Роллан Сейсенбаев - День, когда рухнул мир

• Название: День, когда рухнул мир
• Автор: Роллан Сейсенбаев
• Жанр: Публицистика

Роллан Сейсенбаев – признанный классик казахской литературы. Его романы, повести, рассказы издавались в самых престижных журналах и издательствах России, Англии, Америки, Германии, Италии, Венгрии, Польши, Японии и Кубы.

Роллан Сейсенбаев награжден «Золотым офицерским крестом» Польши, «Золотым Рыцарским Крестом» Венгрии, орденом «Дружбы» Кубы за заслуги перед литературой. Он является обладателем множества международных литературных премий.

Крупнейшие критики мира называют рассказы Роллана Сейсенбаева жемчужинами. Поистине Он уникальный Мастер слова.

Роллан Сейсенбаев стал своеобразным эталоном современной казахской интеллектуальной прозы.

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But this painting hung above a bearded, young man who swiftly and confidently was painting the portrait of a young woman who sat before him, rigid with tension.

«Where does this painting come from? Is it yours?» I asked.

«Why, do you like it?» the painter answered the question with another.

«It’s not a question of liking it or not liking it. It’s terrifying,» I said, not being able to tear myself away from the painting.

«Terrifying for some and not for others,» the young man said indifferently, smirking and handing the finished portrait to the young woman, «I’ll draw you, if you like,» he offered. «If you’re in a hurry I can draw you in pencil, but if you have time I can paint you and you’ll have a solid portrait. They like solid portraits in Central Asia.»

«How do you know what they like in Central Asia?» slipped out from my lips.

«I know, I’m no fool,» barked the painter.

It was obvious that there was something in my face that made him look away and change his tone of voice.

«The person who painted this picture was much smarter than I. He understood Central Asia with his soul.»

«It’s Kazakhstan,» I said. «The hydrogen bomb test.»

«You’ve guessed it. Kazakhstan. Some hills, the name of which I can’t remember. The painting is by my father,» confessed the painter after a brief silence.

«They’re the Genghiz Hills,» I said. «Is your father alive?»

«He died at the end of the sixties. Cancer of the gullet. My mother said that it was in these very hills that he contracted his illness. He only began to paint just before his death.»

«Is the painting for sale?» I asked.

«Everything is for sale,» he grinned. «If only there was money…»

His cynical, philosophical reply took away my inclination to ask him any further questions. It was clear enough that the self-styled painter had either been an eyewitness or a participant in those evil events. I paid for the painting. I paid the fellow handsomely. The painting now hangs above my desk…

In the plane I began to read Hiroshima by Makoto Odo. I had first heard about this novel from my father. Over several days I had scoured the library for this book to take with me on my trip.

It took several days to make our way into the depths of the Genghiz Hills. As we walked, we drove the cattle forward and holding the horses by the reins, urged them on.

The high mountain passes, the valleys, the green pastures, trees, rivers, springs – I, who had come for the first time to the summer pastures, was struck by their glorious, pure beauty, enticed by their mystery. Is man capable of destroying such divine beauty with his own hands? Sheer insanity…

It was late autumn. Once after dark, we stopped over for the night. We lit a camp-fire and began hastily to prepare some soup. The old men went to tether the horses. The old women and I dragged some dry branches and twigs for the fire from the forest. The overhanging, dark, gloomy rocks seemed like malicious devils from a tale. Fear emanated from the rocks – a terrible fear. It was as if the fear hung in the very night air.

White-faced, with huge camel-like eyes, the little girl, Kenje, wrapped in a camel-hair blanket, sat by my grandmother’s side. Her grandmother, who was gathering brushwood with everyone eke, had not yet returned from the forest. Kenje was trembling either from the cold or fear. I threw an armful of wood onto the fire. It flared up and I saw Kenje’s frightened eyes.

«But where is my grandmother?» she asked.

«She’ll be here in a minute. She was right behind us. What’s the matter? Are you afraid? Chicken,» I began to tease her gently. She remained silent and I felt ashamed that I was making fun of the youngster. «Are you hungry? Do you want some dry cottage cheese?» I asked her and she nodded, «Thank you.» «I’m here, I’m with you, don’t be afraid!» I started to say, offering her the cheese. I had spoken loudly, louder than was necessary in the situation. She sighed.

Kenje was a sickly, anaemic little girl. Those eyes of hers always looked at you with trust and devotion; they were the eyes of true innocence, of an angel. Her mother had died giving birth and no one had either seen or known her father. She was brought up by her grandmother and grandfather who were quiet and modest folk. Their three sons had been swallowed up in the war and their daughter had died, but nevertheless they carried themselves with dignity and tried not to show their grief, nor to lose heart. My grandfather used to say that it was sheer honour which kept them alive. If you took away their honour, they would die immediately. They would not be able to continue to live like others, as if nothing had happened. «They are that sort of breed of people,» grandfather used to say. Breed… Grandfather used to love this word but would never use it in vain.

