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
