Secondhand Time: The Last of the Soviets by Svetlana Alexievich

Author:Svetlana Alexievich
Language: eng
Format: mobi, azw3
Tags: Europe, Former Soviet Republics, Russia & the Former Soviet Union, Russian & Former Soviet Union, Political Science, World, History
ISBN: 9780399588815
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2016-05-24T04:00:00+00:00

My aunt had a unique voice…She warbled like Edith Piaf. People would ask her to sing at their weddings. And whenever anyone died. I would always come with her…Running alongside her. I remember…she would stand near the coffin, stand there for a long time…Then, at a certain point, she would somehow break off from everyone else and go up to the body. She’d approach slowly…after she realized that no one else could say the final words. Everyone wanted to, but they didn’t know how. And so she’d begin: “Why have you left us, Annechka…You left the bright day and dark night behind…Who is going to walk around your yard…and kiss your children? Who will greet the cow when she’s comes home in the evening?” Very quietly, she’d find the words…Everything was mundane and simple, and that’s what made it truly lofty. And sad. There was some sort of ultimate truth in those simple words. Something final. Her voice would tremble…and then everyone else would start weeping. They’d forget that the cow hadn’t been milked, that their husband was drunk at home. Their faces changed, they’d stop fidgeting, and light would shine through their eyes. Everyone wept. I was shy…And I felt sorry for my aunt. She’d come home feeling ill: “Oh, Manechka, my little head is pounding.” That was the kind of heart my aunt had…I’d run home from school and see her through the little window holding a needle the size of her finger, darning our rags and singing, “You can put out a fire with water / But nothing will extinguish love…” My whole life is lighted by these memories…

The remains of our estate…all that was left of our house were the stones. But I can feel their warmth, I’m drawn to them. I go there like you visit a grave. I could spend the night in our field. I walk carefully, watching my step. There are no people, but there is life. The hum of life, all sorts of living beings…I walk around afraid of destroying someone’s home. I can make a home for myself anywhere, like a bug. I have a cult of domesticity. I need there to be flowers, it needs to be beautiful…I remember in the orphanage, when they led me to the room where I was going to live with all the white beds…I scanned the room looking to see if there was a bed by the window. Would I have my own cabinet? I was searching for my home.

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