Tomorrow 01

 Tomorrow

Janet Baldey

When you were small, before the Great Terror when metal fell from the skies and your mother screamed, you remember hearing people say, ‘tomorrow never comes’. “That’s silly,” you’d say, watching your beloved Mama brush her hair into a golden cloud, “of course it does.  When I go to bed, I’ll wake up in the morning and it will be tomorrow!”  You weren’t a stupid child and the split second the words popped out of your mouth, even before Mama started to laugh, you realised your mistake.  You still remember the slow burn of blood flooding your face.  You hated to be wrong and Mama said afterwards that she could almost hear the cogs in your head whirring as you fought to turn your words around.  At last, you spoke. “Anyway, the world is a big place and I’m sure today is somebody’s tomorrow.”

         But they were right, you think as you look into the mirror trying to see past your grizzled exterior to the child you once were, because the old man staring back at you will never have a tomorrow.  His face is so lined by grief it’s as if someone has taken a knife to it although the pain hasn’t started yet.  When it does, you’ll stuff your mouth full of rags and lock yourself in a cupboard, because no one must hear your agony.  But now, it is time for reflection and you must grasp it because soon torment will drown all thought.  You think briefly of him and hope he’s enjoying his meal.

         You had a happy childhood, all seven years of it.  You had Mama, Baba and Tato.  No brothers or sisters but then you didn’t want to share your Mama who had spun-silk hair and eyes the colour of summer.  Baba was tiny, so dark and shrivelled she looked like a seed potato.  You once asked Mama why Baba was so small and she said it was because she was starved when she was little.  She was lucky to be alive, Mama said because millions of people died when a man called Stalin took all their food.  That was why Baba screeched when you wouldn’t eat your dinner, because she could remember what it was like to be hungry.  'She thinks you’ll die”, Mama said, “like all her brothers and sisters”.  She asked you not to think badly of Baba, and sorrow misted her clear blue gaze.  So, for her sake, from then on you always made a special effort to eat all your food, even the cabbage rolls that tasted like pig dung.

         Your memories drift from dwarf to giant.  Tato was as tall as a house and so strong he could lift a donkey.  You wanted so much to be just like your father but you were small and had pale eyes, not like Tato’s whose were so dark, they twinkled like jet when he laughed.  Sometimes he showed you his muscles and when you felt them it was like prodding iron.  You felt safe then, knowing that he’d never let anyone hurt you.  But Tato wasn’t there when the tanks came, there was only Mama and Baba and no matter how loudly they screamed they couldn’t stop the soldiers when their boots marched into what was left of your house and snatched you away.  The soldiers laughed when you cried.  They were being kind, they said, because you’d never have survived if they’d left you.  How could they not understand that you’d rather die with your family than live without them?  You never heard from your parents again but even now, in the dead hours of the night, you sometimes hear them wailing. 

The truck you were driven away in bounced over the ruts of the ruined earth so violently that soon every muscle in your body hurt as you were thrown from side to side. You grew sure that at any moment you’d fly up, meet its canvas top and only a hole would be left to show you’d ever existed. You actually wished for this, because then your torment would be over.  You’ve learned since that life is never that simple and you close your eyes fighting against mental pain so intense it’s as if acid is dissolving your bones.

Your mind skips over the journey, mercifully shrouded by time, and tiredness, after all, you were only seven.  At last, the soldiers relinquished you, “Untouched,” they joked.  “We are not that sort of beast.”  There were many other children at the place you were taken to, and which they called an orphanage.  You remember raging at the word.  You were not an orphan, you had a family, then the tears would fall and you’d be locked into a little room to control yourself. 

Whilst there, you and the other children, were guarded by stone-faced women who dressed all in black with a headscarf covering their hair and shoulders. They were ancient and strict but you were never abused - if you overlook the fact that lack of love is a form of abuse.  You were fed, so that you didn’t starve.  You remember staring at a dish of thin gruel with dark rye bread and wishing with all your heart you were eating cabbage rolls again.

When you grew big enough you were set to work in the fields, digging up potatoes from the frozen earth or picking fruit. For this, you were paid with an extra bowl of greasy soup with lumps of mutton floating on the top.  It looked foul and no doubt tasted the same but you were so ravenous you gobbled it up without noticing.  One day, instead of working in the fields you and the other boys were set to scrubbing walls and smearing them with paint.  Words were whispered from corners of mouths that special visitors were expected and sure enough next day a small convoy, accompanied by puffs of dust, drew into the courtyard.  Your heart started to beat so hard you were scared people would hear but the men who got out of the trucks were not soldiers.  Tall men in drab raincoats slammed their doors and leaned against them, smoking and chatting.  The nuns made all the older boys line up and you felt the pit of your stomach curdle as the men walked towards you stripping you naked with their eyes.  They stopped right in front of you, and gritting your teeth and, remembering your family, you refused to show fear.  Instead, you stared straight ahead without flinching, ignoring the drum roll in your chest.

