The Museum of Abandoned Secrets

by Zabuzhko, Oksana

  It’s all very complicated, you know. And you want things to be just cut-and-dried, nice and tidy! Like now—you must be sitting there, listening to me talk and wondering, what’s all this about. Yes? I can tell...everyone’s in such rush, can’t wait.... You want the archives opened, want your documents brought out to you on a silver tray, want them declassified before the fifty-year term runs out.... Do you know how many waves like this I’ve lived through already? And you with your film are just the same. And the consequences—have you thought about that? People’s children, grandchildren. What have they done to deserve that?

  Eh, Daryna Anatoliivna...I very much would have preferred it that way—not to know everything. Sometimes, you think—here I am, I survived.... But for what?

  Only Nikushka...my girl. She’ll always need me.

  You’re cold now? Well, that means we need to drink some more. My father-in-law used to say—“Let’s save ourselves...we’re getting sober!” Come on, don’t be shy.... Your health! Uff.

  He was the one who rescued my family...saved it, I mean. My father-in-law. Nika was born later. If it hadn’t been for him, who knows how it all would have turned out. Such emptiness there was...like a black hole...such a dark stretch. At work—gloom, and at home—gloom. What’s the way out? What could there be? Once you’re in the system, you, my dear, have only two options—up or down! You don’t get a third choice. Those are the rules. Until then, things were going up for me, but when they head down—you whole life goes down the drain. And I was only thirty! And not a glimmer of light at home, I had nowhere to go. My better half was pissed at me. She was afraid they’d pack us off to the middle of nowhere, where she wouldn’t be able to buy the shearling coat she wanted...from our chancery—she’d just put her name on the waiting list for one. My father-in-law later shipped in a whole container of those shearlings from Afghanistan, but those weren’t the right kind for her, either, because everyone already had one like that—llama fur they were called, with those white tails like snot. Eh, why am I telling you this! All women are stupid. Sorry. That’s what I thought at the time. Meaning—that that’s what everyone’s life was like. I’d never met a different kind of woman. And they only showed the Decembrist wives in movies....

  So that was when I met your mom. That was a first for me...in my experience. And, well, the last. After Stalin, they no longer used this method, but right at that time we got instructions to start again—“if the husband, then the wife”...one woman got time that way—her husband was sentenced for anti-Soviet agitation, and she went to visit him...to the camps. But—that was Fifth Department’s turf; I never touched anything like that. Our job was to prepare the soil for them, so to speak, yes, I knew which way the wind was blowing; I read the instructions, too. All such methods were first tried out with us in Ukraine, and only then expanded to the other republics...to the whole Union. Of course, it’s illegal, but what can you do? You got your orders from above—go execute them! That’s our job.

  There was a time when this idea used to help me. Mobilized me. When I was young. Helped not to lose shape, not to start slipping...spinning. Not to think...maybe it would have been even better in the army. But—what’s the point now? It’s good things worked out the way they did. I am not complaining, and my conscience is clear.

  Cognac for you? It’s good cognac, Transcarpathian. Good for the blood pressure...prevents hypertension.

  Uff!

  So peaceful out here! So quiet...

  You know, I had never met a woman like your mother before. Or after. Sometimes, that’s the way it happens in life; there are such times when everything comes together at once, and it’s just one thing after another. I had just learned about my birth mother for the first time...and that she never told them who my father was...didn’t give them the name...and then, when I was working with your mother—I understood, finally, how that could be possible. I believed it. I believed that it could happen. And that you could take anything for having been loved like that...camps, prison, loony bin...everything! You don’t care. You could go out there onto the Senate Square, without a second thought—and be demoted for it, from officer to private. That’s why the Decembrists came out...that’s how they could do it. And I was inside a different system. From the day I was born—I was born in prison, wasn’t I? I knew how to put a person on his knees...before the whole class...I knew how to find people’s weak spots. I’m not just telling you this—I was talented; it wasn’t only the people who knew people who got promoted to captain by the time they were twenty-eight! But that’s another matter.... The way those men were loved—no one ever loved me like that. And no one would have waited for me.

