It was 1944, or maybe 1945. Yes – 1945. The girl was five years old. Or rather, around four. So it was 1944 after all.

The war was on. Somewhere, there was fighting. Here, there was the occupation. The Japanese. As everyone knows. Although by then, it was almost over.  Impossible ever to forget, it brought the eternal acts of unspeakable, unimaginable cruelty, violence and pure, cold, calculating madness. The same old story. But no – there was something different here. Something exceptional.

Her main memories were of people talking – adults deep in conversation, agitated, yet falling abruptly silent when they noticed her listening. This is not for children, they’d frown. Why not though? Everybody knew anyway. Including her.

***
But most of all, the girl remembered the New Year celebrations, beginning with the traditional greetings from the poor inhabitants of the poor Chinese neighbourhoods – relatives of her nanny and cook. Kung-fa-spoi, they would intone – wishing you lots of money! Everyone bowed their heads and smiled gratefully in return. Lots of money would definitely be welcome. In fact, so would a little. But somehow, it just never happened. 
Then, total confusion would break out. A kind of collective insanity. The girl and her nanny would run outside, heading for the nearest square. Amazing things were going on all around. Right above their heads, frantic petards burst with a deafening clamour. They were of the most unexpected sizes, some tiny as the girl’s fragile hand, others huge - twice her size. Harsh, powerful drums were beating everywhere to cast away the ever-present evil spirits. These appeared even more dreadful than the Japanese – at least, the occupation was something temporary, happening for the time being only. The spirits, on the other hand, were everywhere, and had been for countless thousands of years. They would always be there. At least, that’s how it appeared to the girl. And not just to her.
In the year they had reigned unchecked, the villains had come so close to people’s homes that everyone could hear their hoarse breathing and awful sniffing, like that of huge, hungry dogs. Many claimed to sense the sweetish burning odour, or rather, the smell of their inhuman flesh, scorched and melted by an eerie internal fire. The flame was burning them on the inside without, however, causing them any visible pain or harm. But God forbid it should touch any human! One drop of the devastating acid would consume the unfortunate soul in a trice, making him disappear completely. A puff of smoke – and only a light flyaway haze would remain, vaguely reminiscent in shape to the poor wretch. A man who was there a second ago would be gone in an instant! Many had witnessed such happenings. At any rate, many spoke about them.    
The girl clung to her tiny nanny, who herself was no less scared. The nanny would always dress her adored nursling in shoes and a hat, decorated with tigers’ grinning heads to protect her from all of this. That was the idea, at least. And it did seem to work. 
A long procession of strangely dressed dancing people glided past. Fine clouds of dust eddied around their tirelessly moving bare feet, dark under vivid, swirling robes. They came from the nearby Temple of the God of Fire – a terrifying deity, and greatly revered, as all the dwellings of the poor Chinese in the neighbourhood were made of wood. Taking in an instant, they would burn down to the ground before you knew it, and had done, many times. Naturally, the God of Fire was the undisputed local sovereign, bringing threat and salvation at once. 
Dozens of swarthy gangling men in long trailing clothes bore him past the girl in a huge painted palanquin. Enthroned in a vast purple chair, he was bearded and hairy, with fearsome red hands, ready to grab anyone who came too close. 
The girl clung to her nanny. 
Accompanying him, lions and monsters ploughed their way through the crowd, touching, burning and all but flinging back members of the procession. Musicians and dancers swirled past, caught up in the giddy dance and insane sounds.
But one figure especially struck the girl. She felt unbearably frightened. Horrified. A tiny snow-white curly lamb, at the very foot of the long palanquin. Two hairy black demons were pulling at his tongue with large tongs! Oh, oh, the poor thing! He’d lied innocently, deceived someone. Said something wrong. Dug his own grave. And now there was no forgiveness nor salvation for him! Surely, it’s better never to lie to anyone! Yes, yes, that is surely better. 
Then, right before the girl’s eyes, a fearful dragon’s head appeared, decorated with horns and two porcelain eyes flashing under the dazzling sun. His bright red half-open mouth was spangled with endless rows of sparkling snapping teeth. A beak of bone jutted right from the monster’s brow and swayed oddly in front, threatening to stab anyone bold enough to step within arm’s reach. 
The girl shrunk back. But there was no escape – a solid wall of onlookers pressed against her from all sides. The dragon would not go away. Apparently, just like all the other inhabitants of the Middle and Heavenly Kingdoms, he was attracted, nay, enthralled by the girl’s little golden-haired head. For him, it was at once provocation - and salvation. 
His huge, reptilian body stretched as far as the eye could see, down the street, disappearing in a shimmering cloud of dust somewhere in the distance. Cymbals, tam-tams and drums filled the neighbourhood with their intolerable clamour. The air seemed like a bag of peanuts, stuffed to bursting with thick, discrete sounds, failing to fuse in harmony -yet light, at the same time.
The dragon’s head swayed between the sky and the ground. As it flew upwards, the girl could see the bare brown feet of a dancer, skipping and winding in ceaseless rhythm. In the distance, a tall man strode alongside the dragon, looking as if he had nothing to do with all this insanity. He carried a large, greenish fish, which would occasionally bite the dragon, nipping sharply before pulling back. Small bubbles would burst from the heavy trunk, float playfully up into the warm air, and fade in the pale sky. The dragon would glare around, but the fish-man did not react. The dragon would dip down towards the girl’s feet once more.
Beneath the monster’s belly, countless pairs of bare dancing feet twinkled, stirring up little swirls of dust. A fine, whitish haze clouded the vision, making it all seem like an unreal, yet strangely distinct painting..
Veiled in its cloud of dust, the vast procession was followed by countless rows of slowly moving people in a variety of garments. They carried small colourful paper propellers. At each breath of wind, these would shudder and begin to turn frantically, emitting a low hum like that of a huge bumblebee, each a glowing, translucent halo. A nimbus. A sea of nimbi. As the wind fell, the propellers would stop, turning once more into tiny swastikas. And then, they’d be off again, turning with insane speed. Then, once more still. 
The procession was disappearing.
Again, everything was giving way to chaos – helter-skelter, disordered jumble.    
The nanny hugged the girl’s head, and they both froze, horrified, trying to stay close to the bursting petards and insane drums, although these were quite terrifying. Not as terrifying, though, as the monsters, dragons and beasts which were closing in on all sides – or, above all, the hideous spirits and demons which, although invisible, could distinctly be felt all around them. Begone, spirits! Away!
The beginning of the next year was now guaranteed to some extent, at least. For a short while, they would be banished from the nearby homes.

