Some have been deprived of the joys of Christmas, having little to nothing to hold onto, save distant memories...yet a simple thing can bring back the happiness of the Season to them, if only for a brief moment. # 22 in the saga series
"Petrushka"
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He stood attention in line at while the snow swirled bitterly around him and the other recruits. The space to his right usually occupied by his friend Valery was empty now, and he tried not to show his sadness or his fear.
A recruit for Military Intelligence was given just so many chances while training and Valery Nemikoff had used all his. Once the failures had stacked up and the trainee found lacking was sent away, never to be heard from again.
Illya suspected Sepakov, as they had all been lead to believe that those who had seen too much of the Soviet training methods were sent to their fiery deaths there to keep the secrets of the GRU safe. No one was ever seen once they were taken away, so it was not known if the rumors were true or whether they were simply used as a ploy to frighten young recruits into training harder, and to make less mistakes.
Whether it was to a such a death as was threatened or not, it did not really matter. There was only one way out and they all knew it. To leave GRU one had to die, whether it was death while performing one's duty to the motherland, or it was death as punishment for failure...it was inconsequential, as it was death still the same. She was a cold mistress to have in your bed night after night.
Once he graduated, he did his job quietly and efficiently, trying to stay out of the watchful eyes of his superiors. Better to stay unnoticed and stay alive.
His would be an unremarkable career while an agent of the GRU as he had learned hard lessons in his youth to keep to himself. Viktor Karkoff, his sponsor, was his only political connection but that association was tenuous at best as Illya Kuryakin was to learn later that Viktor was not well liked at the Directorate. Being Karkoff's protegée put him in an awkward position, making him more disposable than others.
Realizing it was more often than not; there were attempts made to trip him up by others who saw themselves as higher up the political ladder. Sometimes in the GRU it was not only what you knew, but who you knew as well, and Illya knew no one but Viktor.
He was lacking in social connections, and it was obvious when he was given his first assignment as a new agent, being sent to the closed city of Gorky for the ignominious task of eavesdropping on the resident scientists.
Kuryakin would spend hours upon hours of listening in on often mindless conversations, mainly about nothing as the scientists were not permitted to discuss their projects outside their labs.
So he did not even have the pleasure of listening in on little if any interesting scientific discussion and so he left for the day once his boring shift was over and he handed off the reins of recording and listening to his replacement without a word being exchanged between the two of them.
It was better to stay silent and only bring what was deemed significant so a superiors attention, and no one else.
The time was late when Illya walked with a sense of wariness as he walked homewards, feeling he was being watched. He passed beneath the silent gaze of the statue of Kuzma Minin as it stood in the square still giving him that nervous feeling that always seemed to be lurking just beneath the skin, causing those telltale goosebumps and making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up at attention. It really was just part of the job, being a little paranoid.
He remembered the words of his Uncle Vanya, telling him that he had a bit of the gift in him, part of his gypsy heritage was an ability to sense things. Sometimes part of the child that was barely left in him wanted to believe it, but the adult in him, the trained agent for the Glavnoye Raznedyvatel'noye Upravieviye told him that it was nothing more than superstitious nonsense.
More often than not he just put his ability to have survived this long to mere luck and nothing more, which in and of itself was also a superstition. That was a conundrum he'd leave to ponder on another day.
Right now he needed to remain wary and be mindful as he walked home to his crowded apartment. The snow crunched beneath his feet as a pair of Tundra swans flew overhead, calling his attention to them with their high-pitched honking as they disappeared southward.
He was tired, having spent the day at his mind-numbing assigned task, monitoring the conversations of scientists who were like prisoners as they worked on their secret government projects in the city of Gorky. He had been given this glorious task because of his scientific background and ability to grasp the theoretical. It was assumed that he would be able to pick up on any scientific jargon that might be used as code in the passing of precious Soviet secrets.
The beginnings of a headache annoyed him and wanted to get home to eat before the food was gone. Most people walking past him kept their heads down, minding their own business as they hurried along their way. It was getting late, and if he didn't get home quickly; he'd miss supper again. He pulled down his black lamb's wool ushanka hat tight on his head, wrapping his arms around his chest for warmth as his woolen coat seemed insufficient against the wind.
