Fedor

By Brant Vickers

"You can't throw too much style into a miracle, and you, my friend, are a miracle," Mark Twain says to Fedor Adrianovitch Jefticheff, also known as Jo-Jo The Dog Faced Boy. Fedor lives, travels, works, and loves among the haunting cast of performers in the Black Tent Sideshow of P.T. Barnum's Circus in the late 1880s. 

Fed

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atmosphere Press
• Release date: May 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781637528945

Book preview

Chapter 1

I met the future emperor of Russia, who will be the Tsar one day. Nicholas II of Russia is the same age I am. We are both fifteen years old and Nicholas is called the Tsarevich. That makes him the eldest son of the current Tsar, Emperor Alexander III, and his wife Empress Maria Feodorovna. Nicholas is traveling with his family throughout our country and visited the carnival where my father and I are appearing. He seems like a nice boy, but his father does all the talking for his family.

My father, Adrian, and I sat in a cage on the stage and looked at them.  They looked at us. We didn’t perform our act for them. The boss-man manager of the show, Grigory, told my papa not to perform as usual, and not to speak unless the Emperor speaks directly to us or asks us a question. Grigory made up a story that he tells people that come to the carnival to see us. He tells them that we were living in the forest of Kostroma. We scavenged for our food, raided peasant obshchinas or communes, and attacked people if they got too close. We killed small animals and ate them raw. A hunter tracked us to our cave and captured us in the night. We could never be civilized since we never learned to read or write and were basically wild animals. Since we both look like dogs, we usually scamper around and bark and growl at the people who pay money to come to see us — it’s just a few kopecks, but it’s still our job to give them their money’s worth of entertainment.

If they pay in rubles, give them the show; it’s a show we provide, Grigory always howled at us.

If we did talk to the royal family, I knew he’d shriek at us, and my papa and him would fight like they usually do every day or so. The royal family didn’t know what to think—I could hear them talking and they were saying that we were peasants and probably lived in a hut in a small village. 

He has such soft eyes, the Empress whispered to her husband, looking at me.

They didn’t believe the stories told about us by our manager. They were smart. Young Nicholas kept looking penetratingly at me. I smiled, but he couldn’t make it out, and didn’t react. I think the empress recognized somehow that I could understand, so she switched to German, not knowing that I speak three languages. That made me smile. Again, I don’t think they could tell I was smiling. 

Do they always have to live in a cage? Nicholas asked.

I sincerely hope not, the Empress said.

What do they eat? he asked her.

I’m sure they eat food, just like we do, she said. Poor, poor things, they can’t help it. While Grigory was talking to them, he started moving step by step a little away from us. The Emperor and Empress with the other kids followed him while Nicholas inched imperceptibly closer to us. Grigory doesn’t want us to have too much publicity or attention, other than the show. He’s afraid someone will want to do something about the conditions we live under. But he doesn’t have to worry. In Tsarist Russia in 1884, millions of people live in wretched poverty and hardly have enough to eat, so a couple of aberrations and peasants aren’t going to pose too much of a concern for the upper classes. They just come to gawk at us, laugh, and watch our act. Some are genuinely disturbed though, and simply stand silently and gape. Nicholas stood where he was, looking at me. It was a large entourage and they seemed to go wherever the Tsar went and their job was to listen to whatever he had to say and act like they cared. I leaned down and looked at Nicholas through my hair.

I like borscht and kotlety the best, I said quietly in German.

What? he jumped back a step. You can talk? he asked.

Ya, Da, and Yes, I whispered in German, Russian, and English this time. In Russia, starvation means having no bread, while simple poverty means going without hard sausage kolbasa, I said and laughed.

You are educated? he asked. 

Before I could answer, Grigory looked over at us and shook his head. My father grabbed my collar and sharply pulled me back.

Nicholas said, Stop that! My papa immediately let go. I knew I was going to be in trouble but didn’t care. 

Can you read? he asked me.

"We can know only that we know nothing. And that is the highest degree of human wisdom," I said in English.

"That’s War and Peace, Leo Tolstoy! the Emperor exclaimed, walking back toward us. What else do you know?" he asked. When the Emperor asked you a question, you answered. I knew that for a fact. 

"There is no greatness where there is not simplicity, goodness, and truth," I said.

Also Tolstoy, he smirked. Did you quote that for my benefit, young man?  I would think with your affliction you’d think twice about criticizing or judging your Emperor. 

He walked away with his entourage. As he walked away, I heard the Empress say, It’s a shame, he’s obviously extremely intelligent; to be plagued with such an unfortunate infirmity doesn’t seem just.

