Oswald's Tale

by Norman Mailer

  Her father came home and had a heart attack, and in four months he died. Then another brother was sent to the front and was killed too. Ludmila’s mother had now lost two sons and a husband. Two sons and a husband lost within a year and a half. Difficult years.

  More than four decades ago in Minsk, when Misha, then age twenty-nine, had already become an expert in radiology, he was asked to come in at two in the morning to the office of the Deputy Minister of Health. Stalin did not sleep at night; ergo, there was a rule that government offices also stayed open and only ceased working in accordance with when Stalin went to bed. So, 2:00 A.M. was not an unusual hour to be asked to appear. Misha had no idea why he had been summoned, but once he arrived, he soon encountered a special expression. It went: “There is an opinion that exists that you should . . .” Whichever official you were seeing would then state the details of this opinion that existed. Of course, you never knew who was behind such a suggestion. It might even be a Minister of the Republic, but in any case the particular high official that you are talking to only says, “There is an opinion that exists . . .” It is as if your entire country has come to the conclusion that they must adopt this opinion. All you can be certain of is that it has come from persons higher than yourself. In this case, the opinion that existed was as follows: “We wish you to become the head of our Medical Department in Ministry of Internal Affairs, Byelorussia.” Which meant, of course, that Misha would now be moved over to MVD.

  He was, as far as he was concerned, too young for such a job. It needed someone with more experience in organizing matters. So Misha tried to tell the Deputy Minister that he didn’t want such an assignment; he was a doctor and wished to remain one. He didn’t want to be a boss. The Deputy Minister said to him, “We’ll give you an apartment.” Misha said, “I’m not asking for an apartment. My wife and myself, we have a room, fifteen square meters, downtown.” But this Deputy Minister of Health said, “You’re a young family. You’re going to have children.”

  When Misha still didn’t agree to take this job, the Deputy Minister said, “Dr. Kuzmich, why don’t you want to be promoted? We’re promoting you.” Misha repeated: He just wanted to follow his profession, be a doctor. The Deputy Minister said, “Since you are a very independent person, you can organize your life so you can do both, organization and research.” He spent forty minutes trying to talk Misha into it.

  Now, sitting next to this Deputy Minister was a man in charge of all personnel, and at last, he was told: “Try to see who is available for this job. If there’s anybody in Byelorussia better suited than Misha, I’ll offer it to him. If no one is better, don’t even come back to me. Misha will be appointed.”

  After the interview, Misha took the personnel man aside and said, “Try to find somebody,” but he replied, “I’ve looked through all my lists already; I’m not going through that again. It’s easier for me to draw up the papers. You’re going to be appointed tomorrow.” Thereby was Misha drafted into MVD, and by 1953, he was working with Ilya Prusakov.

  Misha could inform the interviewers that Prusakov was the department head in charge of furniture production by prisoners, which meant being able to coordinate the availability of work gangs in the local gulags with the arrival of materials, and that was a real task, considering how timber came from one part of Russia, paper from another, and he had to bring in these materials on schedule so that every day when his workers came on, the necessary materials would be there for them—paint, timber, glue. To have it all in place was an achievement.

  Since Misha and Ilya had what amounted to equal rank in MVD, it was not extraordinary that they ended up living in apartments approximately equal in floor space and situated across the hall from each other. In addition to his being a neighbor, however, Misha liked Ilya; he considered him a special person. How to put it?—he was not like others. One could respect him. Ilya never talked too much, knew his value, was tall, thin, dignified, educated. Not snobbish, but very intelligent. He had a long fine nose. Knew his value. Misha would say that Ilya was proud of his job, and never late for it, a professional officer. In his Army career, he had won many medals, and not just for good behavior, no, Ilya had bona fide combat medals, an Order of Lenin, a Red Star Order, which is very high; he had even been nominated to be a Hero of the Soviet Union for participating in a major assault on the Scree River. Indeed, at Ilya’s funeral in 1989, his Combat Red Banner had been carried in on a pillow. It was a Soviet custom for the last rites of a military man who had been awarded a fine medal.

  Ilya in person, however, never put his medals on his jacket. And he was ready to contest the decisions of his bosses if he felt they did not obey proper principles.

  Of course, there was no question who was boss of his household. Misha could give one good example: On a hot summer day, after they’d finished work and were on their way home, Misha had said to Ilya, “Let’s go and buy a watermelon,” but Ilya replied, “Oh, Valya will buy it.” Since Valya didn’t work at a job, he wasn’t about to tote a watermelon home.

  Of course, there were sides to his friend that Misha never came to know too well. At this period of time in their Ministry of Internal Affairs, most bosses were simple people; having returned with decorations after the Great Patriotic War, they were given high positions. But Ilya was not only well educated; he even had a copper plate on which was engraved ENGINEER PRUSAKOV. Before the Revolution, many people used a professional title and put it up on their door, but when Ilya did that, people didn’t like it. They mocked him behind his back, until he obtained a sense of the general feeling and took his nameplate off his door.