It was beginning to snow again and looked as though it was going to be a heavy storm from the the dark and ominous clouds that were billowing in the sky. All the more reason to get home. Tomorrow he was free to have the day to himself, perhaps with the weather turning bad; he would stay under his blankets to keep warm and simply read.
It was the one luxury he permitted himself, the companionship of a good book. He would devour scientific texts, as well as the approved works of Tolstoy, Chekov or Dostoyevsky, but was very careful with his choices lest he be accused of reading banned books. That list constantly changed, so one needed to remain aware at all times.
Living communally with six other adults in an apartment barely suitable for one was a constant trial to find peace and privacy as well as anything edible. These people ate like animals, devouring the food on the table like ravenous beasts, and unfortunately in that area he had become just like them. If you didn't eat quickly, you didn't eat.
There never seemed to be enough as they subsisted on potatoes, turnips cabbage and mostly root vegetables. The black bread had barely any flavor and texture to it, and once every few weeks they would pool their resources and buy a bony piece of grizzled meat to put to their stew as it was called. Each day more and more water would be added to the mix, sometimes someone would generously sacrifice some vodka to add some zest to the bland mush that it would become.
Vodka was the one commodity that was never in short supply, though of poor quality it served to help banish the grumbling of empty bellies., It was if the government thought that if they kept the people dependant upon it; then it would help them forget about their hunger and make them more compliant. What it did was to create a generation of alcoholics, lacking any motivation what so ever other than to trundle along with their tedious daily routines like mindless worker ants.
As he reached the far side of the square, passing by the arch of the red Dimitrovskaya tower with its bright green tiled roof when he saw them...just off the square, a line of people filing in front of a one of those sterile concrete apartment buildings erected by the government as part of their plan for uniformity. Lines like this meant only one thing, someone was selling some sort of contraband and he made note of the location to inform his superiors.
It was his duty to report such things, though he did it with less zeal that some of his other fellow agents. He drew closer to see what it was that would make people risk being caught selling and buying illegal goods in such a very public place.
Covering a small table were Matryoshka dolls, richly painted and laquered, truly a work of peasant art and craftsmanship, taking countless hours to carve and decorate them illustrating different skazka_fairly tales. There were myriads of brightly painted clay Dymkovo toys in the likenesses of people and animals, some made into penny whistles, as well as Petrtrushkas, stained and painted marionettes and hand puppets of different sizes.
He wondered why people would risk going to prison for such things, then he suddenly remembered the date, it was Christmas. It was not supposed to be celebrated and yet people persisted in the old ways. He shook his head, amazed that half starved people would waste their hard earned rubles and kopeks on such frivolities.
It was that time of year that some people preferred to forget, as loneliness ruled their hearts or it could be a time of great joy for others. Some people celebrated in defiance, others denied it. But periodically a memory would be sparked by the simplest of things and called to those who were on the outside looking in, giving them a brief moment of happiness...
He prepared to write the information in his notebook, but then he spotted one marionette, it was the jester ...the Petrushka with its long nose dressed in red with his pointed red kolpak hat on his head. Suddenly his long hidden memories were ripped out of the dark recesses where he'd buried them long ago.
Illya saw his Babushka standing in the family room of their dacha, making Petrushka dance by his strings with the hearth as his backdrop as she pretended her voice to be the puppet's, singing a song to he and his baby sister Katiya and the twins Misha and Sasha. The boys cooed and gurgled, and their sister laughed and laughed, and he joined them until his sides hurt.
Illya Kuryakin , a trained killer, found himself standing there in the snow, grinning like an idiot as he stared at that red puppet. He walked up to the table inquiring as to the price of the it and it being only a ruble; he pulled the coin from his pocket, one of his last and bought the toy.
He looked over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't being watched, then tucked his forbidden treasure under his coat, returning home late now and convinced that he would go hungry, as all the food would probably be gone.
But when he arrived he found someone had saved him a bowl of stew with a bit of meat in it and a chunk of bread, having had pity on the poor student that they thought he was. Surprisingly, there was butter for the bread tonight as well as a bit of jam.
They were half right in their assumptions, as he was poor. And having spent that ruble on the puppet would leave him short for until he received his next pay, but he just shrugged it off knowing that he would manage as he always had.
They raised their glasses of State approved vodka, offering the traditional toast.