The Lord our God distributes righteousness and make us all equal in his eyes. They are simply peasants in an unlucky circumstance, the Emperor said. We are nobility and cannot be responsible for their situation or condition. That is God’s pronouncement. He snapped his fingers to an officer of his court and the man reached into a satchel and gave Grigory several ruble banknotes, and said, Make sure they eat well tonight or you shall be in liability to the Emperor. Do you understand?

Yes sir, yes sire, yes, Grigory stammered. 

I saw Nicholas looking furtively over his shoulder at me as they walked away and out of the tent. I thought of one last Tolstoy quote for them as they were leaving: "Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself." 

The money Emperor Alexander III gave Grigory saved me from a beating and we did eat better that night than we had in several weeks. Grigory is at least fair, at times.

That night before I fell asleep, I kept thinking of the clothes the Emperor and his entourage wore. Grigory has us dress in torn cloth sorochki shirts of linen and worn-out ports that look like they do not fit. We wear large thick belts made of leather to hold our ports up. It’s made to look as if we stole them from a peasant’s clothesline. That’s the line he gives the audience. The Emperor and Empress and their Imperial servants wore beautiful uniforms and silks, wools, and linens. Some wore polucaftan, a skirted coat. All their clothes were displayed with beautiful medals, which were embroidered on and woven into the fabrics of the royal clothing, so the garments shimmered in the light. The royal family were not the only ones wearing gold and silver: their servants also were outfitted in gleaming uniforms.

I like to think about where I lived for several years. My papa, mama, and I only lived in a home for a few years, but I can remember a few things about it. After the sentsa, our entryway, there were only two rooms. There were two windows, shuttered and closed in the wintertime. Along one wall we had a konnik. This was a bench that ran along the entire wall. We had a table, a couple of chairs; our oil-burning lamp didn’t work, so we used homemade candles. The inner room was destitute of furniture other than a large wardrobe for what few clothes and linen we had, and a sink filled with well water—a washing alcove behind a curtain. Our toilet was outside in a small hovel. We had a black stove in the corner. Sometimes my mama and papa slept on top of it, and I can remember lying down next to it when the nights were cold and the whole house was warm and comfy. We, my papa and I, wore a zipun to sleep in, and my mama wore an armiak. We burned straw for fuel, and I liked it when we had rye straw—it smelled better. We also used this straw for a mattress and bedding. We were in Tbilisi in Georgia—that’s where my papa was from. My mama prepared our food and the warm water for our weekly baths every Saturday night. We had an outdoor cellar that was only about twenty feet away from the house, so we could get to it in the wintertime. It went down a flight of steps and we stored milk, radishes, beets, cabbage, apples, and salted beef. That was when my papa made any money working as a serf. He was old enough to have been a serf who worked the land of their lords. Before I was born, in 1868, under the rule of Alexander II, masters owned serfs. This was Nicholas’ grandfather, and he finally abolished serfdom. It didn’t make much of a difference to my papa. My papa always said, We belong to the masters, but the land is ours. It wasn’t true in the long run for us. The way he looked made it almost impossible for him to get work. 

He used to tell me, We were descended from an ancient Greek colony that has been here for hundreds of years, before all this trash took it away from us. We are Byzantines and should be proud of it!

We never had enough to eat though, even when my papa shaved his face and worked as a serf and laborer. He would go to the nearest village and try to work in a factory, but mostly helped keep the streets clean by sweeping. After my mama died, we went on the road: fairs, carnivals, and festivals. He had done it before and was very successful. Five years ago, we started working for Grigory and got more work and now eat and sleep in our own caravan carriage. We went on the road and travelled to Europe, but last month came back to Russia. We parlayed our lives into a basic living now and are doing okay.

I remember things about mama and miss her. Her name was Mashka and it is a heavenly sound to my ears. She did pretty needlework and people would come to our home twice a year to buy her lace, drawn thread work, and things. My mama made our shoes out of strips of cloth or bark woven together and sewed on a wooden sole. We never had real socks until we joined with Grigory. Mama made stockings out of several pieces of fabric and fastened them to a wooden sole. If we wore a hole in the piece of rag, we could just move it a little and it would last another month or so. But the most important thing about her is that I remember her reading to me. Every night, she would read to me by candlelight or the fire from the stove. She had a few books and would babble to me in Russian, German, or English. Her favorite writer was Leo Tolstoy. He was her hero, as he is now mine. Neighbors lent her the books over the years and since my papa was out most nights, or didn’t come home until late, she could read to me and we would translate the words to other languages. She read War and Peace to me a dozen times in just a couple of years. We moved on to Anna Karenina and some of his lesser-known works. That’s all I had for schooling. Peasants don’t go to school; a few do, but not in Tbilisi. Mama was determined to help me learn. And she did.