  That’s a big thing, you know—when someone is waiting for you...

  He was lucky...your dad.

  Ehh, Daryna Anatoliivna...I don’t want you to think that I...I thought so at the time. The older I get, the more I think about this. There was a movie back then, in the ’70s, about the Decembrists’ wives, do you remember? I forget what it was called. It had this actress in it, from Kyiv—Irina Kupchenko...she looked like your mom...I went to see the movie again, when it was in the second run, and I was at the archives already. But that’s another matter. Yes.

  Beg pardon? Yes, they transferred me. Trusted me. That’s to my father’s credit—Boozerov’s; it’s all his effort. He renewed my...background purity, so to speak—went all the way to Moscow, to his postwar bosses...found everyone who was still alive—those who were informed of my...adoption. Up till then, my service record was spotless—until that museum. And who’d have thought—a museum! You’d think it’s a nice place...quiet, mostly female staff...and look how it turned out. So, I got transferred. From field operations, from working with people to working with documents. That was for the best, too, as it later turned out. In life, it’s often like this—you think: this is it, I’m done, and later you see—it’s even better. Because that was the second time in a row that I...my second failure, with your mom—right after that Jewish woman. Except that with your mom, I did it myself; I made the decision. I didn’t start the case on her, and wrote it like that in my report—that it would be a waste of resources, so to speak. Wrote up her profile. My boss read it—he got mad: “What are you doing here?” he asked. “Recommending her for the Communist Party?” But they put the brakes on it anyway, didn’t pursue it any further...changed their minds. And the hook was already cast...

  Nikushka hadn’t been born yet then. She came later. And you were going to school already. You were such a skinny little thing, pale—I once saw your mom pick you up from school...I wouldn’t have recognized you now! No way. When I first saw you on TV, I thought—that can’t be right...

  So, yeah, that’s how it goes.

  You know, in the army things are simpler, they have a clear line: there’s home, and there’s work. And the aggression is strictly localized in time: at seven a.m.—drills, you screw up—get a boot in your face. Hic! Excuse me...so with my father-in-law you did better to leave him alone on weekend mornings. In NKVD, under Stalin, they worked nights—with the same idea—but in our times it no longer worked that way. My father, Boozerov—he was still old school...he fought the banderas, after all...fought with the dead, and it was to them he kept making his point for the rest of his life. Raised me to be meaner...but careers weren’t being made on aggression anymore; you didn’t get ahead by being mean. Knowing you had been chosen—that’s what kept you in the services! The feeling of being initiated...to the services...to the state’s holy of holies...a great state’s, one that makes the whole world tremble! The might! The mystery of power, as this one man said, a director of a Moscow institute, he came to speak to us recently...the mystery, yes! When you’re young, it’s hypnotizing; it can replace both home and family.... And then one blow like that—and you find yourself...naked. Naked. And you don’t, it turns out, want anything, nothing at all—only to be loved...for someone to be waiting for you...even to have you back from the loony bin. Hic! Knowing in
what shape people came out of our loony bins and wanting you back anyway. I made sure I told her. Your matinka. I warned her...

  Yes, I did.

  Sometimes I wonder who he was, my father. My birth father, I mean.... Why did she love him so much? My mother? She could have survived...she was so young then; she wouldn’t even be eighty now...my mother-in-law’s eighty-two...she could have lived this long, too. How could she have done that? Sometimes you think—she was just foolish, a silly girl. She was too young; she didn’t understand...life...and then I remember your mom...Olga Fedorivna, yes, I remember. And? How did her life go...afterward?

  Well...that’s good...good that it went well. Only, you know, when you have a daughter of your own...when you have your own children, you’ll understand me. It’s only in your movies that everything comes out so pretty. And I’ll tell you from my experience: as soon as you read a document that’s so pretty, so smooth, reads like Leo Tolstoy or something, not a word out of place—you should know it’s fake...it’s all fake, written for the reporting purposes. You can be ninety percent sure. Don’t think that as soon as you have a document in your hands, you’re done.