“Unusual” said one. “Not normal colouring for a Kulak brat.”

“He will like this one,” said another, “it will be like looking into a mirror.”

“Maybe, it’s one of his by-blows,” yet another said with a snigger that was immediately stifled as he saw his companions’ mouths tighten into trap doors.

So, you and some others were taken away once again.  The journey was smoother this time, Russian roads are straight and not rutted by bombs and cannon shells.  After what seemed like many ages, you were eventually shaken awake and when you stumbled out of the truck you thought you were still dreaming.  Surrounded by forested hills and standing alone under a star-studded sky, was a huge castle whose many walls glimmered in the moon shine.  At the time, you thought you’d never seen anything so beautiful, but then you hadn’t yet seen inside.  That wouldn’t happen for many years and when it did, it was quite by chance.

Although the castle was huge and could hold many people, it was almost always empty except for the paid staff and people like yourself.  You liked it that way.  Your job was to tend the gardens and along the way, you found a sort of happiness.   You loved being   alone and at peace, surrounded by beauty, with the twinkle of the blue sea in the distance.  You loved grovelling in the dirt, planting, weeding, nurturing the earth until it rewarded you with flowers.  One summer day you were far away when suddenly a shadow fell across the grass. You hadn’t heard any footsteps, maybe it was because he walked like a cat. The hairs on the back of your neck prickled and you jumped up, turned around and saw someone you didn’t know but instantly recognised.  A small, neat man with shiny black shoes, with tiny suns reflected in each polished toe.  It’s strange but you always remember those shoes.  Your throat dried as you looked into his pale, flat eyes but frozen into a statue, you showed no emotion and eventually he turned and walked away as soundlessly as he’d arrived.  That was a tale to tell, you simply thought but his mind is a mystery, even to those who purport to know him well, and for some reason, he decided to bring you indoors.  You often wondered why because your duties were minimal.  Your first was to sit outside his door all night.  You were shown a bell to push should anyone pass by, even those he called his friends.  It was a boring job and you grew sleepy but you knew very well, not to close your eyes.  His anger was a fearsome thing, and if you failed you’d pay the price and no-one would ever see you again.  That was the first thing you learned.  As time went by, you learned other things.  For instance, his idol was Stalin.  He admired that monster and remembering Baba, your hatred grew. 

It seems that in the flirt of a bird’s wing, you grew old and your bones began to ache. You were given lighter duties, and one of them was to serve alcohol to his guests after dinner.  It was then you discovered the breath-taking extent of the President’s ambition.  Evening after evening, their voices slurred by vodka, his accomplices egged him on, lauding his goal to emulate his idol and spread the red stain of Russia over all of eastern Europe.  As you poured drinks you listened, you were invisible, you were trusted and after all what harm could an old peasant do?

You learned he was creating a great army with money amassed from the West whose credulous leaders he scorned.  It was said the outrunners of this wall of armed men had already reached the outskirts of your home country and their tanks were a silent column, waiting like cats watching mice.

Your hand shook so much you splashed vodka on a table, was called an ‘old fool’ and dismissed from the room.  As you climbed the stairs to your room, you remembered your family and groaned at your impotence.

The President trusted no one and sometimes you wondered what it was like to be a man who must have known he was hated and feared by the whole world.  What must it be like to have no friends, only people who used you and, given the chance, would turn on you?  But this was not your problem and your problem had just been solved, again just by chance.   The President’s official food taster fell sick with Covid, the disease the West had created specifically to kill Russians, according to official sources.  Immediately, you offered your services and was accepted without question.  So now you had the tool but what good was it without ammunition?  Then you remembered, the weapon of choice for those with no money and only a peasant’s guile.  You’d seen it used once, long ago at the orphanage against a hated priest with a liking for young boys, and it was something could never be entirely forgotten. 

You had to search long and hard before you found it, nestled at the base of one of the Turkish pines that surrounded his mansion where it lay glimmering like a piece of the moon fallen to earth.  Amanita Phalloides.  You looked closer and saw there were two, nestled together in a sinister conspiracy.  To be quite sure, you picked them both and as you did, the faint odour of rose-petals filled the air.  

You had to wait a few days but the cook was a creature of habit and Putin had his favourites, of which mushroom Stroganov was one.  You remember staring at the steaming plateful before demolishing half.  “Fine cooking. He will enjoy this.” You said and made your escape to the safety of your room where you wait.

A few hours after consumption, vomiting and diarrhoea wracks the body but then you seem to recover.  This is an allusion, for toxins are already destroying your liver.  There is no cure and eventually you will welcome Death as a saviour.  So it is that although you will never be rewarded by the news of his demise, you have no regrets.  Your only hope is that you will endure your agony bravely for perhaps this was what you were born for.

Copyright Janet Baldey