Tolstoy is trying to educate his peasants and that is a very admirable thing, so I’m going to educate you, my love, she told me this many, many times. No matter what you look like, you are my sweet little boy and I love you.

My papa’s name is Adrianovitch Maximovitch Jefticheff, and my name is Fedor Adrianovitch Jefticheff. The son takes his father’s first name as his middle name. My father married my mother when she was young, very young. That’s what they told me, but who knows. She was still my mama.

Women start developing from the time of the wedding, my papa used to say. But my mama was too young and lost several children while delivering them. It is common since our babies are born weak. I made it because I was the same as my papa.

Both your papa’s mother and I were scared by wolves, she told me. My papa drank and that led to beating her. Afterward, he would leave and neighbors would help us with food. When I was thirteen, she died in childbirth. We couldn’t get a midwife to come help, so when the baby came out wrong, they both died. I continued to believe she was alive and read Tolstoy for days without stopping. I remember this quote from Tolstoy and think of it whenever I think of mama: when mother smiled, no matter how nice her face had been before, it became incomparably nicer and everything around seemed to brighten up as well.

When my papa was out in the summertime, and it was late, she would take me outside when the weather was nice and we’d lie on the grass and look up. The comforting darkness that enveloped us can never be erased. It’s where I can always go back and be sheltered with Mama. She described the stars to me and pointed out their shapes.

Look, there’s Capricornus, the Sea Goat with a fishtail, and there’s Leo the Lion, she’d say and wait until I could follow her directions and finally see it.

I see it, I see it, I’d shout.

Sometimes the milky speckles just sparkled and moved out of my sight and I couldn’t focus, but Mama always had the patience to wait and have me find it and understand.

If you look for the three brightest stars close together in an almost straight line, these three stars represent Orion’s belt. The two bright stars to the north are his shoulders and the two to the south are his feet, she’d slowly explain to me.

She taught me to find the Big Dipper and to know it’s called an asterism and it’s a pattern of stars that’s not a constellation, but it’s part of the constellation called Ursa Major, the Big Bear. Mama would then always quote Tolstoy from War and Peace: Pierre looked into the sky, into the depths of the retreating, twinkling stars. And all this is mine, and all this in me, and all this is me! And all this they’ve caught and put in a shed and boarded it up.

This is how I remember Mama. All that we did and all she taught me can never be taken away. Though we lived with a monster. All that I’ve told you about my father needs to be tempered with the reality of his malevolence and viciousness. We are monsters together—what do you expect when you look at us. At the least, we have disturbing appearances. We are the cruel and punishing part of nature. We are banished to the circus. They look at us, and their minds scream, if not using their mouths and throats directly in our faces. They think: dear God, there I could have ended up, an aberration, but thank God I didn’t. Human, but deformed and tormented with an aberration beyond recognition as an individual. They think of the grief they must feel and loneliness they must endure. Yet, this defines us and is our life. I can see in their eyes my reflection and through this I see their faults and weaknesses and fragility and gather my strength to hide my revulsion at what they are and remain.

Chapter 2

I have long, thick, silky dark hair all over my body. Everywhere. My papa has the same. The only open areas are around my eyes and mouth. Hair does not grow on the palms of my hands nor the soles of my feet. I find it necessary to cut my hair weekly and part it down the middle so I can see. If we shave it, it’ll simply grow back —even thicker. People come from all over Russia and came from all over Europe to see our act. Grigory would shout, He has the most resemblance to a dog or wolf. Ladies and Gentlemen, his father, known as the Dog—Man of the Caucasus, also resembles a wild animal, as they are from the wilds of Kostroma. At the confluence of the Volga and Kostroma Rivers, this wild pair (Dog—Man and Boy—Dog) stole food, clothes, and crept into local farms located outside the city limits to steal chickens, goats, and dogs. In the wild they killed moose, sable, long-tailed goral, and deer by jumping on them and slitting their throats with a dull stolen knife. They would eat the meat raw after slitting open the animals’ throats, right on the owner’s property. You’ve never seen the likes of these marauders and animal killers! Grigory would bellow to deliver them into our tent and look at us in our cages. After it would fill up, we’d drop down on all fours, growling, shrieking, and barking, jumping at the bars of the cage for several minutes. The personal hunting guide of the Tsar, from the Imperial hunts in Peterhof, brought in especially for the purpose of pursuing them and trapping them in their lair, was successful, and now you can see them in person. If we drove several people out in fright—the night was a success. After that we’d sit and let Grigory answer questions and make up prosperous lies about our lives in Kostroma, where neither of us had ever been, much less run, wild through its forests. It makes some of the people who come to gawk at us uncomfortable after a minute or two. Grigory sometimes let them pull the hair, on my face and head, to assure them that it’s real and not pasted on or a wig. Most of the time they are more than glad to leave and get out of our tent. I kept thinking about Nicholas and even though we are the same age, how different our lives are.