  And you just wait, what’s your rush?.... They’re just starting to bite now.... Last Sunday I pulled a champ of a zander here, a twelve pounder! This big! Don’t worry, I won’t knock it over...let’s put it over here, that bottle, closer this way.... Hic! Excuse me.

  Have a pickle, it’s homemade...my wife marinates them! You won’t find another one like it. She’s really stupid, of course, but runs a great house! Father-in-law’s schooling. And Nika takes after me. Thank God. Some girl I have, no? Knock on wood...she’s my blood!

  My conscience is clear, Daryna Anatoliivna. And please don’t go enlisting me in the shtrafbat. You think I don’t understand? You think I’m too dumb to know? I’ve done my time, thank you. My father knew it too...Boozerov. He knew he got spat out. We all got spat out. Right, wrong...wherever you stood with the organization. All the same! Your father and mine, the same. Yes, the same! Only mine realized it first. Boozerov did. Long before the Union fell apart.

  Hic! There’s water right by you, would you mind passing? No, I’m fine; it’s just to wash down my pill...thank you.

  You know, I once heard this writer speak, she’s the one—forgot her name—who wrote about sex...under field conditions...some-thing like that. I don’t remember exactly the way she said it, but the main idea was that if you’re born in prison you grow up either prisoner or guard. No other choices, so to speak. And I disagree with that! I flat out disagree. I myself was born in prison—and what would have come of me if it weren’t for him...my father, the man who raised me?

  No, you didn’t understand. Hic! You can’t just be so black and white.... What do you mean, either prisoner or guard? So what then, a whole generation is guilty merely by virtue of the time they were born? Those who survived—they’re guilty? And they should all have hung themselves...to come out clean, is that how it is? A noose around your neck—and you’re out? Then you’re a hero—fit for the movies? That’s what you’re doing, with your film, too. Okay, alright, I understand, let them be heroes—they fought...for Ukraine’s independence. We have independence now, times have changed—so we should honor them. Put up monuments and such...fine. But why do you insist on digging in these...deaths? On bringing back these death lovers? Is that a good example for the young people? Why do they need to know these things?

  They need to live, Daryna Anatoliivna. Live! Not look back. You know what people say: the less you know, the better you sleep. I, for one, am very glad that Nika did not know old Boozerov while he was alive. My mom, our Grandma Dunya, may she rest in peace—she just bloomed after he died! Shed years. Lived another two decades. Raised Nika, had that joy in her old age...Nikushka loved her too. She’s always taking flowers to their graves at Lukyaniv cemetery...we all go, as a family...Memorial week, Victory Day...and the Cheka Officer’s Day, of course! I’ve given her what I could. She has what I didn’t have. My daughter grew up in normal family! Like regular people have. If it were up to me—I wouldn’t have told her anything at all, let her think she is Boozerova, like her grandparents. But my mother-in-law just had to get in there, the snake...and what would you have me do? Tell my child that her birth grandmother hung herself in prison after three men raped her during an interrogation?

  Yes, she did. Hung herself. In her cell, on her own braid. Hic! Used her braid to...strangle herself. I myself didn’t know until a couple years ago. I dug it out...spent twenty years digging—to find that. Was that a good idea? You tell me, was it?

  They were men from the front, my dear, men from the front.... You’ve got to understand. It was okay with German women in ’45; war wrote it all off. And the banderas—they were basically considered as good as the Nazis: the Ukrainian-German nationalists, that’s what they called them. The Germans had Ukrainian-Jewish nationalists and we had Ukrainian-German ones. That’s the lot she drew...my Jewish mom. If not Jewish during the war, then—sign here, please!—you’re German afterward. And no one told her, poor girl, not to aggravate young men who’d conquered half of Europe, went all the way to Berlin! Wrote their names on the Reichstag. You know what the biggest thing was my father—Boozerov—saw written on a Reichstag wall? Letters this big! Excuse my language, I’ll say it as it was: I FUCK YOU ALL!

  Uff. Don’t worry, alcohol has no effect on me. Sometimes I wish it did, I think to myself—what a waste...

  What did you think was going to happen? That I’d find piece of paper for you—and you’d have it all? They don’t write things like that on those pieces of paper, my dear...

  The investigator? He was disciplined, yes. And those other two, as well. All got demoted in rank...for two months. A suicide in prison—that’s a severe breach, worse than an escape. How did she pull that off? A perfect escape. Escaped from me, too...my own mother. Like in that song: “Dearest mother of mi-ne, tell me why you aren’t sle-eping.... ” Sorry...if only I knew where she’s buried, I’d have carved these words on her tombstone.

  And you come to me to see about your relative’s grave. A grave! Where they took bodies from prisons, where they buried them—who’s going to tell you? Those who did the burying are not talking...if they’re still alive. There was this veteran, from Russia—he came out not long ago—he was on the team that processed Shukhevych’s body after the MGB killed him. A special operation; the team got extra leave afterward. They took the body out, burned it, and spread the ashes—in a forest, overlooking the Zbruch river. There was no trace left to be found! Do you understand? No trace at all, and that’s how they do it now, too...in Chechnya: after they secure a place—total erasure. You won’t find anything! And I won’t find out either...where my own mother was buried. So now what? Huh? You can’t tell me...I’ll tell you! I will. When you have your own children—you’ll understand. Because a child needs to have a...a place, a memorial, a cemetery in the city, where she can go when all her friends go with their parents and then talk about it at school. It’s not like she’s from somewhere else—she’s a Kyivite. These are her roots, basically. If you have graves—you have roots. Grandfather, grandmother. Everything I didn’t have—I’ve given her. My daughter is not an orphan! When she was little, I showed her the portrait on the headstone, taught her to say, Grandpa, Grandpa—she still says it like that. And God forbid...God forbid...Hic! Excuse me. No, I’m just...something in my throat.

  Don’t go digging in there! What do you want from it? Leave it alone.

  You think it’s fear talking? Well, yes, it is fear! Fine, if that’s what it is. How do you live without fear? Everything will come apart—look at it coming apart now! A whole state came apart as soon as people stopped being afraid. I’m fifty-six, and I spent my whole life being afraid: I was afraid of my father, of my bosses, afraid to make a mistake at work. And now I’m done; I’m not afraid of anything—myself, I’m not afraid for myself. If only you could see how...horrific. The braids she had...in th
e picture...my mother, Lea Goldman...two braids, out over the front of her shoulders...black. Nikushka has such beautiful hair, too, so thick. Grandma Dunya braided it for her, for school. No one will see that picture. Maybe when she herself is fifty. When she has her own children, grandchildren. If she is curious to know...I saved the picture. Of the whole file, I saved the picture...I didn’t show it to anybody. And I won’t...God forbid...knock on wood...I’ll knock on every tree along this shore, with my head if I have to....

  And pressing buttons—no, thank you! I’ve got a child; she needs me. My own mother didn’t need me. She didn’t think twice about abandoning a tiny baby, not even two months old, to be raised by strangers—fine! But my daughter needs me, my only flesh and blood. Everything I have—it’s all for her! The grandparents’ apartment, the dacha—my father-in-law basically built it with his own hands. She wanted the Conservatory—go ahead, child, do the Conservatory! We’ll manage; while I’m alive, she won’t want for anything! Let her study. God willing, she might make it...as some soloist, she’s talented. And she’s got ambition too, thank God, I gave her that, too—the confidence I never had; I was wolf cub. Whatever I could—I’ve given her! And as long as I’m alive, that’s how it will be. My conscience is clear; I’m not guilty before anyone.