar with this town, I didn’t know the area, so I had no option but to wander aimlessly. I went deep into the forest, walking along a forest road and, after 40-50 minutes, I reached some country houses. I found something like a well, drank from it and after another 20 minutes I came across a railway platform. While writing this book, I Googled this railway platform. It’s called “Akri” station, and, even after a quarter of a century, nothing has changed.

* * *

English version of the autobiographical novel about a Russian boy.

Читать и слушать целиком:

https://www.litres.ru/konstantin-voskresenskiy/the-adventures-of-kesha-the-russian-boy/

https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=faUlEAAAQBAJ

О книге и другие площадки:

https://book.konstantin-voskresenskiy.ru

Автор: Константин Воскресенский.