Was there anything in my life comparable to these events? I am trying to remember. I'm remembering. 
The only thing which appears in my memory are the silvery-sombre crosses of planes, moving slowly across a dreary sky, gradually darkening to complete blackness. And then – the unthinkable roar and collapse of all living things, which had stood fragile on this shaking ground, as if they were flying away, or rather were carried away by their remaining life force up to the skies in the form of spotlight, crossing somewhere up there in the imponderable depth of endless, pitch-black space.  
Naturally, these are images of a long-past, seldom recalled war, which, fortunately, bypassed the girl and her family, touching them in a purely ornamental way – in other words, by providing a change of scene for their everyday routine.
For the local population, however, it meant enormous suffering and countless sacrifices. Take Shanghai the day the Japanese entered the city, for example. Showered with bullets by the invaders whom no-one could oppose, distraught crowds of Chinese and Europeans rushed to the port – the only way to salvation! – trampling each other and flattening everything in their path. Behind them, the rhythmic stomp of three columns of Japanese troops entering the city from different sides, and the rumble of tanks, as they crushed the tiny people, scattered cars and fragile houses under their ruthless metal bodies. Yes – that was how it was.
But the girl, her parents and those around them here, in the north, led a kind of parallel existence, their lives barely overlapping with those of the locals. Sometimes, it happens that way.

***
On a different, bright and sunny day, running across the wooden bridge that sways over the quietly gleaming, clear and narrow Uihei river, reaching out to flick the odd carved pole which bordered the bridge, the girl accidentally…
Then again, why accidentally? Who knows, maybe it wasn’t by accident at all. Maybe it was quite intentional. 
In any case, the girl slipped, falling through a wide gap between the poles, and tumbled down. Or rather, she slid. No loud splash. Just incredible silence and peace.
<…>
Dressed in airy summer clothes and looking their Sunday best, the adults strolled along, unhurried and unsuspecting. The mother was wearing a light, tight-fitting dress with a pre-war 30s cut. Even though it was already the middle of the century. The late 50s. The war was long over! But alas, European news and fashion took a long time to reach this distant place. In those days, transport – and so, information – travelled slowly. The area was incredibly remote. 
The girl remembered all the details of her mother’s dresses, down to the tiniest spangle and button. She was especially taken with the huge ladies’ hats, a range of which was kept on the top shelf of a large old-fashioned dresser on the landing between the second and third floor. Climbing up on a chair, the girl would pull at its heavy doors, sometimes all but hanging from them to open them. Carved with idyllic mountain landscapes and mythological scenes from Chinese life, they would eventually creak – oh so slowly! open. Peering into the close, spicy blackness of the drawers, she would stand stock still, mesmerised, as everything floated and twisted, closing in on itself. Gradually, her eyes would become accustomed to the shaggy darkness which dwelt in this large enclosed oaken space.   
Once, she opened the dark-brown door of the dresser and, in the brightly lit spot at the very bottom, discerned a slight movement of pinkish, almost transparent blobs. She’d just bent down to watch them scrabbling around, when she heard the thin voice of her nanny: ‘Lo siu! Lo siu!’ (‘Mice! Mice!’) she cried, pushing the stubborn and somewhat stout frame of her charge out of the way with her own fragile body. Yes, they were indeed newborn mice. Born that very minute, in fact. They were scooped up and taken away. To some unknown place.

