Compartment No 6 by Rosa Liksom

lessening of human suffering. With a stick in the eye for those who remember the past, and in both eyes for those who forget it … And a toast to General Zhokov, the king of Berlin. Without him the Nazis would have turned Moscow into a lit-up artificial lake and purged the earth of Slavs and other unhygienic peoples, including the Finns.’
    He tipped his glass, emptied it, and splashed in one more dribble of vodka.
    â€˜The Jews poured poison in the Great Leader’s mouth, and although I hate the Jews, I’ll raise a toast to them for that beautiful gesture.’
    He drank his glass to the bottom and tossed a weightless grin at the window.
    â€˜I remember very well the day that butcher and punisher of the peasants died. I was with Petya in the third year. In school number five. There was no number one or number four. School number one had caved in in the middle of the school day and they stopped building number four before it was finished. One morning when we got to school, our teacher, Valentina Zaitseva, said that the father of all the people was sick. That information didn’t really touch a child’s heart. The next morning the teacher told us that the Generalissimo was lying unconscious and the doctors said there was very little hope for him. So what? We went on playing. On the third morning she sobbed and said that Papa was dead. Some bright mind asked what he had died of. She answered that when a person holds onto life too fiercely his breathing will stop and he’ll die of suffocation … I walked home with Petya, our arms around each other’s necks, the factory whistles howling like ships in distress, some of the men on the street crying, others smiling. When I got home there was something odd about my grandfather, something naked and strange. I looked at him for a long time before I realised that the southern whiskers were missing from his fat upper lip. Now a new life begins, he said, and gave us some bubliks. He was a Party member and one of his favourite sayings was that during Stalin’s time this country was the most dangerous, unhealthy place in the world for a communist to live.’
    He rubbed his chin for a moment. ‘There are thousands and thousands of truths. Every fellow has his own. How many times have I cursed this country, but where would I be without it? I love this country.’
    The acrid smell of kerosene floated through the compartment. It came from the full vodka glass trembling on the table in rhythm to the rumble of the train. The girl pushed it aside. The man followed the jiggling glass with his eyes.
    â€˜Foreigner, you offend me deeply when you don’t drink with me.’
    He bit off a piece of pickle and stared at her with a cutting look in his eyes. She scowled at him and turned her gaze towards the floor.
    â€˜My mother always gave me vodka when I was sick. I was used to the taste of vodka when I was still a baby. I don’t drink because I’m unhappy or because I want to be even more unhappy. I drink because the serpent inside me is shouting for more vodka.’
    They sat in thought, not looking at each other. The girl thought about her father and the day she told him she was going to study in Moscow. He had looked at her for a long time with a frightened expression on his face, and then a tear had slid down his cheek. He got blind drunk, barricaded himself in his Lada, and insisted she let him take her to the station.
    â€˜I’ve been sitting here thinking, I wonder if God is Russian. If he is, then that would mean Jesus was Russian, too, because he’s God’s son. And what about Mary? How do you count her? Maybe there weren’t really any Russians before Ivan the Terrible. But when he took up the sabre, heads started to roll. The people were displaced, exiled, destroyed. It’s God’s commandment, roared Uncle Ivan. He backed everything up with God, the fox. He even established the old-time KGB to take