In the Battle

By Igor Bagrov

Teenagers are a lonely tribe, be it in Russia or in the U.S.A. The stories tell about the battle they fight against hypocrisy of the grown-ups world, against the rigid moral standards of a totalitarian regime, against their own fear, insecurity and confusion with new, bitter-sweet sexual emotions. Maturing comes fast in these circumstances, but very often at a very dear price . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 8, 1999
• ISBN: 9781462828968

Igor Bagrov

Dr. Igor A. Bagrov is a prominent American translator of fiction from/into English with over twenty five books translated and published in Europe and the USA. Currently, Dr. Igor A. Bagrov is staying in Taiwan, teaching US and European literatures and Creative Writing at various universities. As a writer, Dr. Bagrov has authored six books of fiction (all published with Xlibris)."The Haiku Inspiration" is his seventh book that contains the author's original pieces of traditional Japanese poetry (haiku or hokku) in English, made in elaborate English calligraphy, in keeping with the latest line in book publishing Dr. Bagrov introduced in 2011 with his "ABC of WISDOM, i.e. hand-written books.

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Copyright © 1999 by Igor A. Bagrov.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

FOREWORD

NIGHT ON THE TRAIN

THE SPELL

LOVE AND LET LOVE

LA FEMME FATALE

IN THE BATTLE

MY UNFORGETTABLE

STELLA

FROM 16 TO ETERNITY

THE INTERROGATION

I am eternally thankful to Mr. JoSon Nickolas-Lee, the photo artist who designed my book cover, to Mr Vincent Ma and Mr. Jimmy Jiang, my computer genii, to Mr. Paul Chmigelski, my first reader and critic, for their generous and disinterested help to make my collection of short stories an accomplished literary work.

FOREWORD

Originally this collection of short stories was titled The Russian Vignettes, because it mainly presents the portraits of young and very young Russians with whom I used to be friends in the not-so-distant past. Then I realized that I would very much mislead my readers with such a peaceful, almost playful, title. The stories I am telling are bitter and tragic, but least of all quiet and peaceful. My protagonists, all living and breathing people, struggled for their basic rights to be what they were and to live their young lives decently and with dignity—rights of which they were totally deprived.

Not so much has it anything to do with their being queer (some of them are not), for totalitarian Russian regimes, even in the disguise of democracy, brutally crush anyone who does not toe the line. And, believe me, it is still happening now and will be happening for ages and ages. Russia, as history has proven, is probably the only country in the world that has never learned from its mistakes of the past, no matter how tragic and self-destructive those mistakes were.

Of course, Jews and gays are the easiest targets for the government. They are the scapegoats for the economic and political failures of the powers-that-be. These individuals are totally defenseless against the Law, or to be precise, against the lack of any laws and against anarchy at its worst when the communist and the criminal structures work hand-in-hand to further enslave people. They succeeded before by applying brutal force and political pressure. Now they reach the same goal by economic measures. No wonder common people nowadays more and more often nostalgically recall the days of Brezhnev and Stalin. Now, again and again there emerge anti-Semite groups, and gay-bashing is becoming very popular, just as a mere fun pastime for thugs.

Indeed, all my friends and protagonists waged a never-ceasing battle, be it in schools, in families, or in their circle of friends.

I deliberately avoided all labels, such as gay, straight, or bi because in our teens we are all a weird mixture of Yin and Yang elements. But all the same, the first sexually motivated experiences are precious and dear to everyone. They are most sincere and honest and deserve all respect. For some reason we, the adults, very often forget this maxim: If we want respect from our younger ones, we should respect them first, their feelings, principles, and views, even if they radically differ from those of our own.

So, my dear readers, I invite you to join the battle my heroes are waging, keeping in mind that the problems American teens (and teens the world over) are faced with, in very many ways, are the same as those of their Russian peers.

NIGHT ON THE TRAIN

The night trains in Russia are, indeed, a nightmare for a traveler. You are squeezed into a tiny compartment with four berths, two upper and two lower, with a tiny table and a narrow passage for one. If you travel second class, which is the most common and affordable thing, your compartment is not separated from the rest of the car by a door, and you are exposed, totally and hopelessly, to the usually insatiable curiosity of your fellow travelers. Forget about privacy! There are no screens or curtains to hide behind, in case you are not accustomed to going to bed fully dressed. Another nuisance, if you are very squeamish at all, is the most offensive and all penetrating smell. Its type and range varies from stale garlic and unwashed socks to vodka and cheap tobacco reek.

