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230 pages, Nook
First published January 1, 2000
It’s been a long time since I lived on Zoya Kosmodemyanskaya Street in Panjakent. For twenty-seven years I have not woken up to the rooster’s crow and the bleating of the neighbors’ black goat; I have not peered out my window at the nightly gathering of a terrifying dog pack under the streetlamp.
From 1969 until ‘92 – for twenty-three years, I lived in Dushanbe. The city was created overnight, on Stalin’s order, out of a mountain village, and development continued the entire time I lived there. Trucks, cranes and construction crews were raising apartment blocks in the center and in the suburbs; they even went back and installed elevators in some buildings engineered in the seventies.
When Gennady began getting better, we talked often and at length. He had a single fear: that he would be left with a limp, would be decommissioned, and would no longer be able to catch bandits. I reassured him that everything would be all right, and he believed me. It was funny: he was like a kid, so grateful for the sympathy.
“Hello, Candy!” he would shout as soon as I entered his room. I felt at ease with him; he was strong.
On an early March morning, the diesel “Noah’s Ark” loaded with three families left Dushanbe. Uncle Styopa drove; nestled behind his seat was the carbine with the optical sight, a present from a general who had visited in happier times.
What I did not know, a fact carefully concealed from us women, was that the men had also hidden a sub-machine gun in the truck. They equipped themselves for the worst, and it turned out they were right.