and laziness. She
conscientiously took care of the bookkeeping and paperwork for the store, but that was the extent of her household duties. Most of the time she lay in bed, salving her sorrow with chocolates and
pralines and otherwise watching indifferently as her ample proportions increased with each passing day.
I was now fifteen and soon would have school behind me. Grandfather was asking more and more often what I had in mind for the future. I didn’t have an answer.
“Innkeeper, another drop?”
Dimitru pulled us back into the present. He was sitting in the corner beside the stove next to Johannes Baptiste and my school friend Fritz. Granddad set up Sylvaner and
zuika
while I
went to the storeroom to get the broom and dustpan. I swept up the shards of the bottle Roman Brancusi had smashed on Hermann Schuster’s hard skull and then sat down with the mixed
company.
“Pavel, you can take the rest of the night off,” said Granddad. “The bar is closed.”
I looked over at Fritz, but he indicated no desire to go home.
“We’ll hang around a bit,” I said. “It’s still early.”
Fritz nodded, and Father Johannes said, “I always like having young people around.” Grandfather didn’t object.
I heard the ticking of the clock whose hour hand had just passed seven. Johannes Baptiste was twiddling his thumbs, a habit that always meant he was looking for a good opportunity to start
talking. Then he cleared his throat.
“So Dimitru, you think there’s a shady story no one can see through behind this Sputnik?”
“Absolutely!”
“And what dark plot do you see at work?”
Dimitru fumbled around looking for an answer. “I’m very close to a
conclusio,
if only—”
“So you know nothing,” Baptiste cut him off. “Does the name Sergei Pavlovich Korolev mean anything to you?”
“A Russian, I’m guessing.”
“A Ukrainian,” said Johannes Baptiste. “A luminary of rocket technology. The best. For years, Korolev has been developing a secret program of manned spaceflight with thousands
of engineers working for him. Bad, very bad. And today we’ve learned”—Baptiste pointed at the television—“that the Sputnik is only a first step toward the illusion of
human omnipotence. The way things stand now, the Bolsheviks have really managed to overcome the powerful gravitational forces of the earth. Against nature. First a dog, then a chimp, then a man.
But I tell you that according to Holy Scripture, an ascension into the heavens is reserved for the Lord Jesus. Besides him, according to God’s design, only one other person of flesh and blood
has been granted bodily admission into heaven. And as you very well know, Dimitru, it was Mary the Mother of Jesus. That’s how Pope Pius in Rome laid it down in a secret dogma in
1950.”
“Sic est,”
agreed the Gypsy.
“Back to Korolev. What does this crafty Ukrainian have in mind? That’s the question that preys on my mind. In fact, it’s a burning question. What’s the Soviet Engineer
Number One looking for in the vastness of the firmament? It’s a riveting question. And the answer is much more riveting.” The priest took a swallow of water. “You heard it today
from this flickering doomsday box. From Khrushchev’s own lips. The Soviets want to send cosmonauts into the heavens and raise the Communist flag on the moon.”
“So what? Let them do it,” Fritz interrupted the priest in a snotty voice.
“And you would be Fritz Hofmann, the lad who just had the idea of using wire for the antenna? A clever fellow, no doubt, although I’ve never seen you in church. But you should keep
quiet, Mr. Know-It-All, when an old man is talking about things you haven’t got the foggiest notion of.”
Fritz tried to conceal how much this reprimand had hurt him as the Benedictine continued. “If my information is correct, Korolev is working with a man by the name of Yury Gagarin. When
Khrushchev was elevated to first secretary last year,
conscientiously took care of the bookkeeping and paperwork for the store, but that was the extent of her household duties. Most of the time she lay in bed, salving her sorrow with chocolates and
pralines and otherwise watching indifferently as her ample proportions increased with each passing day.
I was now fifteen and soon would have school behind me. Grandfather was asking more and more often what I had in mind for the future. I didn’t have an answer.
“Innkeeper, another drop?”
Dimitru pulled us back into the present. He was sitting in the corner beside the stove next to Johannes Baptiste and my school friend Fritz. Granddad set up Sylvaner and
zuika
while I
went to the storeroom to get the broom and dustpan. I swept up the shards of the bottle Roman Brancusi had smashed on Hermann Schuster’s hard skull and then sat down with the mixed
company.
“Pavel, you can take the rest of the night off,” said Granddad. “The bar is closed.”
I looked over at Fritz, but he indicated no desire to go home.
“We’ll hang around a bit,” I said. “It’s still early.”
Fritz nodded, and Father Johannes said, “I always like having young people around.” Grandfather didn’t object.
I heard the ticking of the clock whose hour hand had just passed seven. Johannes Baptiste was twiddling his thumbs, a habit that always meant he was looking for a good opportunity to start
talking. Then he cleared his throat.
“So Dimitru, you think there’s a shady story no one can see through behind this Sputnik?”
“Absolutely!”
“And what dark plot do you see at work?”
Dimitru fumbled around looking for an answer. “I’m very close to a
conclusio,
if only—”
“So you know nothing,” Baptiste cut him off. “Does the name Sergei Pavlovich Korolev mean anything to you?”
“A Russian, I’m guessing.”
“A Ukrainian,” said Johannes Baptiste. “A luminary of rocket technology. The best. For years, Korolev has been developing a secret program of manned spaceflight with thousands
of engineers working for him. Bad, very bad. And today we’ve learned”—Baptiste pointed at the television—“that the Sputnik is only a first step toward the illusion of
human omnipotence. The way things stand now, the Bolsheviks have really managed to overcome the powerful gravitational forces of the earth. Against nature. First a dog, then a chimp, then a man.
But I tell you that according to Holy Scripture, an ascension into the heavens is reserved for the Lord Jesus. Besides him, according to God’s design, only one other person of flesh and blood
has been granted bodily admission into heaven. And as you very well know, Dimitru, it was Mary the Mother of Jesus. That’s how Pope Pius in Rome laid it down in a secret dogma in
1950.”
“Sic est,”
agreed the Gypsy.
“Back to Korolev. What does this crafty Ukrainian have in mind? That’s the question that preys on my mind. In fact, it’s a burning question. What’s the Soviet Engineer
Number One looking for in the vastness of the firmament? It’s a riveting question. And the answer is much more riveting.” The priest took a swallow of water. “You heard it today
from this flickering doomsday box. From Khrushchev’s own lips. The Soviets want to send cosmonauts into the heavens and raise the Communist flag on the moon.”
“So what? Let them do it,” Fritz interrupted the priest in a snotty voice.
“And you would be Fritz Hofmann, the lad who just had the idea of using wire for the antenna? A clever fellow, no doubt, although I’ve never seen you in church. But you should keep
quiet, Mr. Know-It-All, when an old man is talking about things you haven’t got the foggiest notion of.”
Fritz tried to conceal how much this reprimand had hurt him as the Benedictine continued. “If my information is correct, Korolev is working with a man by the name of Yury Gagarin. When
Khrushchev was elevated to first secretary last year,
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