Napoleonic Bayonnet, 1874 / Egyptian Model
For David Jay O’Neal on his 19th Birthday
Dmitry had a sense of himself even as a small child. His babushka would look at his square palms and sturdy fingers every evening by the fireside. Strong thick paws cradled in her hands she would inspect them for omens that foretold the future. Then she would pat them like blinchik* and rub them until they were vibrating with the heat of their joined energy.
“These are krestyanin’s, farmer’s hands”, she would state proudly as she returned them to him, as if she were releasing a well-guarded family possession.
Dmitry thought, “No, net”. He would definitely not be a farmer.
It was thought amongst the yazychestvo, the pagan spiritualists in their community that Dmitry would meet with distinction in life. He had been born a week before Zemplya-Matushka, Mother Earth, also gave birth to a child, emblematically heralding a new era for all the people. An earthquake had leveled the buildings for miles around, causing all to rebuild and start afresh. The seismic upheaval took place exactly seven day after Dmitry had been born, it was an omen, and it was believed that his future would be not be ordinary.
When it struck he was tucked safely amongst soft blankets in a korzina, a small wooden hand built basket used for carrying bundles of wild herbs and flowers from babushka’s garden to the town market place. She was taking him out for his first taste of fresh air and sunshine since he’d been pushed from his mother’s womb. His large size had caused her labor to be long and harsh, she had bled considerably during the birth and she was still in bed. It had begun to pour rain just before he had crowned and then took his first breath. It had rained for days, washing away leaves and dirt from the gutters, filling the creek and preparing for spring and then on his seventh day of life it stopped as suddenly as it had begun. This was the first glorious day of bright sun and warm wind from the south.
After the earth’s first unexpected shake, his babushka had turned back for home, leaving the country path where a mud and stone shelter, cracked and shattered close by. She chose to cut through a section of open grazing land away from any structures and trees. She had carried her precious burden close to the middle of the meadow when the second tremor hit, stronger and more persuasive than the first. Dmitry had spent the suspended moment experiencing grasshoppers jumping wildly in a grand ballet above him. Babushka focused on the rolling dirt and waving grass from where they came. It looked as if the pregnant belly of the earth was contracting and expanding to push forth a fearsome ‘novorozhdennyi’**, a powerful ‘Malysh’***, from the heart of the earth, to join Dmitry on his life’s journey.
Dmitry grew like a sturdy weed and it wasn’t long before he was carrying a bundle to market beside babushka and her basket that had cradled him that remarkable day. He adored their visits to the town and marveled over the bustle of the townsfolk, automobiles and industry that pushed and tugged at all creation. In particular he loved the frequent parades of military troops that stomped through the streets in rhythmic time. The surge of pressed uniforms in disciplined rows flowing against the chaotic movement of the crowds excited him. He would try to spot and identify the various pins and medals that distinguished the finest members of their ranks. Dmitry sensed their solid kinship, their mutual, pride and distinct honor as they pulsed through the narrow dusty streets and across the open squares.
At the end of each day when the women would gather to sew and the men would fix their tools and speak of the upcoming harvest, Dmitry would pull down the small box that held the medals and ribbons that his grandfather had won during the first World War. He never tired of looking at them. He would finger each one and imagine the stories he had been told, running them through his head as if he had been there. The extreme hardship, the comrades thrown together by fate, and the shared love for their Rodina – the motherland, their far off families and each other that drove them to confront their worst fears and act out amazing feats of heroism.
In the stolen hours between his assigned chores Dmitry would venture into the nearby woods and build sturdy bridges from fallen trees and branches, across the small creek that ran there. He would arm each side with a heavy pile of round stones and run back and forth between them playing both sides, pitching rocks and dodging the ones sent his way from his imagination. As he grew older he created catapults that would fling broken bricks and dung high into the air, scattering it across the fallowed fields like felled pigeons.
When he went to school he drew pictures of tanks and artillery from books that he borrowed from the library. His teacher had spoken to his parents about her apprehension over his choice of books.
“Dmitry, only selects nonfiction for his personal reading. I would like him to occasionally choose a fiction. He was such a good boy, why did war obsess him?”
His parents thought, “Books were books” and could not fathom her concern. In the scheme of life and work why should anyone take notice of such things? Reading was helpful in many ways and they encouraged Dmitry to learn as much as he could. Someday the sober responsibility of reading almanacs to determine the planting and keeping a constant record of their profits for government fees would be his. No doubt the boy was smart and an education was not wasted on him, it would pay off in the long run. The sacrifice of his labor in the fields was a worthy one, but why should it matter to an adult what a youth read?
In High School the boys had machine shop and were taught to work with wood and metal. Dmitry shaped several rifle bodies and armed them with sharpened bayonets. It was unnatural for a farmer’s boy to choose such endeavors and it was decided that he needed redirection. His instructor had required Dmitry to build something, “more practical, something more useful for a krestyanin”. He waved his hand at the other boys had already moved on from tool crafting. “Do you see what your brothers have made?” Dmitry stared upon rows of hoes and rakes, the daily tools to their family trades. He showed the boy patterns for a “solid” chair and a ”useful” plough.
Dmitry built a small but accurate model of a Maxim M1910 machine gun. He had found a picture of it in a newspaper. It was wonderful what prizes were left on top of rubbish piles in the town square. He reasoned that it could be functional, given the right situation. Many of the youth at their small school had taken interest in his efforts and had come by to see it when it was finished. It was a marvel of detail and craftsmanship. Dmitry’s babushka viewing the work on open school night clasped her hands together and cried out, “My vnuk, my Grandson, he will be a builder. Every farm needs a good builder.”
*pancakes, ** infant, *** younger brother
D.Jay,
Happy 19th birthday! I hope you like this story I wrote for you. I has bits and pieces of my memories of you as a child and the events of your birth woven into a fictional Russian setting. My intent in this story is to say that all people must find their own way and their own personal meaning in life because those who they have sprung forth from will never be able to truly know anything other than themselves.
Love,
Mom
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