Something wrong with Rozanov

Moscow, winter 1997

Ilya loved winter and always looked forward to it. Every year, around the 20th of December, a massive Christmas tree with a long, elegant topper would appear in their large living room. Some of his father’s subordinates — young men with bright red cheeks, dressed in uniforms with shoulder straps — would carry the tree into the room, bound tightly with thick twine for transport. “Where to, ma’am?” one of the young policemen would ask, and his mother, with a smile, would lead them to the living room. She allowed them to walk inside without taking off their shoes, leaving dark, damp footprints from the melted snow on the worn red rug with its brown and yellow flourishes. His mother always offered them tea and invited them for dinner, but the young men would decline under his father’s stern gaze, departing a few minutes later and pausing at the door to salute their superior. At the time, Ilya didn’t know what the gesture meant, but it was clear these people held his father in high regard. The appearance of the tree brought a frantic delight that made Ilya’s eyes grow misty. It was like having a piece of a dense, ancient forest right inside the house. Just yesterday, bullfinches might have sat on its branches, preening their red-breasted feathers, or perhaps squirrels had leaped through its boughs. Once the tree was set up in the corner between the window and his mother’s piano, but before it was decorated, Ilya would crawl under the heavy lower branches to inspect the tree from the inside. Each time, he hoped that some small forest creature had hitched a ride to their home and might become his pet. Gradually, over several hours, the living room would fill with the cool scent of pine needles and cut wood. That same evening, if it wasn't too late, or the following morning, they would begin decorating. Ilya’s kindergarten and the school of his older brother, Alexey, would break for the holidays a few days before New Year’s, so almost the entire family was gathered, except for their father. His mother would hold Ilya in her arms as he hung colorful glass ornaments on the fir branches — some coated in prickly white glitter that stuck to his fingers. Alexey was two heads taller than Ilya and could manage the decorating while standing on his own two feet. “I want to do it too!” Alexey would yell when their mother (Ilya didn't notice how much of a struggle it was for her) lifted Ilya toward the ceiling so he could place the translucent red five-pointed star — looking just like the one on the Kremlin — atop the tree. “Hey, Lyosha,” his mother said with a gentle smile, setting her younger son back on the floor. “Ilyusha is the youngest, and you have to let the little ones go first, remember?” His older brother’s gaze in that moment was formidable beyond his years. Ilya ducked behind his mother, clutching the hem of her dress, but stuck his tongue out at his brother just in case. They celebrated New Year’s with a small circle of relatives and close friends. His mother would invite her best friend; Aunt Lena was the only person she ever brought home. Aunt Lena had neither husband nor children, as far as Ilya knew from overheard kitchen conversations, so she would arrive early on December 31st to help with the preparations. Ilya was shy around strangers, but his innate childhood curiosity was stronger than his fear. He often hid around the corner of the wall leading to the kitchen to eavesdrop. From these quiet feminine conversations held over cooking and the rhythmic thud of knives on wooden cutting boards, Ilya learned that only a few years ago his parents had owned a large house in the nearby Moscow suburbs, but had been forced to "trade it for an apartment with some cash on top." The "apartment" was clearly the one they lived in now. How could you trade a house for an apartment? What did that even mean? An apartment was much smaller than a house. It seemed unfair to Ilya. He thought it was strange that his parents had agreed to it. Judging by his mother’s tone, she missed that house dearly, even if it had been expensive to heat in the winter. Ilya had never been there, though he had caught glimpses of it in rare black-and-white photos in the family album, so he couldn't understand why she was so attached to it. Aunt Lena always brought chocolate and wafer candies and tangerines in a cloth bag. Thekholodets(meat jelly) waited in the fridge from the night before; Ilya didn’t like eating it, but he loved watching it jiggle when it was placed on a plate, slowly melting in the warmth of the room. Winter break was the best thing that could happen to a five-year-old. Ilya cherished every minute spent at home. Around 11 a.m., his brother’s school friends would stop by, and they would go out to play until dark, only breaking to swap wet wool mittens for dry ones and grab a quick lunch. This meant that for most of the day, the large, pot-bellied TV perched regally on the lacquered stand in the living room was at Ilya’s disposal. He would gather silk-cased red cushions from the sofa to match the rug, toss them on the floor, and cover them with a wool blanket, creating a warm, cozy nest. The TV guide, printed on low-quality grey paper, sat in the stand along with a ballpoint pen his father used to underline specific dates and times. Officially, Ilya was forbidden from touching the guide, but he allowed himself to bypass some of his father’s rules. On weekends, Russia-1 (accessed via the number 3 button on the remote) showed "The Wonderful World of Disney." Later, after lunch, he could switch to ORT — button number 1 — to watch reruns of hockey games.

