Revolutionary
“Wow, Mom! How did you do it!” I cried, full of genuine admiration and respect. “Years of diligence and sacrifice, my dear,” she answered with a sly smile. As usual.
In October, the streets were flooded with grumpy old-man faces and we started drawing warships—literally the cruiser Aurora. The reason was clear: an anniversary of The Great October Socialist Revolution was coming. The triad of famous geezers with sticking-out beards was Marx, Engels, and Lenin. Their side-profile pictures, larger than life, were the main decorations in public spaces those days.
A wise Czech proverb claims only a young tree can be formed; that’s why the Regime started our indoctrination very early, in nursery school. As a result, all five-years-old children knew the Russian Revolution took place on the night of November 7-8, 1917, but it was called “The October Revolution” because Russia had started to lead the rest of the world toward a better future using a calendar that was two weeks behind. A self-fulfilling prophecy.
The only problem with the Regime’s educational intention, however, was that they couldn’t decide whether the result should be a strong individual, firm in their socialist faith, or a totally spineless being, a human amoeba. You cannot foster a brave personality through fear, nor honesty through lying.
“We will draw something really interesting today,” Aunt announced in a triumphant voice, and I knew I would be pissed off again. “Our task for today will be the magnificent cruiser Aurora!” she continued. Nice. Something deeply boring, as usual. “Just when I was on my best way to draw an incredible, stunning, and perfect dog!” I whispered. But the boys sitting with me at the table weren’t annoyed about drawing a warship at all. Boys, of course!
The cruiser Aurora started the communist coup in Russia with a shot. And the civil war, in fact. One of my friends narrowly escaped the fate of being named Aurora because she was born on November 7th, and her mother, weak and lonely after delivery in the hospital, had to persuade a communist nurse that the family had already chosen another name for the baby. It was probably the most difficult argument of her life, but she won. Her little daughter was named Marcia.
I finally drew a cruiser I could be proud of. I showed the picture to my family after dinner.
“Well, it’s a nice cruiser, but why does it have a Star of David on the nose?” my father asked. “There is probably no evidence there were any Jews on board!”
“It’s the red star, actually; the color is significant,” I retorted, offended. “I’m not able to draw another star anyway! I am not skilled enough! See, this one is simple—they are two triangles in opposite positions!”
“I don´t think there was any red star on the nose of the cruiser Aurora, so why shouldn’t she draw the Star of David? Why shouldn’t she draw whatever she wants anyway?” my dear older brother David (!) took my side again.
But the family jury was uncompromising. My brother was given a mission to teach me how to draw a five-pointed star. And he succeeded. To show him my gratitude, I used it in every picture after that, including as the comet for Jesus’s crèche.
The big grumpy grandpas’ faces had two uses a year; in February, there was an anniversary of the Czechoslovak communist takeover, Victorious February, its official label. The only difference in the way it was celebrated was that we were drawing factories—with red stars, of course—which the working class took from the evil capitalist owners.
”Look, it’s Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, the greatest revolutionary of all time!” I called out proudly, admiring the geezer street decorations while sitting next to my father on the bus.
“That’s a bold hypothesis. Maybe you are right, but there is no need to pronounce it in public,” my father suggested, his face turning completely red.
“But he was! Lenin was the greatest revolutionary of all time!” my yelling filled the entire bus. Suddenly, everybody in there was silent as if in a church. They were gleefully curious about my father’s reaction. But they were disappointed; my father found the evening air very pleasant and decided to get off the bus two stops early.
“What’s the saying your mother uses when she does something skillful?” my father asked. “Years of diligence and sacrifice,” I returned, happy to be useful. “Well, that applies pretty well now,” he said with a sad smile.