The Glass Ele-Phant
By © Anton Vendamencs,
2017
Chapter 1 / A Birthday Present
It was my fourth birthday. It was a sunny day in Yuhrmala, what was
and still is a resort city of the well to do in Latvija. The family cook, who I
regarded as my aunt, brought the cake out on the veranda. I was nearby under
the chestnut tree, where the gardener had built a sandbox large enough to
accommodate me and my friends, the children of our next door neighbors. One of
my birthday presents was a tricycle. As all my friends wanted to give it a try,
I was told to be generous and let them.
The cake had four lit candles. Mathilda called for all to
come and get it. My friends and I rushed to the table that had been placed at
one corner of the veranda. I, the birthday child, had the honor of blowing out
the candles.
I had little memory of the four years past, except when
in later years a photograph or the mention of an event roused the sense of a
memory. For example, when I look in the mirror and note my left eyebrow, I can see
there a small scar, that I received after I fell out of my stroller and
sustained a cut above that eyebrow. Then there was also the dream, that kept returning.
Indeed, until about the age of four, it returned often enough to be remembered.
In the dream, I was caught—as if by quicksand—in a
whirlpool of dough that was turning like a galaxy around a hole at its core.
The hole was empty, but in the dough round about it, there were stuck numerous
objects: some were huge raddishes and turnips, others were carrots, my hobby
horse with real horse hair was there, too. Though I was outside the doughnut, I
was close enough to fear being sucked into it.
When the circle of dough was about to close over me, I
awakened and ran to find Baba or Babu, my nanny. When Baba, short for Babushka,
could not calm me, we both went to find my mother, who usually was at the other
end of the apartment or house in the guest room. In order not to embarrass
herself before the guests as an inattentive mother, mother then accompanied me
and Babu back to the childrens’ bedroom (I had a sister a couple of years
younger than myself), where after getting a few pats on my head, I was encouraged
to sing in Russian: ”Nam nye strashem
sery volk...” (Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf...). Assured that I was
brave enough to face sleep, I then closed my eyes again.
After the
candles on the cake were blown out and the cake was consumed, other gifts were
presented. My friends were not forgotten and received token gifts: a balloon, or
a small basket full of lollypops, or paper streamers, the latter which were
immediately thrown about and littered the balcony tiles in colorful spirals.
My father,
who had left work at the newspaper early to attend the celebration, too, had a
package for me. It was a long closed cardboard box. Someone said: “I wonder
what that could be?” Of course, I also wondered.
Father
said: “Go ahead, Anton, open it.” Baba untied the string that kept the box
closed.
I lifted
the lid. But when the box was open, I still could not see the gift. It was
hidden behind wrapping papers that were wrapped around what looked like a
stick. “What do you think it is?” someone asked. Was it another toy shovel,
like the one I had received a year earlier? I had no idea. Father came to my
aid and unrolled the paper wrapping as if it was some kind of a bandaid.
A dark
brown object lay before my eyes. I recognized what it was immediately.
A rifle.
Of course,
it was but a toy rifle, but at that moment it seemed to me that it was the real
thing. Though I had never seen a real rifle ever before, the toy intruded its
reality. Somehow I knew that it signified death. From a small brown stock
emerged a black metallic barrel. The barrel had an ominous black shine to it.
Just below the stock was the trigger housing. I was seized by a paralyzing fear.
Not knowing what else to do, I began to cry.
The guests
were appalled and my father was embarrassed. Had he judged wrong? Was I really
not grown up enough to be introduced to the real world? What was to be done to
shut up the cry-baby? I understood father’s embarrassment, which is why I
remember the birthday, but could not control myself.
Looking
back, I wonder whether maybe something similar had happened to father when he
was four years old. Maybe he had learned then something that made him judge a
rifle useful. In any event, this is not the first time that I have wondered
what made father chose the fac simile of an instrument that kills for his four
year old son’s birthday.
Since my
father was born in 1892, what was it that had happened in 1896, when he was
four years old? Today, in my 85th year, a look at Wikipedia, shows
me nothing particularly violent as then happening. Or perhaps father had the First
World War and the Soviet Revolution, which happened nearly twenty years later,
in mind. At the time of the First World War, 1914, father was 22 years old. At
the time of the Soviet Revolution and Civil War, in the latter of which he participated
under the command of General Denikin on the side of the Russian tsar,
father was 24.
In 1937,
the year of my fourth birthday, father was 45. Though the tsar of Russia was
long dead, was the toy rifle a sign that father was trying to raise me as a
supporter of the Russian monarchy? Looking back all these years, I wonder. On
second thought, I do not think so. Nevertheless, he used his service in the
White Army to try persuade the Soviet Cheka not to kill him when 1941 rolled
around. In effect, he was suggesting that he was not an enemy of Russia. Indeed,
the Cheka did not kill him just then.
Father
picked up the toy rifle and called me to his side. He showed me how to insert a
pink roll of paper caps in a chamber set just above the trigger and just below
the cocked hammer. He then lifted the rifle to his shoulder, aimed it into the
air, and squeezed off several of the caps. He then held the rifle for me to
take.
Babu, then
took me by the hand and led me to a child’s wheelborrow that was filled with
candy wrapped in silver foil.
No comments:
Post a Comment