The Adventures of Kesha the Russian Boy. Константин Воскресенский
cross. I'd already learnt my lesson, no need to shout about it.
1990. As if falling from the second floor
That feeling I got from being up high in the tree was bugging me, I wanted more. Or maybe I'd just forgotten the previous adventure too quickly, as is often the case with children. This time I tried a ladder. Not like a firefighter's ladder, and not just a staircase, an ordinary ladder. There was one still in my dad's yard out in L'vovskaya, outside of Moscow.
Even now, despite modern health amp; safety regulations, playgrounds are full of dangers. The playground I played in as a kid was made of solid metal: harsh, solid, unyielding. Like life itself. And so, after having mastered what we basically considered Everest, I decided to climb this ladder, without any training or equipment. I almost got to the top before, just like in the movies, I suddenly slipped on the penultimate step and came crashing down backwards. I fell with a thud, got up, brushed myself off, and went home to eat pancakes. And that was the end of that.
Now, that's quite scary, thinking back. Falling from a height equivalent to the second floor of a block of flat is no joke. But back then? Ah, piece of cake. No one saw, it didn't hurt, all was well.
1990. Fall off the carousel
After that I'd realised that vertical ascents were not my forte and decided to experiment with horizontal movements. And it didn't take me long to sustain an injury: I got five holes in my bum… Allow me to explain.
It turns out that the harsh reality is this: if you sit and spin on a kids' roundabout, not facing the way you're going, then when you come to a sharp halt with your feet, your body is probably going to slide right off the seat and hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. Obvious? Not to every five-year-old. And landing on a board of nails at the bottom, well, that's an annoying detail.
I sent a terrible shrill cry echoing around the playground. Thank god I was only five with the vocabulary to suit, nowadays I would have screeched every swear word under the sun. My mum heard me straight away and came running. She'd been standing just around the corner the whole time…
She took me home, treated my wounds, comforted me, and didn't even tell me off. Mums are just great, aren't they?
1993. Left arm
Having suffered such a public and even slightly shameful fiasco in my horizontal adventure, I decided to return to try vertical ones again. In any case, I hadn't gotten that hurt. There were only a few things available to climb, so again, I tried a tree. But this time I had everything under control. The first branch, the second branch, the third… Oops… And we're back down in the dirt again, as if the floor was giving this brave little lad a pat on the back for trying.
As it turned out, I didn't have a parachute, nor a rescue catapult on me. Fail to prepare, prepare to fail: I dislocated my left arm. Nothing too serious. I mean it was tolerable, and no one was going to find out anyway… The next day, like a good little Soviet boy, I would be heading to a pioneer summer camp. But not just any camp, the summer camp in Crimea named in honour of Oleg Koshevoy[6]. What if they wouldn't let me go because of my arm?! I was hardly going to let that happen.
1993. Hospitals
I lay in hospital for the first time with pneumonia when was just one, but I certainly do not remember it. I only know about it from the stories grown-ups told me. But when doctors removed my adenoids at the age of seven – oh, yes, I won't be forgetting that one in a hurry.
In a large brightly lit room, there was a large table on which lay various white-enamel medical utensils and shiny tools. The soft summer sun shone through large clean windows, pleasantly and mysteriously illuminating the people dressed all in white, like angels. These angels circled around me, affectionately throwing a large white sheet over my chest and politely asking me to say «Ahhhhh». A stormy stream of warm scarlet blood spilled out of my mouth onto the white sheet and dripped down onto the floor.
And now I think: could they not have given me a heads up about that? I understand that doctors don't usually warn their patients to avoid panic, but my God, this scarred me for life…
1994. Bitten by a shepherd
Let's talk about my left arm again. Of course, it had already managed to heal after the last fall, but not for long. My power of deduction says it must have been 1994, but that's not that important.
It was summer, July. We went to visit my aunt Galya, who was widowed after my uncle, my mum's brother, Andrey Timanov, passed away. It was hot and we took the shortest path through the garden (a plot of 30 acres or so). Eventually, we saw our aunt entering the house. With joy, I rushed towards her. But as if to catch some kind of lawless maniac, a German shepherd grabbed my left arm by the teeth. He managed to bite right through the palm of my hand. Sticking out of the wound was some thick yellow thread – not from my t-shirt, oh no. It was a piece of muscle, or something.
Weirdly, the dog was usually well-behaved and had never harmed a child before. Perhaps he had just woken up or my movements were too loud and erratic. Well, either way, something wasn't quite right…
It was quite the family embarrassment. What do we do now? The next day we went to the hospital and got my hand treated. I was prescribed 40 injections to the stomach, which seemed over-the-top and downright troublesome to me and my mum, since the dog was our family's dog, it wasn't stray or rabid. So, we went to get an official document to certify that he was indeed rabies free, and as a result, I got off with only 2–3 injections to the stomach. It wasn't very pleasant, but I'd had worse…
1995. Sledging
I decided to give my arm a break and turn my attention to other body parts. This isn't going to end well. During the school holidays, I went out, without permission, to go sledding on the hill. Well, it wasn't really a hill, it was more like sneaking behind the local townhall and down towards the stream. The slope was fairly steep there. What we didn't know was that it was actually a pedestrian area, we barely even noticed the older ladies walking around with their shopping bags, blocking the runway…
At the time, I was ten years old and therefore far too old to be sledging the way I was used to (i.e., on my bum). I wasn't no toddler anymore. If I wanted to avoid being laughed at, I'd have to try balancing on the side of the sledge will going down the hill or going headfirst.
I decided to do it the way the others were – on my belly, headfirst. And I did so almost all day, until I had an unfortunate accident. Blockage on the runway, sledge jam, and a huge blow to the face as I smashed into the sledge in front of me. I walked home with my tail between my legs…
No one was home. I wetted and squeezed a little rag, which my mother for some reason washed regularly, dabbed it on my eye, went to bed and began to wait. No, not for it to get better – I was waiting for my fate. My time came when mum got home and I surrendered, awaiting the telling off I would surely get. But again, she didn't scold me; I guess she could see that I was already punishing myself for going AWOL and had already received my bad karma for running off like that.
1996. And again with the left arm
Obviously, the head is more important. So, let's turn our attentions back to the left arm. It had already been through the wars, one more accident wouldn't hurt. Although I couldn't help but think, why was this left arm of mine so unlucky?
It was 1995 or 1996, summertime. I was at a sanatorium. Nap time had just finished, I'd been sleeping sweetly. Then, we were allowed a snack and a play outside before dinner.
As was customary at playtime, we were hanging out with the girls in a little gazebo outside with a seating area. I decided that sooner or later I would have to impress them, so I jumped over the edge wall of the gazebo, hoping to land on the outside. But the jump was immediately unsuccessful; I tripped and slammed to the ground with all my weight on my left hand. Another miserable attempt to show off.
After that, the usual: losing consciousness, regaining consciousness, and waking up to my arm in plaster.
Chapter 4. 1990. Mischief amp; More
Russian: Олег Васильевич Кошевой. 8th June 1926 – 9th February 1943. Koshevoy was a Soviet partisan and one of the founders of the clandestine organisation «Young Guard», which fought the Nazi forces in Krasnodon, Ukraine, during World War II.