Chapter 3

Mostly I read Tolstoy during the night, thinking of my mama, but this one night at dinner my Papa and Grigory told me the history of what we do for a living. They liked to drink and talk late into the night, and once in a while I listen to them if it’s not too crazy.

Papa said, "During our lifetime the Russian circus began. That is, a stationary circus, not what we do. We travel with a caravan of people. Russia’s love for the circus goes back a thousand years. In the olden days we had the first skomorokhy, a wandering minstrel clown, that did tricks, performed funny routines, and sang and danced." 

People want to see the unusual and strange. They love the horses and strong men and women, Grigory said. 

Skomorokhy were slowly being replaced by our type of circus, Papa continued. At the fairs and village celebrations, acrobats swinging on a trapeze and clowns walking on their hands only go so far in entertaining people. Daily life is too cruel for people. They need to see something unpleasant as much as different. When they look at us, they can feel lucky they aren’t like us. We do that for them. If one is going to be parted from their hard-earned kopecks, they must be led to suspend disbelief and be curious about what is inexplicable to the typical peasant.

The big circus that crook Gaeto Ciniselli opened in St. Petersburg, Grigory said. 

My papa leaned over and whispered, That’s the Italian horseman who started it. (Grigory always included himself in our circumstance, as though we were together in being unfortunate).

He can’t do what we do. We make them cry and scream, don’t we? Grigory asked laughing and leaned close to me, almost falling over. We take our talents to the people…. They were laughing when I left and went into our caravan to read. 

The next morning, I was woken by a squeak. We only had space for two small rooms in our caravan. I slept on the top of our bunk bed. It really wasn’t a bunk bed but a shelf above Papa’s bed. I had room to squeeze in, but always felt comfortable there above my papa, wrapped in my hair—it was like a cocoon for me, safe from the world. Papa slept like a log after drinking most of the night. Our caravans weren’t supposed to leave until that afternoon, so everyone was sleeping in for the morning. Looking down from my perch, I could barely make out Nicholi standing in the shadows. He knew he wasn’t going to wake up my papa. He did this often. His manager Pavel pushes open our door an inch or two and lets Nicholi in, as my papa rarely locks it after coming in drunk just a few hours earlier. Nicholi peeped in to say hello. 

Good morning, Mr. Nicholi, my Siberian Prince, I said.

Good morning, Mr. Fedor Adrianovitch Jefticheff, how are you this fine morning? Would you like some company for breakfast? he lightly yelped. 

I’ll come down so you don’t have to yell, I said as I scooted over and came down the ladder.

Nicholi is advertised as over thirty-years-old but is only about eighteen. Grigory picked him up a few years ago. He’s billed as the smallest man in Russia. Nicholi is only fifty-six centimeters. He only weighs eight kilograms. He was in an asylum, where Grigory looks, at times, for suitable people for our show. Nicholi is one of our most popular attractions. 

"I heard you also met the Tsar yesterday, Fedor?" he asked.

Yes, I did. I talked to the Prince, and he was nice, I answered.

The Tsar himself can be a dangerous man to talk to, Nicholi said. He remembered me, but wasn’t as nice as he was two years ago. He seemed in a hurry. I didn’t get to talk to the Prince. I wanted to since we almost have the same name. 

Nicholi’s father and mother were caught up in an attempted assassination plot of the Tsar about five years ago. Nicholi was sent to live with a relative while his parents were sent to a Siberian prison. Nicholi never reported for his mandatory military service. They came to get him and found him to be what he is and were rightly astonished. When word got out, the Emperor commanded him to be brought to St. Petersburg and the Imperial court, and he was also rightly astounded. Nicholi pleaded so persuasively for his parent’s freedom that Emperor Alexander III released them. They promptly left our little prince in the asylum and disappeared into the hinterland of Russia. Nicholi forgives them and thinks they were afraid of being retried and convicted and sentenced to a katorga in Siberia for the rest of their lives.

I think they only wanted me to be safe, he told me one time. 

The only thing I could think to say was that I wouldn’t want to be in a labor camp in Siberia either. But I really liked Nicholi and wanted to believe it with him.

Yesterday, the Emperor probably didn’t want to be reminded of me and my parents, so he went by my platform pretty quick. What did Prince Nicholas II have to say?

Not much. Grigory and my papa stopped us from talking and so did the Emperor, really, I said. I don’t think they expected me to be able to talk, much less be able to speak German.

That always makes me laugh, Nicholi said. "They believe that just because we’re, let’s say, unfortunate, they think we can’t