The fire crackled happily. Pitch blackness enveloped us and intensified the feeling that we were surrounded by the cold loneliness of the world. Only the twinkling of the stars in the sky sowed a faint, undefined hope in our hearts. Grandmother mumbled something, lifting the lid of the cauldron to stir the broth with a big wooden spoon.

«Do you want to live, Rollan?» Kenje asked suddenly.

Puzzled, I looked at her, not comprehending the meaning of these words. Patches of light danced on her pale face, her long lashes were half-lowered and tears flowed from her eyes. «Don’t cry,» I said. «I know that’s inviting misfortune, but I can’t help myself,» she quietly sobbed. «Tomorrow they’re going to explode a bomb! I’m scared!» She could not stop shivering and I wrapped her in a fur coat over the blanket. «Do you think dying is terrifying?» she asked and then replied herself, «Death comes in all forms – difficult and easy… A terrible death awaits me…» «What are you saying? You’ll never die, Kenje,» I objected. «You’re a good person, a very good person,» she touched my hand with her timid fingers. To me she was like a thin Teed which swayed in the merciless wind. Gloom. Darkness. Was it possible that Kenje and I would never be able to escape this dark gloom and that Death stood guard over us, greedily waiting to embrace us? Death… The word flashed like lightning and I shuddered. «Did the wing of death also touch you?» asked Kenje, but I remained silent. I was shivering. Suddenly I began to pray and for the first time I began to repeat the words I had heard grandmother say: «Oh, Great Merciful Allah! Save and protect your son. Don’t let me disappear.» I thought for a minute and then added, «Don’t let anyone disappear, then I’ll believe that you exist! Then I will always pray to you, forty times a day.» Again, I pondered and corrected myself. «Five times a day, oh Merciful Allah. I have faith in you!..»

I had not noticed that Kenje had fallen asleep. I put a saddle under her head and joined the old men who had settled themselves at some distance at another camp-fire and their voices only reached me in snatches while I had been talking to Kenje. I approached their fire, added several dry branches to it and sat down next to my grandfather. The old men were carried away by their discussion and did not take any notice of me. «Somewhere here, in a well, lies the unburied body of Shakarim,» said Arkham and everyone fell silent.

I knew a great number of poems by Shakarim by heart, but my grandfather had forbidden me to recite them. «Learn them, but be silent until it is time,» he instructed me. «When they rehabilitate him, then you will speak. The time will come…»

At that time it did not occur to me that even at the mention of Abai and Shakarim, people were sent to Siberia, to the land where, according to a Kazakh turn of phrase, «they ride on dogs». Just for mentioning their names…

«Our Otegen knows where that well is located. But he will remain silent, after all he is a man of the government,» said Duisekhan.

«As Allah is my witness, how could I know this?» swore Otegen. «I don’t know anything.»

«Perhaps it is true that he doesn’t know anything,» voiced doubt the other old men.

«Indeed, perhaps you, too, don’t know anything. Perhaps you’ve forgotten how he served in the local NKVD and would not part with his ‘cannon’!» said Duisekhan angrily, once again turning to Otegen. «And at that time, I suppose you thought – murder the old man, and that’s the end of it? Oh no, the spirit of the great poet is haunting to this day these ravines at night like the shadow of a snow leopard…»

Otegen, offended, got up, tightened his lips and disappeared into the darkness. The old men broke into smiles. And to this day I fail to understand why they were not afraid to hold such discussions. Or… or did they live in the hope that their old age would serve as an excuse?

Or did the half-witted Duisekhan suspect that incriminating him was pointless; and to those around him he was like a living corpse anyway. To this day, I do not know whether he was ashamed of this or deep down people’s defects amused him. He himself was invulnerable, free and clean before Allah, and evidently understood it. He openly said what he thought Of course, Otegen, who avoided Duisekhan as much as possible, had to endure more than anyone. Everyone knew that the death of Duisekhan’s older brother in a far-off Siberian prison was at the hands of Otegen. In the twenties, his other brother, together with a group of dare-devils, escaped to China…

I lay my head on my grandfather’s lap and fell asleep. A threatening ghost of a terrifying snow leopard appeared to me in my dreams. The ghost hung threateningly over me, coming closer and closer. «Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid of me,» suddenly whispered the ghost in a human voice. «It will be difficult for you, little one, but you will endure. Remember, remember everything, my son! Remember, remember, remember! For a time will come which will compel you to reveal the truth to the world, the bitter truth of what you saw…»

Greenish sparks poured from his eyes. The snow leopard patted me on the shoulder with his front paw. In an instant he was gone.

But when I awoke, shivering from the coolness of the morning, and began to rub my shoulders with my palms, I suddenly noticed that on my left arm there were fresh long scratches. «The snow leopard! They are his claw marks!» flashed across my mind. «But how is it possible? It wasn’t a day-dream. I was asleep and just woke up. How, how is it possible?»

