Read Online The Russian Dreambook of Color and Flight by Gina Ochsner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gina Ochsner
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they had no beginning because there was never a time when they didn't already exist. And when Azade thought troubleâher trouble, his troubleâshe started with the city of her birth, Ordzhonikidze. Some people called it Dzaudzhikau and on Russian maps it was called Vladikavkaz. In her mind it was a city of changing names, a city of changed people, a city she
only knew because other people knew it first. Her father described it so many times she felt like it was she, not her father, who hollowed out the graves for good Muslims with a backhoe. Because he told her in such painstaking detail about his days spent turning the dark earth overâthe oily smell of clay and the eyeless fish turning beneath their mantles of mud - she felt certain it was she, not he, who listened to those fish quietly marking the minutes and days of each season. She felt certain that it was she, not he, who carefully notched the graves so that the bodies lay on a burial shelf and so that she could stand in the hole with them, her hands clasped in front of her chest. And it was she who bowed to the heaven and to the earth, and toward the Arab countries where their religion, which nobody in her family had ever pretended to completely understand, had come from. It was she, not her father, who wound the bodies in the white cloth and, after placing the body so that the head faced west, intoned the old burial prayers, words they needed to hear to have a proper send-off.
And because her mother told her about the open bins of cracked coriander, cumin and dried sage, mustard, the stalls of watermelon and cabbage, Azade felt like it had been she, not her mother, who had bartered in the open-air meat market. She who heard the Jewish dogs, who were wiser than the other dogs, bark first at the women with long blue skirts and smart-looking glasses handing out political leaflets. Well, why not? Her mother would say: theirs was still an open city, and as such it was a meeting place, a crossroads in the mountain. Stand at
the crossroads and ask what is the good way and follow it. Good mountain advice and in those days the passes were unregulated. Kamyks, Laks, Uzbeks, Georgians, Chechensâeven leaflet-distributing Russiansâcrossed freely from one mountain territory to another. If you were healthy enough for a mountain crossing, nobody stopped you. It was like this through the strange days of the thirties, until that terrible war. Then the city was no longer called Ordzhonikidze, but Dzaudzhikau. Then came soldiers. Security officers. Until then, her mother explained, they had not known they were part of a people's union of soviets. And when her father, a proud man and a fighter at heart, had heard there was a war, he attempted to enlist. Her mother told her this so carefully Azade could see in vivid detail the enrolling officer's amused but weary smile.
'Nyet,'
the officer said, pointing to a sheet of paper tacked to the wall. People of questionable ethnicityâthat is, anyone who was not originally from northern Russiaâwere to serve their country by relocating. The officer explained then that the spot had already been picked out for them. The sudden understanding that he would be a stranger wherever he went, that he was considered a stranger already in his own town, was almost too much for her father to take.
'What if we refuse to go?' her father had asked, a question so direct it earned him a rifle butt in the stomach. According to that sheet of paper, they were to be allowed to take 500 kilograms of their belongings, which, for most families, amounted to a few pots, a blanket, some salt. But everyone was in such a
hurry, her mother said, prodded into the cattle cars, packed like animals, they were lucky if they got all their children with them.
All this her mother told her. Every story Azade had ever known she heard first from her mother. Because this is the way it is with words between parents and children. The stories of the
only knew because other people knew it first. Her father described it so many times she felt like it was she, not her father, who hollowed out the graves for good Muslims with a backhoe. Because he told her in such painstaking detail about his days spent turning the dark earth overâthe oily smell of clay and the eyeless fish turning beneath their mantles of mud - she felt certain it was she, not he, who listened to those fish quietly marking the minutes and days of each season. She felt certain that it was she, not he, who carefully notched the graves so that the bodies lay on a burial shelf and so that she could stand in the hole with them, her hands clasped in front of her chest. And it was she who bowed to the heaven and to the earth, and toward the Arab countries where their religion, which nobody in her family had ever pretended to completely understand, had come from. It was she, not her father, who wound the bodies in the white cloth and, after placing the body so that the head faced west, intoned the old burial prayers, words they needed to hear to have a proper send-off.
And because her mother told her about the open bins of cracked coriander, cumin and dried sage, mustard, the stalls of watermelon and cabbage, Azade felt like it had been she, not her mother, who had bartered in the open-air meat market. She who heard the Jewish dogs, who were wiser than the other dogs, bark first at the women with long blue skirts and smart-looking glasses handing out political leaflets. Well, why not? Her mother would say: theirs was still an open city, and as such it was a meeting place, a crossroads in the mountain. Stand at
the crossroads and ask what is the good way and follow it. Good mountain advice and in those days the passes were unregulated. Kamyks, Laks, Uzbeks, Georgians, Chechensâeven leaflet-distributing Russiansâcrossed freely from one mountain territory to another. If you were healthy enough for a mountain crossing, nobody stopped you. It was like this through the strange days of the thirties, until that terrible war. Then the city was no longer called Ordzhonikidze, but Dzaudzhikau. Then came soldiers. Security officers. Until then, her mother explained, they had not known they were part of a people's union of soviets. And when her father, a proud man and a fighter at heart, had heard there was a war, he attempted to enlist. Her mother told her this so carefully Azade could see in vivid detail the enrolling officer's amused but weary smile.
'Nyet,'
the officer said, pointing to a sheet of paper tacked to the wall. People of questionable ethnicityâthat is, anyone who was not originally from northern Russiaâwere to serve their country by relocating. The officer explained then that the spot had already been picked out for them. The sudden understanding that he would be a stranger wherever he went, that he was considered a stranger already in his own town, was almost too much for her father to take.
'What if we refuse to go?' her father had asked, a question so direct it earned him a rifle butt in the stomach. According to that sheet of paper, they were to be allowed to take 500 kilograms of their belongings, which, for most families, amounted to a few pots, a blanket, some salt. But everyone was in such a
hurry, her mother said, prodded into the cattle cars, packed like animals, they were lucky if they got all their children with them.
All this her mother told her. Every story Azade had ever known she heard first from her mother. Because this is the way it is with words between parents and children. The stories of the
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