Childhood - (Junior High Part) (Revised Version)

Author: Maxim Gorky (USSR)
Publisher:
Publish Date: 1988-05-01
Features: In the dim little room, my father lay on the floor beneath the window, dressed in white, his body stretched out very long. His bare toes were strangely spread open, and his dear hands lay quietly on his chest, fingers also bent. His happy eyes were tightly shut, like two round copper coins, and his kind face was dark and frighteningly bared his teeth at me. My mother knelt there, her upper body unclothed, her lower half wrapped in a red skirt. She used the small black comb I loved to shave watermelon rinds to comb my father's long, soft hair from his forehead to the back of his head. My mother kept talking to herself, her voice rough and hoarse, her gray eyes swollen as if they were about to melt, tears rolling down in large drops. Grandmother took my hand. She was round-faced, with a big head and big eyes, and her soft nose was quite amusing; she wore all black, and her entire body was soft and extremely playful; she also cried, crying in a unique way, as if skillfully accompanying my mother's tears, trembling all over, pulling me towards my father. I hid behind her, stubbornly refusing to go; I was both scared and felt awkward. I had never seen adults cry before and didn't understand what Grandmother meant when she kept saying, "Say goodbye to your father, you'll never see him again, dear child, he died too young, too soon." I had been through a serious illness. I had just recovered when I remembered clearly: my father was taking good care of me happily, but later, he suddenly disappeared, replaced by a strange person—a Grandmother—to take care of me. "Where did you come from?" I asked her. She replied, "From above, from Nizhny, not by walking, but by boat, you can't walk on the water, you little devil!" It was quite funny and confusing, because there were several Persian bearded men with dyed hair living in our house, and an old yellow-faced Kalmyk③ man in the basement who sold sheepskins. You could slide down the stairs along the railing, and if you fell, you'd roll over like a somersault—this I knew very well. What did this have to do with water? Everything was mixed up, and it was laughably confusing. "Why are you a little devil?" "Because you're talkative," she also laughed. She spoke in a warm, cheerful, and fluent manner. From the day I first met her, I became close to her, and now I hoped she would take me away from this room quickly. My mother made me feel oppressed; her tears and wails evoked a strange, uneasy feeling in my heart. For the first time I saw her like this—she was usually stern and rarely spoke; she always dressed neatly and orderly, tall and sturdy like a horse: she had a wiry build and strong hands. But now, for some reason, her whole body seemed to swell, making it look uncomfortable, her clothes torn to shreds; her hair, which was usually combed neatly like a shiny hat, was now scattered to her bare shoulders, hanging over her face, the half of her hair braided, swaying back and forth, touching my sleeping father's face. I had stood in the room for a long time, but she didn't even glance at me; she kept combing my father's hair, crying uncontrollably, tears streaming down in ripples. The black-clad villagers and the police peered into the room through the door. The police grumbled, "Hurry up and clear out!" The window was covered with a black shawl, which billowed like a sail. Once, my father took me out in a sailboat. Suddenly, a thunderclap rang out, and my father laughed, holding me tightly with his knees, shouting, "It's okay, don't be afraid, 'Scallion Head'!" Suddenly, my mother struggled to push herself up from the floor, sat down immediately, and fell face down, her hair scattered on the floor. Her eyes were tightly shut, her pale face turning blue. She bared her teeth like my father, saying in a terrifying voice, "Close the door. Alexey, get out!" Grandmother pushed me away and ran to the door, shouting, "Dear people, don't be afraid, don't pay attention to her, for Christ's sake, please leave! This isn't cholera, it's childbirth, please forgive, dear people!" I ran to the dark corner, hid behind a box, and watched my mother rolling on the floor, groaning, her teeth grinding, Grandmother crawling beside her, speaking affectionately and cheerfully, "For the Holy Father and the Holy Son, Valya, endure! The Virgin Mary will protect you." I was terrified. They were busy on the floor beside my father, touching him, sighing, shouting, but he remained motionless, as if still smiling. They stayed busy on the floor for a long time. My mother stood up and fell down several times. Grandmother rolled out of the room like a big, soft, black ball, and then rolled back in; later, suddenly, a child's cry was heard in the dark.