Memoir of a Gulag Actress

Chapter 13

~Chapter13~ All those years, I was frantically searching for my son, sending countless inquiries to the information bureaus of large cities and small towns. Piles of replies came back saying nothing except “Not registered” or “Does not reside here.” My friends would get in touch with their own acquaintances from the North and ask them if anyone had heard about Bakharev, and sometimes one or the other would report: “He’s in Saratov,” or “He’s living in Kineshma.” But I would receive the same answer from those towns: “Does not reside.” Only in 1956, when my son was already eleven, I received a postcard from Anna Abramovna Berzin, in which she told me where the Bakharevs were currently living. A lawyer friend of mine, Nelly K., who had been offering help all through my long search, could finally put her expertise to real use. I hastily collected all sorts of letters of support and references. Nelly left for the town where the Bakharevs lived. Telegrams from her started coming in one after another. She had almost finished all the necessary preparations and had even talked to Yurochka. He was doing well in school. She also spoke with Bakharev, who was frightened of having his parental authority with Yury undermined and therefore would not try to prevent his son from meeting me. Filipp was inclined to resolve the issue amicably and, as Nelly said, would probably propose marriage to me upon my arrival. I had no faith in Filipp’s assertions. He existed for me as a phantom of evil resourcefulness, nothing else. BAKHAREV didn’t wait for me to reach the airport building but ran out to the airfield, hoping to shield himself from a tide that seemed to be turning against him. He yelled above the sounds of the blizzard. M E M O I R O F A G U L A G A C T R E S S 440 “We will register our marriage!” Nelly had instructed me, “Answer yes to everything for the time being, all the rest—later.” When Filipp stepped away, she quickly recounted: “I came to see him in the clinic and waited till my turn came in line. He asked me, ‘How can I help you,” and when I told him I came from you, he turned dreadfully pale, clutched his head with his hands and canceled his consultation hours. He kept silent for a long time, then asked: ‘What do you think, will she agree to marry me?’ I saw Yurik. He’s a good boy, very poorly dressed.” Bakharev ushered me to his car and offered to go to his clinic to talk. People had warned me: “Emotions are inappropriate and even detrimental in these circumstances.” Nevertheless, I lost my temper. “What have you done?!” I yelled at Filipp, who sank to his knees and crawled toward me on the ground. Beside myself with rage, I kicked him away. I knew Bakharev would get even with me for this. Indeed, when I asked to see my son, he told me I’d have to wait until the next day. “No! Today!” I insisted. “All right,” he conceded. “But under two conditions: First, I will introduce you as his aunt; second—no reminders of the past.” The room in the clinic where Bakharev brought my son was in a damp basement, with peeling walls. “The farther from curious people, the better,” he explained. The young boy in a brown velveteen jacket with too-short sleeves looked around, perplexed. “Yura, this is Aunt Tamara!” Bakharev said without explaining how I was related, where I was from, or anything else about me. I asked my son questions, engulfed by the sole desire to awaken our “mutual memory” in him, to grope for a common nerve that couldn’t possibly have disappeared between us: “Do you like to play chess, Yurik? What is your favorite subject in school?” Yurik was strained and tense and answered politely. The supplication hidden in my questions did not reach him. His memory and attention were distracted by something of the present and remained untouched. My son seemed timid, as if there were no trace of boyish mischief or youthful curiosity in him. “Can I go, Papa? I have to do my homework.” “All right.” I had failed to arouse any recognition in my son, but I resisted the temptation to vent my frustration at this fact upon Bakharev. To win Yurik’s trust and attention, there...