I’ll Never Leave You, Mama by James L. Choron It was a warm and sunny day in late spring, and the two little boys had been out, like most of the local children, playing in the forest, and picking berries… a common enough passtime for a pair of six years olds in a sleepy little Russian village. It was 1962… a tense year for the world as a whole, but not so tense for the inhabitants of Stoyietal, which, having been bypassed by the recently constructed M-8 Motorway, was a lethargic place, with most of the local “community” life centered around the usual Russian activites of work, school, The Party and The Church. The old Moscow to Yaroslavl Highway… the road that bisected the little city, was mostly unused now, and generally served only to provide transport into Moscow the products of the local factory, a conduit for heavy trucks laden with bricks, lumber, cement and other items necessary to the building boom instituted a few years earlier by then Premier Nikita Kruschev. In short, life was good in Stroyital. The two little boys crossed the old highway north of the city and started out into the forest in the general direction of Taratovka, the next little village, some five kilometers distant. They had intended to walk to Taratovka, picking berries as they went, and catch the local electric train back to the Stroyietal Platform… a two or three minute ride. Sasha and Pasha… Alexander and Pavel… had been friends for all of their short lives. They had both been born in Stroyietal, had grown up together, living in the same building, in adjoining flats, and… that very year… starting school together at Public School 284. They were typical “best friends” and were certain that they would be so for “life”. The trip through the woods to Taratovskaya was without incident. The boys had, in fact, a little trouble managing the heavy bucket that now coutained some five kilograms of berries that they had picked along the way. They were glad to get on the train, even for the three minute ride back to their own platforn… just so they could put it down and rest their tired little hands. The conductor… there were live conductors in those days… announced Stroyietal Platform. Of course, the boys were already aware of this fact. They picked up their bucket and left the train along with all of the other commuters. It was now only a short walk home for them. They would make it long before supper, and have plenty of time to wash their berries… and of coursse… cram a few down as they did it. Fifty feet from the platform, they came to their first, and only obstacle. The road leading to their block of apartments crossed the old Moscow to Yaroslavl Highway, just as it came out of a blind curve. The boys looked carefully… both ways… then started across. They never saw what hit them. The hugh Zil truck… what the locals call a “Trumanski”… because it is a direct copy of the GMC Ten Ton Army Trucks that Truman sent to the Soviet Union on “lend lease”… rounded the curve in a scream of brakes and blaring horns. The driver saw the two boys, but only too late… He literally ruptured the break lines on the heavily laden truck trying to stop…. but… Ten tons of cement in hundred pound bags added to the weight of the moving truck made stopping impossible. The truck skewed, first to the right, and then to the left, in a screem of tires and a cloud of dust as the driver fought for control. He tried with all his might to herd the big machine away from the two little boys and into the opposite ditch… It was an exercise in futility… With a sickening thump, the front of the Zil crashed into little Sasha Lushkov, tearing him away from Pasha, who was clear of the road surface, but only just… The driver of the truck finally stopped the vehicle. Knowing what had happened… what he had done… he jumped from his cab and ran to the crumpled body of the little boy, now lying in a mangled heap, some twenty feet from the roadbed. Little Pasha began to cry as he realized what had happened to his “best” friend, and ran home, as fast as he couuld. It wasn’t far… not far at all. Srangely enough, Sasha still alive when the driver found him. He remained so for several minutes… long enough for his friend, Pasha to return, leading their distraught parents… Also surprisingly, the little boy was still conscious… barely… The local Militia, who had arrived to question the driver of the truck and take the necessary statements had already summoned an ambulance. It was, of course, too late… Little Sasha died in his mother’s arms, looking up in seeming wonder at her pain-twisted face, and that of his best friend. He could hear the plea in the voice as his mother begged him not to “leave”… not to “go away”… In his little mind, he was unaware of his own condition… only that his mother was afraid that he would leave her, and that she would be “lonely”… “Don’t cry, mama,” he whispered. You won’t be lonely… I’ll never leave you… I’ll always be with you”. Then, he closed his little eyes, and died. The funeral was one of the biggest in the history of Stroyietal. It wasn’t every day that a child died. The schools turned out, the factory closed. Everyone attended. The truck driver who had, of course, been absolved for his part in the death, walked solemnly and silently beside the tiny casket, huge sobs wracking his body as the procession wound it’s way to the cemetery. Like everyone else in Stroyietal, he knew the family. His own children were not much older than little Sasha. Two years passed. Another child came the following spring, and Pasha, still stopped by the Lushkov’s flat every day to say hello. Sasha’s toys were still on the shelf in the living room, and his little wooden chair still stood beside the kitchen table. From time to time, his little sister would play with them, but, even as she grew, she never sat in the little wooden chair. In time, the Lushkovs decided that they needed more room, and began the process of moving to a slightly larger flat that had become available on a different floor of the building. As always, Sasha came over to help… They were just getting ready to make the final trip, when someone noticed that they had forgotten Sasha’s chair. It was still standing in its usual place, beside the kitchen table. Irina Lushkov, Sasha’s mother, put down the load of books that she was carrying, and stepped back into the now empty flat. She quickly went into the kitchen and grabbed the little chair, thinking to put the books in the chair, which was quite tiny and not heavy, and take the entire load to the new flat all at once. When she stepped into the kitchen, she noticed that the little chair was gently rocking back and forth, shifting slightly from one side to the other as if someone had just been sitting there, and had risen suddenly. She looked around the room. It was empty. She called out to Pasha, who had been “helping” them move, and asked him if he had been sitting in the chair. The boy came running back into the flat, to see what his friend’s mother wanted, but, his answer to her question was, of course… no… He had been well out into the hallway at the time. Irina Lushkov looked around to see if the toddler, Marina, was in the room… No… also in the hallway. Strange… She then reached down to pick up the little chair… At first, it seemed unusually heavy, and slightly cool to the touch… As she picked it up, a tiny, childs voice said… “Mama… I told you that I’d never leave you. I’ll always be with you…” Pasha, who was, at that time, standing just behind her, also heard the voice… and recognized it instantly as that of his little friend… Today, almost forty years later, a far-away look still crosses the big man’s weathered face face as he tells this story… “As far as I know,” he says, “Sasha is still with them… They live downstairs, you know…” ©2009/2014 by James L. Choron. All rights reserved unless specifically granted by the author in writing.
Posted on: Sun, 22 Jun 2014 17:07:32 +0000
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