The Human Heart

Mama and Papa

"Jesus fucking Christ, Deborah! You left his skin raw!" My mother Klava Smirnoff dabbled cold water on my burning red cheek. She had a natural inclination to swear at every given opportunity. "He ripped papa's book pages!" She justified. "I'm sure it wasn't on purpose, you brutish animal! Apologize to your brother!"

I was a crying mess right there and then. Snot ran down to my chin and tears only helped my face get all the more sticky. Not only was I an ugly child, but I was also dirty. And I mean incredibly dirty, absolutely disgusting. I swear, it's a miracle how my mother could still call me a handsome young man looking like that.

Imagine this: A scrawny little boy with a massive fivehead, round scratched glasses that didn't fit on me and always slid down my nose, brown messy hair that I refused to brush or wash, and perpetually dirty clothes for a boy that refused to take a bath even though the Tsar's Village, then renamed the Children's village, was the one of the only places in Russia to have running water at the time.

Still, my mother gave me kiss on my nasty cheek and Deborah begrudgingly apologized. She then ran to our room in a huff and although there were no doors inside the wooden cottage, we felt her slam the door on a spiritual level. It was then that my papa came inside after chopping the firewood for not the next week, but the week after that. Papa wasn't my father, but rather my grandfather. I had never met my father up until this point, but both mama and papa agreed that it was for the best, so it never phased me other than those nights where I stayed up late wondering what he looked like.

Seeing Deborah mid-run as he walked in, he asked me: "Did she give you a beating again?" I nodded, my breath still shaky from the sob-fest I had barely finished. "I slapped him—! Once!" She corrected us from the other room. Papa wheezed a breathy chuckle. "Sure, that makes it better."

Papa kneeled beside me and took a close look at my face. "Mhm," he confirmed to himself "that girl is just like your mother. Strong and vicious." Mama furrowed her brow and stretched her lips. "Papa...!" She groaned with toned that sounded like a mix of bashfulness and disapproval. Papa looked up at mama with warm, caring eyes. "The only difference I see between you and Deborah is that you looked up to your brother, Klava." Mama suddenly stiffened at the mention of my uncle. I had never met him either. She swallowed.

"I still do." She told him gravely. Papa threw back a kindly smile and stood back up. "I miss him, papa." She croaked. "I miss him too, Klava." He kissed his daughter on her forehead. "I miss him too." I was then in an awkward position in which I stood before two teary-eyed folks with no idea what it was they were crying about. Apparently, my uncle had died before either me or Deborah were born, but what did I care? I was an egocentric five-year-old.

I didn't want to go back to our room either because Debby was still in there, probably throwing punches at a pillow and pretending it was me. So I just figured that I could just grab my toy boat and go to Catherine park by myself.