After the death of unle Mukhametdin, the old war participant, who had lived a long life and died in his old age, we found his shabby diary in leather binding.
He was one of the most respectable men in Kashkirkishlak village. As I was engaged in creative work murdashui Gaipnazar gave me that diary asking me not to lose it. After the funeral I brought the diary home.
I started reading it and couldn"t stop. The events described in the diary were so exciting, that I couldn"t tear my eyes off the pages day and night.
Prologue
I knew perfectly well that the diary could be an occasion for the marshal court to sentence me to death penalty by hanging. Therefore I started writing it after Stalin"s death during Khrushchev"s period of thaw. I wrote what I had seen in my life and what you couldn"t even see in your dreams.
The War
In 1942 I was drafted into the army. We were trained under Krasnodar, and after the training we were sent to the Ukrainian Front, along with the horses.
Either due to the lack ammunitions or because of mistrust they didn"t give us anything except for spades. We were bombed by the enemy" planes under Rostov-on-Don. As a result, the train came off the rails and the carriages blazed up. So many people died then, it was horrible!
After the bombing the fascists took us prisoners. As a faithful soldier of my Motherland, I should have killed myself but I couldn"t. The infantrymen had no other weapons but for spades. We were driven like cattle God knows where. We walked under escort the whole day. They didn"t feed us and didn"t let us rest. We walked staggering like drunken. The fascists shot dead on the spot those lagging behind and falling down. It was not until late in the evening that we were allowed to have a rest. Many people fell ill that night. At midnight they roused us and made us walk ahead. Half asleep, we walked in the cold rain along the dirt road. The fascists escort soldiers and officers had raincoats on, and before setting out they had had a good supper. In the morning we arrived at the destination. It was a concentration camp for Soviet war prisoners.
They searched us and taking our clothes away gave out striped pajamas and offered some food which, in fact, couldn"t be called food at all. The broth had neither meat nor oil in it, just pieces of rotten cabbages. The next day the fascists cut the meat of a dead horse into pieces in a pointed manner and fed us like chicken with birdseeds, sort of. Pushing one another, the hungry prisoners rushed to the meat of a dead horse and began to eat it greedily, like a pack if beasts. Presently, a heavy fire was opened at the place from which the food had been thrown to us. The whistling bullets flew over our heads. Fearing the stray bullets, the prisoners like one lay down on the ground. Watching the scene the fascists roared with laughter. Then they threw us some more of that so called meat. The prisoners got up and were about to run to the pieces of raw meat when the fascists opened fire again, and again we had to lie down to make the fascists laugh.
It was late autumn. The frosts were getting stronger and stronger with each passing day. The fascists started sorting people out in the camp. The Jews were beaten severely. The fascists set the guard dogs on them. One Jewish prisoner was eaten up alive by dogs. Another tried to flee and was shot dead, like a partridge.
Since I was a folk healer I treated prisoners in the barrack at night. I had my own method of treating the prisoners thrashed by fascists. In the past I had mainly used the song and poem therapy trying to influence the patients" mental process and behavior.
Being unable to treat people in the camp with the help of songs I started using the poem therapy. When I read a poem by heart the wounded prisoners would be hypnotized and fall into a trance. After the treatment they would be relieved from pain and feel good.
I could of course hypnotize the fascists as well, but I was afraid that in case of failure I would be killed on the spot. It would be like committing suicide. Seeing my prisoners recover after my treatment I felt happy. It was really great!
But there were informers among us who reported the fascists about my medical practice. The
result was that one night the fascists burst into the barrack and took me away.
It was cold outside. The barbed wire fence and the creaking lights on the lamp posts swayed and whistled in the fierce wind. The powerful searchlights illuminated the camp, and the dogs barked at me nervously.
They brought me to the camp commander. When we entered his room he stood by the window smoking. He was a tall red haired man, thin and with protruding eyes like those of a smoked fish. There was an officer by his side, a thick man in the fascist"s uniform, with a big scar on his face. As they opened the door the officer and the escort men straightened at attention raising their right hand and greeting their boss with the exclamation: "Heil Hitler!"
- "Heil" - said the camp boss. The thick assistant with a scar on his face joined him. Then
the boss told the officer to leave the room along with escort. When they left the room the camp manager started interrogating me. The thick assistant was translating my words from Russian into German.
- Are you a communist?
- No, I don"t belong to any party.
- You are a doctor, aren"t you?
- Not really.
- What do you mean by saying "not really"?
- I am a folk healer. I mean I am a Talib. Talib is...
- What are your methods of treatment?
- Sometimes I treat singing songs... I mean I mostly use the song and poetry method.
Is it possible to treat the sick in that way?
-Yes it is.
- What is your nationality? Are Jewish?
- No. I am Uzbek. There was such a republic in the Soviet Union.
- Oh yeah, Samarkand, Bukhara. Tamerlane? Do you come from the Tamerlane nation?
- Ye-e-es, yes.
- Then why do you treat Jews?
- To me sick people are just patients, regardless of their nationality and their belief. I just
have to help those in need of my support. That"s what my father taught me.
The boss fell silent contemplating. Making a pause he asked:
- Can you treat a child suffering from phobia?
- I will try - I said.
The camp boss silently crushed the cigarette in the ashtray.
- Who is the child? Where is he? - I asked.
- It"s my son - the camp boss answered.
- Your son? - I asked in surprise.
- Yes, even doctors and academicians were unable to cure him. So think. I will give you a chance. If you cure him, I will let you live. If not, you will die a terrible death for Otto is my only child.
