chapter 28
The study in dark colours
(the continuation)
After some reflection it suddenly came to me that I was not the only one who had a hard time during those five years in the factory region. I was not so little not to remember anything about my parents' sufferings at that time. Yet I can't find even a shred of recollection about it. Perhaps it is still hidden somewhere in my subconsciousness and that's why I always had that sensation of dark colours that prevailed in the picture when I was thinking about that period of my life. Who knows, maybe I didn't understand then what was really happening. Later, of course, my mother told me a lot of stories about those misfortunes that unexpectedly fell on their heads. Besides I still have our old black-and-white photographs that only confirm her tales. For instance, a picture of my father with his chin unshaven lying in a hospital bed, or our family standing in front of our shabby dwelling made from unplastered shell rock: father in his military uniform and mother with me in her arms looking so thin with her cheeks sunken.
I was five when my father had an attack of appendicitis. I have no recollection of my own about it but my mother used to tell me in detail how in spite of keen pain and high temperature he stubbornly refused to go to hospital. When he got there at last his surgeon told him that his operation had been done just in time to avoid peritonitis; the complication that even now, with all the variety of antibiotics, is considered life-threatening. So my father was really lucky in this case. Still, he had to endure a lot of pain because at that time such simple operations were usually done only under local anaesthesia. No wonder he so desperately delayed going to hospital.
But it was not that incident that traumatized my father most of all. I believe it was the loss of two fingers on his left hand that changed his character forever. By that time father had already started working at the machine-building plant in the model workshop where they made models of the machine parts from wood. In the old photo taken there he is actually smiling, evidently showing his coworkers how easily he can work with a chisel in his right hand, helping himself a bit with his mutilated left one still in bandages. At that moment he didn't know yet that although he would work with wood as skillfully as before, he wouldn't be able to play his beloved guitar any more.
And, indeed, no matter how hard my father tried, he couldn't play the guitar properly after that accident. Following his friends' advice, he tried to change his hands while playing it - but in vain. His right hand simply was not able to do the job of the left one. It's a mystery for me but I don't remember anything about my father playing the guitar. It's especially incomprehensible because I have always had a soft spot for its sound. According to the inscription at the back of the photo, where his left hand is still in bandages, I was almost seven then. But all that I can remember it's the finding of an old half-cracked guitar in our shed and pestering my mother with questions. To my astonishment she warned me not to upset my father with questions about it and then told me with some reluctance that it was my father who used to love playing it. However, some time after his accident, he smashed his favourite instrument in a fit of anger.
I asked my son if he remembered anything else because I knew his grandmother couldn't skip such a tale while recounting her endless stories to him. He was sure it happened soon after we moved to our settlement at the edge of the city. But apart from that my son could only recall that when thinking about that episode he always imagined his grandfather sitting with his guitar on a tree-stump in our yard, trying again and again to press the strings on the finger-board with his right hand. And then suddenly jumping to his feet and smashing it against the stump. Now we will never know how exactly it all happened and how many weeks or maybe months passed before my father admitted defeat.
My own achievement in this area has been limited to ”A grasshopper sitting in the grass”, a popular song from a Soviet cartoon, that I used to play on two strings of my husband's guitar. Perhaps for that reason I have never really understood in full measure why his inability to play the guitar became such a blow for my father. As far as I can remember from my mother's tales, he never even took part in any amateur concerts. He just loved to come home from work and play with gusto all his favourite tunes - exactly as many years later my young husband would do. As for my father, it reminded him, I think, of his teen years, when he and my mother used to stroll around the village or through the fields with his guitar for company. And it was not just some warm reminiscence for him but a real passion for music. One of my mother's stories undoubtedly shows it.
I remember her telling me with amusement how they once went to the small town of Savran'. It was at a ten-kilometer distance and they could hardly expect that someone would give them a lift. So they had to get up at the crack of dawn to get to the local market in time. But it was worth it. They spent a few exciting hours there and there they heard a new tune on the radio that fascinated them both. My father loved it so much that when they were coming back home, he asked my mother's permission to leave her half-way to the village and then ran to his orphanage just to grab his guitar and play that marvelous tune while he still remembered it. My mother even gave us the name of the tune - “The smith's dream”. It's a pity that my son couldn't find it on the Internet. I haven't tried to check it myself, thinking that maybe it was for the better. It would be really disappointing if it turned out that I didn't like that music as much as my father did in his teens.
I understand, of course, that the change of my father's character was not aroused only by his failure with the guitar. One can't be young and cheerful forever. As a rule, the older we become, the more pressure we have to endure. My father's new job at the plant was much more tiring than his military service. Especially with only one day-off per week at first, that is until communists finally decided to give people another day-off to have proper rest. Unlike white-collar workers they still had to work one Saturday a month though. Black Saturdays they used to call them. Hard work and constant lack of sleep – that's how I remember my father's work at that damn plant. In addition, he spent part of his evenings studying at a technical secondary school. No wonder he became more irritable and much less cheerful.
Nevertheless, I believe my father's failure with the guitar was a crucial point. I can't call it “the last straw” because it meant much more than just “the straw” to him. It was one of those cases when you suddenly find yourself deprived of something that gave you joy and support in life. Surely, he could still listen to music on our record-player. I remember his favourite singer was Robertino Loretty, a boy with an unusually clear and strong voice. But listening was not the same as eliciting music from the strings with his own fingers. Haven't I felt the same when I had to say farewell to my cycling trips through the fields because of the problems with my legs? It seemed nobody could understand then why it was such a big tragedy for me.
To be continued...
(c) Anna Shevchenko