  Living across the hall, Ludmila saw Valya frequently, and she could see that her neighbor did not have an easy life. She took care not only of Ilya but of his sister Lyuba, who also lived with them, as did Ilya’s mother, and those relatives acted just a little superior. Valya was not a person to complain to her neighbors, but Ludmila did hear about it—her apartment was that rare place where Valya could be open about unhappy matters.

  What offended Valya most was that she was treated like a domrabotnitza, a woman you hire to keep your house in order. Most often, Ilya was not tender with her, or warm, and it was clear that Valya suffered. Years later, it changed. When his mother died and Marina left, Ilya realized then how much older he was than Valya; in his last ten years, he became very ill, and then they were a good deal closer. He came to realize how important this woman was to him and how she took such fine care of him, went to such lengths to buy food that was especially good for him.

  All the same, all through those earlier years, Valya took pains to keep herself in good form; she even looked secure and self-confident; she was, in fact, confident that her family was not going to fall apart. She was never afraid Ilya would leave her for anyone else.

  At that time, in the early Fifties, there was no TV, so generally, their two families would gather by a round table in the evening and Misha would read books aloud. Tatiana was often present. She usually wore dark clothes and was always decently dressed, a very religious person who went regularly to church and kept an icon in her room. Ilya might be a Party member, but he never objected to that, because this icon was just for her room, her private domain.

  Tatiana’s funeral took place at her church, a special service. Valya organized everything, and of course, Ilya was there, and Tatiana’s daughters Lyuba and Musya. Tatiana had been friendly with a young priest, with whom she had a deep spiritual relation; when she was dying, she invited him to her home for a talk. Nothing happened to anyone because of this. In fact, Ludmila and Misha also went to this church on this day, and were not afraid to enter. But Ludmila cannot remember anyone else being buried in such a fashion.

  All of Ilya’s friends from the Ministry of Internal Affairs came—everybody, in fact, but the highest bosses. There must have been thirty people at this funeral. No one cried or showed emotion. Maybe they couldn’t believe they were there in church.

  After Tatiana’s death, slowly bu
t definitely, Valya came to be in charge of everything. When Ilya gave parties, they were good parties, with exceptionally good food cooked by Valya; she was certainly his hostess. But Valya did confess once to Ludmila that while there were very nice people at her gatherings, she could never get quite the same nice people who came to Ludmila’s parties, as, for example, the Minister of Culture of Byelorussia. More or less, she had the same guests each time; Valya would even end up wearing her one best dress every time—maybe try to put a new flower on it.

  All the same, it was a smooth and even life until Marina arrived to stay with them permanently late in 1959. New problems came with her.

  3

  Larissa

  Ludmila’s sister, Larissa, fourteen years younger than Ludmila, is now a lovely, even voluptuous, woman. Her manners are formal, but she smiles a good deal, and it offers a hint of that state of bliss in which she claims to have lived when young. In that time, due to great crowding at home, because Larissa’s mother and her mother’s sister and that sister’s husband all lived in one room nine square meters in size, it was decided that Larissa should stay with Ludmila and her husband, Misha, and she adored them both.

  In those years of early adolescence, Larissa wanted to become a doctor. She wanted to emulate Ludmila. She did well in school, but then in the ninth grade discovered that she could not look at blood. So, she could never go into a dissecting room or a morgue. After that, she even gave the Medical Institute a wide berth. There were corpses in that building.

  In adolescence she dated a lot of boys and had some favorites, but essentially they were all part of a group, and one boy, Misha Smolsky, not to be confused with Ludmila’s husband, Misha Kuzmich, happened to be the soul of their company, one in a million. Misha Smolsky was interested in Western culture. Everything he wore was elegant yet never flashy. It was a beautiful group; they knew how to spend their time tastefully. A lot of dancing went on, and in fact they formed a dancing group called Minchanka, which means “a female inhabitant of Minsk.” She even traveled to other republics with her group. Larissa was slim then, very slim.

  Now, Larissa knew Marina for a long time. She first knew her as a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl who came from Leningrad to Minsk to visit her grandmother in 1954, and that was at a time when Valya and Ilya dwelt across the hall.

  Larissa admired Marina. At thirteen, she was so beautiful, and so curious. And very bright. You looked at her and you were attracted. So, they were friends. At that time, embroidery was popular and they did a lot of that, and took walks together or went to movies. And when Marina went back to Leningrad to live again with her mother and stepfather, Larissa found it hard to part.

  Then Marina came again for a summer visit in 1957, and she had become more practical. She had matured. Larissa was still starry-eyed, but Marina, being now sixteen, knew a thing or two about real life. Her mother was dead, and Larissa could see by the expression in Marina’s eyes that events had left another imprint.

  Then, in 1959, Marina came to live permanently with Valya and Ilya. There she was again, on the same floor, and both girls were now enthusiasts about opera and never missed a premiere in Minsk. “Our standard of living was different in those days,” said Larissa. “What we had wasn’t the worst: We could buy smoked salmon and all sorts of fish, and clothes of some variety were available in stores. In that period we had attractive imported shoes, pretty clothes, and good craftsmen were about.