- Excuse me, what does you son complain of? - I asked.
- He always says that there someone standing behind the door or behind the wall. We know there"s nobody there. To make him see, we open all doors before him and even turn everything over n the house. But he insists stubbornly:
- There he is, cant"s you see? A thin black hairy man, with a little head. Turn him out, I am
scared - he says. But we don"t know what to do.
- Don"t worry - I said encouragingly - Everything will be all right.
- You will see my son tomorrow - said the camp boss.
- OK, I replied.
The camp boss gave a sign with his eyes, and the aide pushed the button to call the escort. They entered the room and took me back to the barrack.
It was still and cold outside with the wind swaying the squeaking lanterns on the lampposts.
The walls of the barracks echoed the barking of the guard dogs. I watched the snow flakes sadly whirling in the light of the hanging lanterns and falling quietly like the feathers of shot down birds. Wrapping myself up in my striped clothes I walked shivering with cold.
At last I was locked up in the cold barrack where prisoners lay sleeping. I thanked God for saving me from being shot by the fascists. I lay down on the straw mattress and answering the questions of my brother-soldiers in a low voice I gradually fell asleep.
I had a terrible dream. I saw that I had been brought to the chamber of torture with huge bowls of water. There were armed guards standing, sticks in hand, by both sides of the bowls. There were prisoners in the bowls filled with cold water. As they come out from under the water the guards struck them without remorse on their heads, and they dove in again. The guards asked me:
- What is your nationality?
- Uzbek - I answered.
- Ah, Uzbek. Then take off your clothes and go down into that bowl. There are Uzbeks in it. There are many of them though you cannot see them all. Many of them must have died for lack of air.
- Really? - I said, and then I added:
- Excuse me, why aren"t there guards there with big sticks in hand who strike the prisoners on the head when they come out to take the air?
- The point is that you do not need guards. You will not let one another breathe drowning your brethren.
- The guard did not finish for suddenly a long thin arm with a tattooed word "Mamarayim" on it came out of the water and seizing my leg started pulling me into the bowl. I drowned and started
gasping for breath.
At this point up I woke. "What a terrible dream" - I mumbled thanking God for making this nightmare occur in a dream and not in reality.
In the morning the officer with the escort came again and I was taken away. When we entered the office of the camp manager the officer and escort soldiers raised their hands and exclaimed in chorus:
- Heil Hitler!
- Sieg Heil - answered the boss. His aide and interpreter joined them.
The boss was now talking to me in a milder tone. He explained to me that before going to see the patient I had to take a bath for hygiene.
I took a bath and changed my clothes for the suit the officer gave me. Then I had a good meal, and putting me in a car they took me away. We drove through the wood along the bumpy road. It was lightly snowing.
At last we arrive at a gorgeous villa where the boss lived with his family. The guard met us greeting with a fascist salutation. We entered the house. A lovely blue-eyed woman came out to meet us. The camp boss led me to the room where his sick son was sitting.
- Put him to bed - I said.
The boy was put to bed.
And what is the title of the song? - the manager of the concentration camp asked.
"Lazgi - The Roads of Khorezm" - I answered and began to sing:
Omoneeeeeey omooooon!
High mountain top stretch one by one,
Some have snow caps, others have none.
If a young man"s head is wise and bright
His wife and wealth will be all right!
Omo - o - o - n !
R - a - an !
Randada - dida - dandada !
Dindada dandada - dindada !
Drawn in pencil are your brows,
Black as pitch they make me burn!
Like two pythons your eyebrows,
Make me long for you and yearn!
Tell me please, my pretty girl,
Whom does your heart belong to, warm?
Lovely tulip, can you tell
What flower-bed do you come from?
Do you come from Hutan steppe?
You"re as slender as gazelle!
Black-eyed beauty, take a step,
Come to me, my pretty girl!
Black-eyed beauty my bu - u - uu - u - ty !
My pretty girl, my bu - u - uu - u - ty !
!
When I changed the note from the low octave raising it to the note "do" the child started
writhing and crying noisily. He opened his eyes wide in fear. I continued singing giving the sign to the parents to hold the child"s hands and feet. They did as I said. Singing the song I rose from my seat and began to dance "Lazgi". The escort men joined in. We danced on and on sweating our guts out, so to say. Now the child suddenly came round and smiled.
Thus I had cured Otto, the sick son of the manager of the concentration camp. After that the fascists called my method of treatment a new discovery in the horizon of world medicine, that is a miracle of medicine, and started taking me now to the clinic, now to the field hospital where fascist soldiers were taking treatment.
I didn"t mind. All sick people, regardless of their nationality and origin, were just patients to me. I treated them with all my heart.
One day I held a treatment session at the field hospital, singing "Lazgi". After the session the bandaged officers and soldiers rose from their beds and started dancing around on crutches. The doctors and nurses also danced. After this session the fascists sent me to a distant island in the Pacific Ocean where German scientists were carrying out scientific experiments.
Before my departure the fascists had warned me that it was a dangerous place. The point was that the islanders disliked doctors. I thanked them for the warning and set out for the journey. We first traveled by train, then flew to the Ocean shore and then sailed off from the port on board a small ship. It had been a long journey across the Pacific before we reached the shores of the island of mutants and nits.
When the fascist officers had put me on a boat and left me alone it was dark with stars twinkling over the ocean. The fascists went back, and I was all on my own on the island shore with the serf roaring and swaying the boat on the huge ocean waves
mardashui - a person involved in washing or cleansing of the body, especially as part of a religious rite.