"Na zdorov'e_health"
There was no Holy Supper, no church vigil, Grandfather Frost, or the Snow Maiden and no gift giving or decorations... nothing. There was only the symbol of the tree as a secular icon of the New Year holiday, with the crowning star not representing the star of Bethlehem, but the Red Star of the Soviet Union. Such a tree stood in the foyer of their apartment building.
The adults who had known true Christmas missed it and the children growing up without it had nothing to miss. This was now an atheist State and Illya supposed that suited him just fine as he really had little left to believe in.
The State had been his mother, and Viktor Karkoff attempted to be a surrogate father, for all it was worth. But he no longer had a sense of family or belonging to anyone. On the contrary, he belonged to the State. He existed to do their bidding and nothing more, that left him feeling empty and wanting.
He was lonely but never dared show it, he could not risk even trying to have a few friends for fear he would be told to spy upon them and potentially betray them someday. He remembered sadly his only friend that he had permitted himself... Valery from training. He felt no guilt as he had nothing do do with what happened to him.. Valery was betrayed by no one but himself. It was after that Illya resolved to be close to no one. What you did not have, you would not miss.
He tried to convince himself of that.
Illya and his housemates all said goodnight, going off to the relative warmth of their beds. He was lucky enough to have a cot of his own, though sometimes the thought the extra body heat would be good. But the odor emanating from some of his more earthy companions left something to be desired, making him think twice about that wish for extra warmth. His blankets would have to do.
No one toasted a happy Christmas that night, but he knew it was what they were all thinking. In spite of the government decree against religion, the peasantry still held onto their beliefs; though he had denied the existence of God out of anger when he was a child and the secular holiday was meaningless to him. It did once have meaning when he was a child, but that was long ago when he could remember being happy.
He repeated those forbidden words to himself as the memories came back to him, memories that he would normally have suppressed as they were too painful at times.
But tonight he allowed himself to relive some of his childhood as he lay in his bed, tucking Petrushka under his pillow as he fell asleep, dreaming happy dreams of dancing puppets, his Babushka's songs and his baby sisters laughter.
"S Rozdestvom Khristovym_Happy Christmas Illya Nickovich," he whispered to himself.
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"Papa do it again!" Demya Kuryakin called out to his father. Lourdes Mary sat on the floor beside her brother clapping her hands gleefully and giggling in delight as her fathers antics. The Solo twins, Appollonia and Lucine were on the sofa with their Daddy, while Elliott and Bella stood in the door way to the Kuryakin living room.
"Yes arís_again!" Elliott called out in Irish.
"Bravo, bravisimo! Di nuovo_ again!" Bella said in Italian.
Illya laughed then made a quacking sound like a duck as he tugged on the strings of a faded red puppet, making it dance in front of the fireplace.
"Tantsy Petrushka, tantsevatʹ_dance Petrushka, dance, " he called, then sang V lesu rodilas elochka_The Forest Raised a Christmas Tree.
"Lesu rodilasʹ yelochka ,V lesu ona rosla .Zimoĭ i letom stroĭnaya,
Grin byl ."
"Meteli peli yee pesni , "Spi, yelochka , baĭ-baĭ "! Moroz sneg zavernutye :
Smotri, ne zamerzaet !
"The forest was born herringbone,In the forest, she grew up.
Winter and summer slender,
Green was.
The blizzard sang her song "Sleep, herringbone, bye-bye!"
Frost snow wrapped"Look, it does not freeze!"
Coward hare gray Under the Christmas tree danced.
Sometimes a wolf, wolf cross, Ran at a trot.
Hark! Snow in the woods frequent, Under the runners squeaking
Horse-legged, Hurry up and ran.
Lucky horse Drovenki On the wood-sledge peasant
He cut down our Christmas tree At the very root.
And here she is, dressed up, On the feast came to us,
And many, many joys The children brought.
The forest was born herringbone,In the forest, she grew up.
Winter and summer slender, Green was."
When Illya was done with the song, he handed the old puppet to his son.
"Demyachka, Petrushka is a very old friend of mine and now he is yours. Take good care of him," he smiled.
"Me? Spacibo Papa, I promise I will." Demya said holding the old puppet up by his strings making him dance as his father settled in, beginning the story of Ded Moroz iSnegurochka_Father Frost and his granddaughter Snegurochka_ Snow Maiden...