  “As for sex education—none in those days, none at all. Parents never spoke to one, and you were never taught anything in school—God forbid, no!” Although Ludmila was a doctor, she explained no more to Larissa than that there were physical changes in a woman around early adolescence. There was no talk about sexual life. By tradition, girls were brought up to believe that marriage was not sex but security. So, they were raised in a very romantic way: “Fall in love with a man, kiss him, but you’ll never know what’s really going on—then a child comes. That’s about how it was,” said Larissa.

  Marina knew more, but after all, she was from Leningrad. Even so, they never discussed sex. If they talked about a boyfriend, it was whether he was good at kissing. They might also decide questions of behavior—did he bring flowers? Did he rise to his feet when you entered a room? If he didn’t, Larissa would not pay attention to the fellow, no matter how good-looking he might be. She thinks one reason Marina was attracted to Misha Smolsky’s group is that they all had such good manners. Having come from Leningrad, Marina was more culturally sophisticated than the pharmacy girls she worked with, and so life was probably more interesting for her among Larissa and her friends. Yet, their desire to meet men with good intellect was also accompanied by how such an intelligent person dressed: Did he wear nice white shirts? Did his shoes shine brightly?

  On New Year’s Eve, Larissa went with Marina to give their welcome to 1960 at Misha Smolsky’s dacha, all the way out on Kryzhovka Street, and when they walked in, Marina said, “Guys, no dirty jokes, please! She’s a very modest girl.” Marina treated her as if she were the only source of clear cold water, at least it seems that way to Larissa now. She was naive, and maybe Marina saw how when Larissa loved someone, her love was sincere. All she can say is that this New Year’s celebration was full of life and filled with literate, erudite young people. Larissa will remember it always.

  Misha had come to his family’s dacha early and fixed the place nicely—put up a little Christmas tree, had a table of food laid out. Everything was wonderful. Their jokes were witty, and their records were both Russian and Western. Since they were all good dancers, they did fox-trots, tangos, and waltzes, even a Charleston.

  There were six girls and maybe a few more boys and everyone was dancing with everyone else. It wasn’t as if people had favorites that night; Larissa felt it more as a collective. They all slept over—chastely, of course—girls with girls, boys with boys; but on the next evening, on the first of January, when she and Marina came back by train from Misha’s family dacha, Marina did talk a little about a Jewish fellow she liked, Leonid Gelfant, who had been at the party and was twenty-three years old and, even so, seemed to like her. Larissa thought he was awfully old for their age.

  Larissa remembers that Valya felt herself responsible for Marina and certainly didn’t want her getting mixed up with any wrong people. So, whenever Marina was planning to go somewhere, Aunt Valya would always ask, “Is Lyalya going along?” Because if Larissa was with her, it meant everything would be all right. Larissa is not sure how to say it exactly, but she had had no experience with men and wasn’t looking for any. To her, morality was important and all the rest was terrible. One was supposed to be honest when one got married, a virgin.

  4

  Misha

  In telling about himself, Misha Smolsky, elegant when young and now saddled with bad teeth, wants to state that he belongs at present with high conviction to his minority in Byelorussia, who are called Lithuanian Tatars. Smolsky’s roots, which he is devoted to studying, go back to a very old fifteenth-century family, very old roots. His grandparents were noble people and had their own heraldry.

  In his day, Misha was educated like other Soviet people, which means being obedient, not asking a lot of questions. Actually, he and his friends spent their time thinking about girls; it was very dangerous to discuss politics during those late Fifties and Sixties. When they were twenty years old, all they talked about was where to drink, whom to date.

  While he came from a large family, his father was in construction and had a good financial situation. So, Misha always had money for good clothing. When he was young, his hair was very blond, his Slavonic blood was strong, and he could say that the late Fifties and early Sixties was a period when he loved everybody and everybody loved him.

  He was introduced to Marina through his friend Vladimir Kruglov at the time when Marina was a little bit in love with that guy. Once, they even went to Leningrad together—Kruglov, Marina, and himself. She was returning to her stepfather’s home after
her summer vacation, and Misha can say that he, personally, was overcome by Leningrad: “Can you conceive of it? You keep walking and there are buildings, buildings, buildings—you are caught in a stone forest. Then you go through an arch and suddenly you see this space, an unimaginable space—it is so large that you can’t even think after seeing so many narrow streets. The people who built this are very great.”

  In that period, he wouldn’t characterize Marina as being popular. She was certainly attractive enough and some young men were drawn to her, but that didn’t mean she had a long line of people paying court. What was most striking about her was that she came from Leningrad. In those days, Minsk was a joke.

  Misha used to go to movies with her, and they went out on riverboat trips where they could dance, and listen to Bach, Prokofiev, and Elvis Presley. In those days, Misha wore narrow trousers and shoes with high platforms—as a protest, perhaps. And he was a fan of serious jazz—of Armstrong, Sidney Bechet, Goodman, Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra.