Anna Visloukh - A Thunderous Silence. Raising an Autistic child. My True Story

It was a fabulous place: they sold sparkling transparent sticks of candy formed as roosters there; cute little lilac-colored piglets lay there grunting, and a speckled guinea fowl huddled in the sack looked at you with its angry round eye. Purple horses shook their coal-black manes, and the whole place smelled of thyme and mint, of dill and half-sour pickles.

The counters were crammed with rich and juicy tomatoes, bottles of homebrew and ruby colored cherry brandy, samples of which were generously given away, with homemade shoes and beautifully crafted clothing. In the center of the market there was blind Old Sashko sitting, playing the accordion and singing the song about tankmen.

The day before my sister had left for Kiev. She was bored with the village life. Her cousins were in college, their holidays had not yet started, and Grandma did not let her to go to dances on her own as my sister was a city girl and someone could have hurt her. She persuaded Grandmother to let her go with a neighbor, Aunt Rosa, to Kiev to meet their niece Larisa who was to arrive from Moscow. Soon the cousins would come for the summer break, so it would be more fun. Back in those days there was hardly any entertainment in the village, just a club and a teahouse on the hill near the village shop.

This day was like any other market day. The night before my grandmother had fired the furnace, kneaded the dough and cleaned fish, and I had fallen fast asleep after playing with local girls in the creek. Through my slumber I heard the clatter of horses and carts on the stone-paved road. So, for sure, the market would be open in the morning!

I woke up abruptly, as if someone had struck me. The sun was fully up, and my grandmother’s favorite mallows bashed against the window shaking their heads reproachfully as if to say, «You have overslept, sleepy head!» «No, no, I still have plenty of time! All I need to do is get dressed.»

I opened my bedroom door to the living room and recoiled in terror. The living room was no longer there. My grandmother’s favorite room, familiar and loved to the finest detail, was gone. The table with the wooden benches was gone. Even my grandmother’s wooden chest was gone along with the icon case in the corner of the room. There was only foul-smelling grey smoke shaggy like a monster.

I slammed the door in horror and screamed out loud. I ran around my little room wondering what to do. There was a tiny window in there that I had never opened. There was nobody around to hear me. The little window overlooked the garden, and there were no neighbors around, and even if there were, on that day they were probably already at the market.

I went back to the door, opened it, and suddenly made a decision. Remembering the voice of the wondrous man that had put the baptismal cross on me, I whispered to myself, «God bless my soul». I squeezed the cross in my hand and plunged through the smoke.

I made my way through the dense fumes, with my mouth tightly closed, hardly breathing. The fire in the kitchen stretched out its long paws aspiring to grab me by the hair. I tried not to look at it. I fell to my hands and knees and felt my way to the door. Struggling, I pushed it open, and literally fell out into the hallway, slamming the door behind me.

For a while I lay on the cool dirt floor, gasping and coughing from the thick acrid smoke. I felt as if I were coughing the smoke out of my lungs. I lay there until my throat cleared, and then I stood up and tried to push the front door open. The door did not budge. I pushed it harder with all my strength, again and again, and then, crying and smudging the soot on my cheeks, I finally realized that the door was locked from the outside. For some reason, this time Grandma had locked me in. I slipped to the floor and prepared to die.

I do not know how long I sat there, but probably it was not very long. Suddenly the door was kicked wide open, and I fell out into the street. My elder cousin, Aunt Lisa’s son, was leaning over me. I found out later that walking past our house one of our relatives had seen dense black smoke coming from the windows. He rushed to the market to find my grandmother. She gave the house keys to my cousin who had been helping her out at the market, and hurried along behind him as fast as she could, with her heart filled with fear. I only vaguely remember what happened next. All I remember is being forced to drink some warm liquid until I threw up.

The smoke from the building dissipated, but the floor by the stove was burnt through: when Grandma went to the market, she had closed the shutters too early. After a couple of days, only the blackened beams in the rooms reminded us of what had happened.

My mother arrived and cried for a long time, cursing in Polish and then in Russian, trying to whitewash the terrible ceilings. At the same time my grandmother prayed guiltily in front of her icon in the corner, whispering, «Thank you for saving us, God.»

The priest asks us all to face the west and renounce the devil. Then he begins to read out a beautiful prayer. Later I will learn that it is called «Creed», the symbol of faith.

After that he plunges my son and another child into the baptismal font, sprinkles holy water on the adults’ heads and puts crosses around everyone’s necks. Finally, all the people who have just been baptized walk around the baptismal font in a procession holding candles in their hands. On the last lap the candle in my son’s hand shakes and goes out. I cannot help but cry out. The priest gives me a stern look, as if to say «be quiet», and he leads the boys to the altar. That is the end of the christening ceremony.

«Father,» I say rushing over to the priest. «My son’s candle went out. What does that mean?»

«What are you talking about?» he asks me calmly, as he removes his beautiful vestments; now I know it’s not a tablecloth but an orarion. «It means that you need to go to church more often, my dear, and then you will no longer ask such ridiculous questions. You’ll learn to cross yourself properly, too.»

I fall into an awkward silence. Really, God knows the kind of ridiculous thoughts that have come into my head. It was most likely just the wind from the window that blew the candle out.

I go off to find my child.

«What are you doing, my son?»

My son is standing before the altar, fascinated by the icon of Virgin Mary, Mother of God, and he does not seem to hear when I’m calling him. Reluctantly, he turns round to face me. «Mommy, is it all right if I stay here to live?»

So we have stayed there to live, and church has become part of our lives. From that day on we have been welcome in God’s house that is open to all. Its doors are open for everyone, but not everyone’s willing to enter. We, too, have not come in further yet than only just passed through the doorway.

I stop by the door to our apartment and lean against it, trying to put on a happy face so as not to frighten my son. The accident happened a few hours earlier, but I am still not quite myself. Even recalling the incident makes my heart pound, and my eyes get cloudy.

Okay, okay, just try to calm down. I unlock the door and open it slowly. I hear voices in the room. This sounds like English. Is it the radio? I am going to enter the room when I recognize my son’s regular voice.

«Dear listeners! Our program is about to start. Request any song you want!» he shouts triumphantly, lisping and burring a little, as if he really had thousands of listeners hanging on his every word. I freeze.

«Why don’t we listen to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony?»

I hear the first chords of Beethoven’s «Ode to Joy» instead, and I realize that my son is playing it by ear. Not only is he playing it, but he is also singing along. But what language is it? I understand that it’s some sort of gibberish, but if you are not paying full attention, you are likely to think it is English. A perfect rendition! After a few lines, he stops and says, «You have just listened to a cute song! Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, complete with lyrics! The lyrics are all my own. The next song is called the Egyptian.»