Memoir of a Russian Punk

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Eddie-baby's fifteen. He's standing with a disdainful expression on his face, leaning back against the wall of a building containing a drugstore – leaning and waiting. Today is the Seventh of November, and filing past Eddie in the cool noonday is the dressed-up citizenry, or goat herd, as he calls them. Most of the goat herd are on their way back from the parade. The review of the Kharkov garrison on Dzerzhinsky Square has ended, and the citizens' parade has already begun. The unified masses of the proletarian vanguard have long since marched through in columns, bisecting the German-prisoner-laid pavement of the largest square in Europe and the second largest in the world. "Only Tiananmen Square in Beijing is bigger than our own Dzerzhinsky Square" – Eddie-baby knows that first commandment of Kharkov patriotism well.

The citizens walking past Eddie-baby now are the lazy, poorly organized, insufficiently committed representatives of small enterprises, of shops, stalls, and repair stands – something on the order of a bourgeoisie. Only now have they dragged themselves out of their houses in their holiday finery, after putting away a couple of preliminary shots of vodka and a bite of holiday food, which, as Eddie-baby knows, is usually potato salad, some sausage, and the statutory herring. The head of the family has squeezed himself into a heavy coat, a black or navy blue suit, a tie, and brand-new shoes that inflict unspeakable pain at every step. The children, dressed like their parents in large, clumsy suits, are gobbling down the inevitable ice cream and dragging several balloons in tow. From time to time, the balloons burst with a startling bang that sounds like a pistol shot.

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