Pulling one of the splendid hats carefully from the top shelf, the girl would put it on, peering coquettishly over her shoulder at the fearsome carved dragons. Lips pursed in a special little moue, she’d mince to the upstairs kitchen to see her mother. (The basement kitchen, by the way, was ruled by the fat Chinese cook).
Upstairs, she would parade endlessly up and down, turning this way and that, showing off her graceful back. Taking a break from her chores, the mother would observe her with a smile. Then, she would gently take the hat off, and return it to its place. 
Some of the hats were adorned with strange, towering tropical constructions reminiscent of the garden of Eden. The narrow slit of a cat’s eye would suddenly sparkle, or she’d hear scuffling and squeaking. Then, in a split second, it would be gone. Gone, as though it had never been there at all. Then, it would recommence. Perhaps it was those mice, the girl would muse, shivering at the thought. She couldn’t stand mice, or any kind of rodents.

…The girl ran ahead in her pale pink vaporous sundress and strapped shoes, with tiny pearly buttons that had two holes stitched with red silk. She’d run across that bridge any number of times, listening to its constant thin squeaking. She could even hear the fish, quietly talking underwater. Every time she thought she just had to wait another moment, and she’d be able to understand everything. She’d freeze. But every time, it all just went quiet under there. 
The ladies continued their endless chirruping, totally oblivious. Or maybe, thought the girl, it was just the wind playing with the tall, silky grasses. Or the rustle of the complicated fancy hats with the abovementioned mysterious constructions, as the ladies turned their heads.

Later, the girl would often experience the deepest nostalgia when watching European movies from the 1930s - it was all alive in her memory. Real scenes of post-war life in the 40s and 50s, involving herself, her parents and their friends, recalled these images of 1930s luxurious pre-war European living, stuck in that quiet semi-provincial existence, remote from the epicentres of high-voltage Western life and fashion. 
Curling, yellowed photographs of plump beauties and dashing beaux from that memorable time produced in her the same response. Long-gone, they gazed at her with incredible seriousness, or smiled gently, bathed in the cool, glossy surface of the picture. 
One of the strangest, which struck the girl in her early childhood, was a photograph of a languid-looking young boy, dressed in a sailor’s top and reclining wearily in a folding chair. He gazed straight at her. Even through her. The girl ducked slightly, to avoid his stare. He was the last Russian crown prince.
She discovered this picture in a strange album on her father’s book shelf. Coloured crudely in an unskilled hand, it contained a selection of famous poems, interspersed with the words of wartime White Army.songs, copied out in what appeared almost a schoolchild’s writing. 
             
Bravely we’ll go to fight
For Holy Russia
And, one and all, our young
Blood we shall spill

Yes, yes, that was it, young blood! 
Incidentally, we used that very same tune in our childhood, so remote from the girl’s almost heavenly abode, and despite the distaste of the unknown story-writer, who covered the pages of that well-worn old notebook with his writings; but the words we sang were somewhat different:

Bravely we’ll go to fight
                    For Soviet power
And, one and all, we’ll die
Fighting for it
    
In both versions, those fatal, frighteningly similar phrases: ‘And, one and all, our young blood we shall spill’ and ‘And, one and all, we’ll die fighting for it’ sounded terrifying and inexorable. But still, we sang it. And so did they.
Whether the girl sang, I don’t know.

Nowhere, though, did the fantastic, magical spectres of past faces and years appear so close as in the cool, darkened space of the cinema. Stepping down from black-and-white screens, silently, or accompanied by the languorous music of cracked voices, they’d drift among the subdued rows and find the girl. Clasping her close, they’d embrace her with cool, plump arms and press their gentle cheeks to hers, whispering, whispering, persuading. Demanding. Inviting. Begging. Why? What did they want? Who knows. Although, one can certainly take a guess.
Sitting motionless in the half-empty, almost lifeless hall, the girl would listen and smile blissfully without replying. But she wouldn’t give in. No, she wouldn’t give in. They’d wait. They’d linger. And linger. And then, they’d fly back to their unknown, endless, inevitably semi-eternal life on that side of the screen.