With the sunrise, soldiers appeared in the hills. «Where did they come from?» said my grandfather in amazement.

«Indeed, it’s as if they have come out from under the earth,» the old man Arkham said fearfully.

The soldiers approached us and one of them, obviously the oldest, said: «Everything will begin in half an hour. During the explosion you should cover yourselves with your felt mats and don’t get up until told to do so. Put out the fires immediately.»

The soldiers were already pouring water over the flames. Their short sharp commands exploded in the mellow morning calm. People began to take out the felt mats, gather in small groups, making themselves as comfortable as possible. Kenje lay between grandmother and myself. Her gentle face grew haggard and her wide eyes once again filled with fear, her long lashes scarcely moved. My grandfather whispered a prayer. Grandmother covered me from head to foot by force. I broke free. She became cross.

The soldiers rushed about to and fro. I could hear their cracked, hoarse voices. Suddenly, their commander shouted loudly:

«Attention! Attention! Everyone down! Lie still!»

And – the earth rocked gently. It seemed like an eternal cradle, lulling us to sleep. But, all of a sudden, it shuddered and from below the ground something lashed out at us with violent tremors that struck our legs, chest, face; grandmother’s embrace slackened, the earth reared up like on horse; the earth, the hills in their final convulsions resisted extinction. As I stuck my head out from under the felt mat, I saw an enormous mushroom cloud filling the sky and fire-spitting flashes danced in an unimaginable turbulent blaze of kaleidoscopic colour. In an instant, my very being was paralysed by fear and wonder. I had not seen anything like it even in my worst nightmares. The mountains groaned, huge stones crashed down arid trees bowed and creaked, and suddenly amidst the hellish tumult of sounds, a desperate, ear-splitting cry emerged – or was it a scream? To this day I do not know how to describe that awful sound. A little girl, in a white dress, evading the hail of boulders, was running for her life. I had not realized that I had got out from under the felt mat and was standing, benumbed, following her with my eyes. As the fiery mushroom cloud struggled upwards we were blinded by bright flashes, and the little girl continued to run toward some unknown destination, along the reeling earth. I was frozen as if rooted to the ground, not knowing what I should do. Her scream was ear-splitting. Or perhaps there was no scream? Perhaps I had imagined it? Perhaps her gaping mouth was silent and she was running into the mountains arid not the steppe, and the stones were flying past her. «Shell be killed. I have to save her, I have to run after her. I have to catch up with her,» I thought and shouted, «Kenje! Kenje!» I rushed after her but suddenly it dawned on me that she had certainly gone mad! Shocked by this sudden revelation, I tripped and fell. At that very moment a large stone flew past me and I realized that Allah had saved me. Kenje had gone mad, she had gone mad… I caught up with her. Her thin shoulders were quivering, she was running and crying, and then I could clearly hear her heart-rending cry – «Aaaah!» Suddenly, once again everything was illuminated by flashes of light. I reached Kenje’s side and we both fell to the ground. I could hear the stamp of heavy boots behind us, but before I could turn around, we were covered with a heavy felt mat. I heard a gruff voice say, «Be still! Don’t get up!» Kenje lightly squeezed my hand. «Don’t be afraid,» I whispered to her, but she did not answer. The touch of her moist fingers, could one ever forget that?…

Once again the earth shook, this time stronger – it throbbed as in an epileptic fit and my heart throbbed in fits and starts, as if my spirit was fading away. I forgot about Kenje, I forgot about everything on earth. I realized that the WORLD HAD COLLAPSED and I too would be killed in its devastation. I thought only of myself. Death stood over me with her axe – swish, swish, swish. I could see the blade being lowered onto my childish neck; I lost consciousness, sensing in a fleeting moment that Kenje’s hand had grown cold. «She’s dead,» I thought as I gradually came round from my dull stupor. Under the felt mat, in total darkness, I lay trembling slightly and bathed in sweat, next to the dead Kenje. In my boyish heart, I suddenly realized that I had been in love with ‘this little, sickly girl. I stirred, trying to get nearer to Kenje’s face, to kiss her for the first and last time. «Don’t move! Lie still!» I heard the same thunderous voice say. I nevertheless, somehow managed to edge my way closer to her and kissed her on the forehead. Again he shouted at me, but the voice was muffled and I realized that its owner also spoke from under afelt mat.

And it seemed that the end of the world had come.

That ragged young man, who had been handing out leaflets, had been talking about the same thing.

After the explosion, we lived in the Genghiz Hills for another one and a half weeks. Here, on a high reach, we buried Kenje – the first innocent victim of the hydrogen bomb exploded on the proving ground near the town of Semipalatinsk.

Semipalatinsk! That dear, dusty, inconspicuous town; from that day on it became famous throughout the world!