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not possible to give punches without taking them . . . It’s the rule of life . . .’
    For two days I did nothing but sleep and, occasionally, eat. I was covered with bruises, and every time I turned over on my side in bed I gritted my teeth. Now and then my father or my uncle would look in at the door of my bedroom and make fun of me:
    â€˜Really makes you feel good, doesn’t it, a sound beating? Will you never learn?’ I didn’t reply, I just sighed heavily, and they laughed.
    On the third day the desire to return to normal life made me get up early. It was about six o’clock and everyone was still asleep, except Grandfather Boris, who was preparing to do his exercises. I felt a discomfort, a feeling very different from pain, but one which stiffens your body, so that every movement you make comes with effort; you’re slow, like an old man who’s afraid of losing his balance.
    I washed, and examined my face in the bathroom mirror. The bruise wasn’t as bad as I had expected, in fact it was barely visible. On my right hand, however, there were two very obvious black bruises, one unmistakably in the shape of a boot heel. While they were beating me up one cop must have crushed my hand: they often did this as a preventative measure, to give you irregular fractures which usually healed badly, so you would never be able to close your fist tightly or hold a weapon. Luckily they were only bruises – I had no fractures or torn ligaments. I had another big bruise between my legs, just below my male pride – it looked as though something black was stuck to my body, it looked very nasty, and above all it hurt when I emptied my bladder.
    â€˜Well, it could have been worse . . .’ I concluded, and went to have breakfast. The warm milk with honey and a fresh egg put me back in the world.
    I decided to go and check my boat on the river and mess about with the nets, and maybe go round the district to ask how my friends were doing.
    Coming out of the house, I found my grandfather doing his exercises in the yard. Grandfather Boris was a rock – he didn’t smoke and had no other vices, he was a total health fanatic. He did wrestling, judo and sambo, and transmitted these passions to all the rest of the family. When he was exercising he usually didn’t stop for a second; so we only greeted each other with a look. I gestured to him, indicating that I was going out. He smiled at me and that was all.
    I went down the street that led to the river. As I passed I saw on the corner, near Mel’s front door, his massive figure. He was naked, except for his underpants, and was talking to a boy from our district, a friend of ours nicknamed ‘the Polack’. He was showing him all his bruises and telling him what had happened, making a lot of gestures and punching imaginary enemies in the empty air.
    I approached. He had a sewn-up wound on his head, a dozen stitches. His horrible face was lit up by a smile and eighty per cent of his body was various shades of blue, green and black. But despite his physical condition he was in a very good mood. The first thing he said to me was:
    â€˜Holy Christ, your poor mother! Look what a state you’re in!’
    I couldn’t help laughing. Nor could the Polack: he bent double with laughter, tears were coming out of his eyes.
    â€˜You clown! Have you seen yourself in the mirror? And you say I’m in a bad way! Go and get dressed, come on, let’s go down to the river . . .’ I gave him a gentle shove with my shoulder and he let out a yell.
    â€˜Can’t you be a bit more gentle with me? I took enough blows for all of you the other evening!’ he said with vanity.
    He hurried off to get dressed and we started towards the river. While we were walking he told me about the others: they were all okay – a little the worse for wear, but okay. The very next day after the fight Gagarin had gone to Caucasus, a district of our