The Galosh - a collection of sixty-five short-short tales, fun, funny blasters penned by the most popular writer in the Soviet Union back in the 20s, 30s and 40s, the heyday of the country's Communist government. Of course, I’m talking of none other than Mikhail Zoshchenko.
As part of this little book, Jeremy Hicks provides an informative introduction to the author’s life and literary career. One of Mr. Hicks’ observations hit me with particular force: “Zoshchenko’s writing also has a simple and vigorous beauty.”
So, the question becomes: How to write a review in a way to convey at least a sliver of the author's storytelling vigor and beauty? After giving it some thought, the answer for me is not to provide overarching generalizations (how boring!) about how Zosh satirized everyday life within Soviet Russia but to retell two of his stories in synopsized form. I know, I know – I’m hardly Mikhail Zoshchenko, but in the spirit of honoring an author I dearly love, comrades, I promise to give it my best shot. Meanwhile, I urge you to pick up The Galosh and have some fun. Anyhow, here goes:
PASSENGER
When I asked Zosh about his train ride to Moscow, he told me he wanted to know why they allow passengers to travel on the top shelf since, after all, it’s a baggage rack meant for baggage not passengers. He shook his head and said people keep jabbering about civilization and education but how can a society that has these new diesel engines pulling trains forward tolerate behavior on the train that’s completely backward? Passengers on baggage racks! Comrade, if you fall from a baggage rack, you could really get yourself banged up.
And that Vaska Bochkov, the son of a bitch, talked me into going to Moscow in the first place. I told him I didn’t have any place to stay in his wonderful Moscow but he convinced me with a bunch of sweet talk.
So I’m sitting on the edge of a seat on the train headed for Moscow when all of a sudden I’m feeling ravenous hungry. Meanwhile, at the next stop, a crowd of people comes pouring in, including a guy with a bushy beard and one of those nasty, poisonous old women.
The old woman complains I’m taking up too much room on the seat. “Old woman, you dear old thing,” I tell her, “stop elbowing me. And besides which, I don’t want to go to Moscow but Vaska Bochkov talked me into it.” Of course the nasty old woman doesn’t sympathize in the least.
Then, all of a sudden, I’m not only hungry but I start nodding off – oh, man, I could use some sleep. But, of course, there was no place to lie down on that crowded train. “Citizens,” I say, “at least let me sit in the middle. I could fall off the edge and I have to go all the way to Moscow.” They tell me they're all going to Moscow and just keep sitting where I’m sitting.
I look up – there’s a basket on the baggage rack. “Citizens,” I call out, “I’m going numb sitting here. Would the owner of that basket (I pointed up), come and take it away.” Moaning and groaning, my poisonous old woman gets up and moves her basket but not before she complains about my being a wicked jerk who doesn't give her a moment’s peace. She then says a prayer to God to have me fall down and break my neck. One of those poisonous and nasty old women, I tell you.
So I climb up and instantly fall into a sweet sleep. But then horror of horrors: still half asleep, I feel myself shoved sideways and somersaulting in a downward direction. I'm bashed in the side, in the head, in the stomach, on the arm – down I fall. Fortunately, I catch my foot on the side of a seat to soften the landing. Oh, gees – I feel for my head to see if the precious melon is still there.
The train staff comes rushing in to see what the commotion is all about. When I tell the head guy I fell down from the luggage rack, he informs me passengers always fall down from the luggage rack near Bologoye where there’s a really sharp turn. Hearing that bit of local history I say to him:"Comrade, you shouldn’t let passengers up on the rack." But right then and there the nasty old woman buts in and complains that I crushed her basket with my idiot head.
“Hey, lady,” I tell her, “you have to admit a head is worth more than a basket.” She comes right up to me and we start a shouting match that ends when the train staff winds a large towel around my head that coveres my mouth. Oh, that Vaska Bochkov - if I ever get my hands on him.
“Hey, Zosh, what did you do once you got to Moscow?”
“I drank a cup of water from the drinking fountain at the train station and hopped on a train heading back. Damn that son-of-a-bitch Vaska Bochkov!”
NERVOUS PEOPLE
Zoch takes a deep breath and starts telling me all about how everybody nowadays is so nervous. We’re living in nervous times when people are all nerves and on edge. For instance, the other day in our communal apartment there was an argument that turned into a fight that turned into a full-scale battle.
It’s nine o’clock in the evening and one of the tenants, Marya Vasilyevna Shchiptsova, goes into the kitchen to light the stove like she always does in the evening. Only the damn thing wouldn’t light. She figures the stove is clogged with soot so she grabs a souring pad in order to clean it. But then another tenant, Darya Petrovna Kobylina, comes in the kitchen and sees Marya about to use her scouring pad and orders Marya to put the pad right back where she found it. In these nervous times, it’s no surprise Marya tells Darya to go chock on her scouring pad and flings it down. And, of course, Darya, nervous as hell, fires back at Marya.
In no time there’s crashing and banging which brings big, healthy Ivan Stephanych Kobylin to the kitchen. Although he’s healthy, Ivan has a big gut and like everyone else, he suffers from nerves. He starts yelling at both women not to touch the scouring pad – after all, he worked hard for the roubles that paid for that very scouring pad.
With all the yelling and banging, in a matter of moments, all twelve tenants, including the invalid Gavrilov, squeeze into the kitchen. In these nervous times all twelve start shoving and yelling. Ivan tells the invalid Gavrilov to get the hell out of the way or his other leg will get torn off. Gavrilov replies in that case his remaining leg has had it since he can’t budge from the kitchen. More yelling, banging and shoving and the invalid Gavrilov has a bigger problem – someone hits him across the skull with a saucepan. He flops down on the floor, his face looking like hell.
One of the mousy tenants runs off to fetch the police. The cop arrives and shouts: “Get the coffins ready you bastards. I’m going to shoot.” Everyone slinks off to their room. The next day Zoch asks his esteemed comrades why all the fighting? No matter, two weeks after the incident the trial takes place. The People’s Judge is a nervous sort of man and books everyone.
Mikhail Zoshchenko, 1894-1958
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