That night I was traveling second class. My destination was a provincial town on the Volga river, where, among my friends and relatives, I was, presumably, to find some understanding and compassion to lick my wounds, so to speak. The wounds in question were not so deep, but still painful for a man of twenty-five who had just divorced from his beautiful wife.

I was still a little puzzled, wondering why my so happily started marriage ended up on the rocks. My wife and I never had any ugly rows. We never said a harsh word to each other, never reproached each other. Moreover, we were faithful to each other, which alone stands out as an old-fashioned anomaly in our deceitful time.

And yet, we were not happy. We both enjoyed the company of our former friends. Those of mine had never become hers, and I, in my turn, did not burn with desire to befriend her pals. We mocked our more down-to-earth acquaintances, who, after getting married, rushed to produce a child and started building a family nest. We both thought such people utterly narrow-minded and hopelessly philistine.

And now, I was traveling all by myself, with no immediate prospect of a child, a family nest or even a wife.

My compartment, meanwhile, started filling with its other occupants: a stern looking bespectacled girl (a sure spinster, I bet), an inconspicuous young man with a sparse beard, and an apple-cheeked, kerchiefed country woman of an indeterminable age. I gave each of them the heartiest smile I could produce under the circumstances, which, taking into account my state of mind, was more akin to a dead skull’s grin, which is regarded by certain wise and witty people as Death’s emblem. Frankly speaking, I am not much of a misanthrope, but there are two things I cannot physically stand, while traveling by train. They are buddy-buddy talks, which usually end up with the hair-raising most intimate details in the interlocutors’ lives, and the Gargantuan meals, which are usually started the very moment a train pulls out of the station. I loathe the sentimental night-train confessions, because they lead nowhere, at best. At worst, in the morning both parties involved cannot look each other in the eye, hating their companions, themselves and the whole world.

As far as the nervous, never-stopping typically long distance train gluttony is concerned, I cannot stand it for a very prosaic reason: it is not a very encouraging sight to observe people, ravenously devouring chickens, pies, sausage, cheese, potatoes, bread, cucumbers, tomatoes (in Summer), and hard boiled eggs—as if they were not properly fed for at least a month. But this is a sacred, long standing tradition, which I have no intention to encroach upon and which, by my most incomplete if not sporadic observation, has become an instinct of sorts. You cannot beat the instincts!

My worst expectations proved true as soon as our train left the terminal.

The prudish girl put aside her book and, quite decisively and penetratingly, examined, with a slight squint, her prospective victims, i.e., the plain looking young man and myself. Obviously not very happy with the results of her inspection she, nevertheless, did not give up hope of engaging at least one of us in a midnight heart-to heart talk.

The kerchiefed lady took off her velvet jacket (a never-fading fashion with the Russian peasant women), revealing a thick woolen cardigan, probably her husband’s. Whispering something under her nose, she got rid of this obvious nuisance too, to display a rather discoloured cotton frock which, by my brief estimation, concealed at least three more layers of clothing. Finally, with a heavy sigh she disposed of her kerchief. To my surprise and unspeakable joy, she had a beautiful thick and long braid of absolutely natural blond hair. With a careless twist and tug, she adjusted her golden treasure, not fully aware of its unique value ( by our bleached, dyed, permed, and waived standards).

At the moment she was much more concerned with the prospects of a hearty meal. Out of the huge canvas travel bag—like a conjurer in circus—she started to extract one thing after another. Out came a piece of ham big enough to feed a battalion, a round loaf of rye bread, an inevitable onion the size of a baby’s head, an assortment of pies, rolls, pastries, muffins, differing in shape, size and stuffing, a smoked herring, the delicate and unobtrusive odour of which I can compare only to a most-devastating chemical weapon, the effect being very similar.

The poker-faced girl grimaced and puckered her nose. The bearded boy, who was sitting on the very edge of the berth, tried to instinctively move farther away, lost his balance, flapped his arms, blushed profusely and, having sprung from his seat, darted out of our compartment. I was keeping as quiet as the Sphinx, though my peace of mind was also shattered. I realized, now that my one and only male ally was gone, the ladies would, undoubtedly, have to concentrate on me. The peasant woman would most certainly try to stuff me to death with food. The spinster girl would finish me off with a talk.

Forgive me, the incorrigible traveler’s joy-killer as I am. I cannot, just physically cannot, participate in these innocent occupations. My gluttony is, alas, restricted to a very limited choice of courses; my talkativeness, to a very limited scope of subjects in a circle of close friends. With these, simple and sincere, like-a-prayer words addressed mentally to my companions, as well as to the rest of mankind, I slipped out of the compartment.

The second