I watched those films too. Yes, yes, those very same films. In the long-gone, wretched, poverty-stricken, yet irresistibly joyful post-war years of my suburban Moscow childhood. Despite the lack of any direct reference to my own modest communal lifestyle, the charm of that long-deceased, yet ever alive sumptuous screen existence could not help but move me. Just as it moved each and every one of us, lost in the depths of some squalid cinema hall, packed with eager and excited creatures with two sets of shining eyes – and not just children’s eyes at that. 
The lights would go on. Rubbing my suddenly blind eyes, I’d stumble outside on weakened legs. Our humble, nay, our wretched life in all its forms and manifestations would rush at me in a wave of noise and energy, engulfing, overwhelming.

The parents strolled along, chatting happily. Equally smartly turned out attentive friends flanked them and followed behind. Ginger Tobik, or rather, Sir Toby twisted near their feet; at table, the children would feed him their greatly disliked porridge, made with milk delivered from remote farms inhabited by strange archaic Russian residents: Cossacks.
Sir would hungrily lick his long thin splotchy moustache, the artificial greyness of which would occasionally give away the crimes of the girl and her younger brother. The nanny would look at them with reproach, then turn her gaze to the door in case her mistress was on the way. ‘Mistliss!’ This time they got away with it. They’re children, after all. Let’s not be too hard on them.

At times, the girl would assume grown-up ambitions, and start forcing that very porridge into her brother’s mouth, as if appointed to look after him. Skinny, with knobbly knees and elbows which had earned him the nickname Ghandi, he’d stare back at her with frozen, round eyes. His gaze, his obedient, lifeless expression and stretched, inert lips seemed to convey precisely such ancient Hindu humility, combined with melancholy. The metal spoon with its sharp edge drove painfully into his gentle cheeks and lips. Picking up the leftovers from her brother’s chin, the girl would push the spoon almost to his ears. He’d freeze, but would never dare to cry.

    Lord, lord. I remember how I too would smear my equally disliked semolina – albeit made with water, but with disgusting hard lumps - on the wall near the table. Or rather, behind the table. I’d make feeble efforts to cover this mess with my elbow, naively trying to hide it from my dear granny. She saw right through me, naturally, but would pretend not to, occasionally rebuking me by mentioning the poor starving children in capitalist countries who, she claimed, would eat anything. Even the boiled carrots and onions, which I disliked to the point of vomiting. And the liver. To say nothing of the messes like omelette, which as a child I was never actually given. An aberration of sorts: I’d never had it, but I didn’t like it!
Indeed, such things happened. Different things happened. 
Remembering his or her own similar childhood transgressions, the reader will, I hope, understand me, and the girl, and her brother. And I hope that you will not judge us harshly. Rather, simply chuckle over the innocent wrongdoings and mischief of childhood, which disappears all too soon, to spring on others instead, like a fidgety pet. Then on to the next one. Leaving its former owners dispirited and heavily perplexed. Was it real? Or wasn’t it?
Poor, poor things! That cunning, fickle animal is just waiting for a convenient moment to pounce on to the third lot, then the fourth. The fifth. The tenth…
It’s all quite clear, actually.
 
There was no fear. The girl immediately sank to almost the middle of the eight-metre-deep river. All around her, everything sparkled and gleamed. The water was surprisingly warm. Soft, even. Almost the temperature of her body. It was difficult to define the border in her thoughts, or rather, her senses - the watershed of body and water, so to say. It seemed that her body was expanding to the size and space of the whole mass of water. 
Leaping from the corners of her tightly closed mouth and nose, tiny frisky bubbles flew up in playful coveys to the world of her parents, and all the others left up there. The world which, until recently, she had herself inhabited. It was fun there. But she wasn’t drawn to it at all.

As I have said, there was not fear. The water was so transparent that all around, one could make everything out as far as the eye could see. All the way to Russia, lying hazy and bluish in the distance - longed for and mysterious, abandoned by her father some time ago, according to his stories. 
Many years later, though still at quite an innocent age, crossing its endless snows, the girl sat on a train, by the window, watching the countless firs and pines flit by, amply dotting the infinite white space.

‘Do they eat eggs in China?’ her elderly travel companion enquired with genuine interest. She looked good-natured enough, but very tired. Exhausted, even. Filled with wrinkles, which deepened its hue almost to blackness, her face was at once tender and compassionate. The girl had already noticed this, and grown used to it in the long hours of travelling together.

Translated by Sofi Cook and Marina Sviridova