***

Ilya’s first memory of hockey dated back to the spring of 1995, during the World Championships in Gävle and Stockholm. He remembered it because he couldn't manage to pronounce the Swedish capital correctly, laboriously sounding it out syllable by syllable and mixing up the letters, which earned him endless teasing from his brother. Of course, hockey stayed in his memory for more than just that. Grigory, the boys' father, was a massive hockey fan, especially of the Russian national team, whose coach he knew personally and couldn't stand. “Hockey is a game for real men,” his father would say, and Ilya absorbed the sentiment. His father often watched matches on tape. Generally, due to his grueling work schedule, Grigory was rarely home for long, sometimes staying on duty overnight and only returning to shower and change into clean clothes. But during the hockey championships, it seemed to Ilya they saw each other more often, which made the little boy immensely happy. Grigory would sit his younger son beside him on the sofa, turn on a game whose outcome he already knew, and stretch his legs out on a stool placed nearby. During those hours, Grigory’s attention was glued to the screen. In tense moments, he would jerk his legs off the stool, sit on the edge of the cushions, and lean forward with his whole body to catch every pass. He often shouted at the players through the screen, calling them by names that sounded foreign and unfamiliar: McKim and Peltonen were "beauties," while a certain Mikhailov (who turned out to be the coach) was subjected to much less flattering descriptions like "clumsy idiots." “One day, Ilya, you’ll be playing too,” Grigory said, looking at his son with his characteristic sternness. What impressed little Ilya Rozanov most about hockey was the incredible speed at which the players moved across the ice, wielding their sticks so swiftly that he couldn't always keep track of the puck. The hockey players, encased in bulky gear, looked like true giants compared to soccer players, who moved lazily across a vast green field and looked tiny — almost like toys — against its scale. He felt the difference in the atmosphere of the two sports keenly—not without his father’s influence, of course. His father said Ilya would play too. It sounded breathtakingly cool and terrifying all at once.If I play, Dad will love me even more, and we’ll play together!Ilya thought with jubilation, immediately running to tell his mother the good news. She gave him her soft smile and ruffled his light-brown curls with a hand that was warm and slightly damp from washing dishes.

***

“Grisha, hockey? It’s a very violent game.” “It’s the best sport for a boy. It teaches discipline and resilience.” “Maybe we should wait until he’s a bit older?” “The younger one is going into sports. He’s our only hope, seeing as the older one is growing up to be a lazy lump.” A long pause. “Isn't it a bit early to decide? He’s still just a little boy.” “Ira.” “I’ve noticed he comes closer whenever I play the piano. Especially when I play Chopin. He tries to hum along to the melody.” “Don’t even think about it. There’s enough music in this house from you.” Another long pause. Ilya was standing at his favorite lookout—or rather, his eavesdropping post — around the corner of the wall between the hallway and the kitchen. The wooden kitchen door was slightly ajar, a thin yellow sliver of light spilling onto the parquet floor. His parents' voices were tense, even his mother’s — it was the first time he had heard her speak with such a strained, anxious tone. His father’s voice, as usual, sounded angry, insistent, and booming, like a great brass horn. “Boys need to be raised to be men. Your piano will turn him into a weakling.” “Grisha, please. Let’s just wait a little while.” “I’ve already called Vetrov. He’ll help set everything up. Come winter, take him to the sporting goods store and buy him a stick.” “And if he doesn’t like it? Or if he isn't any good?” “What does it matter if he likes it or not? You're the one who doesn't like anything. I won’t let a second son go to waste, Irina.” The voices went silent; the sound of water running in the sink followed. Ilya would remember this episode as the first parental argument he ever witnessed.

***

The Rozanov family lived by a law established solely by Grigory: even in hard times, the children were bought only the best, and only brand new. The reputation of a colonel of the Sovietmilitsiya(the elder Rozanov pointedly refused to call himself a mere police colonel in the new fashion) had to be impeccable, and that extended to every family member. No hand-me-downs from some foul-smelling basement thrift store, no patches on worn-out trousers. Trousers had to be pressed, and the collars of both Grigory’s and his sons' shirts had to be starched so stiff they could barely be folded over a tie. Boots always had to be polished to a mirror shine. For clothing stained or torn during backyard running and scuffles, Alexey would get the belt, but mending the ruined items was forbidden. “Throw it out, don’t embarrass yourself,” Grigory would tell his wife as she examined yet another hole in the leg of their eldest son's play pants under the desk lamp. Irina would nod and silently tuck the pants into a large checkered bag in the pantry, claiming she would take them to the trash in a few days. In reality, during the day while her husband was out, Irina would retrieve the ruined clothes and try to fix them. She hand-washed dried blood from scraped knees using baking soda or laundry soap, darned the boys' socks and the knit tights Ilya wore to kindergarten, and sewed sturdy patches onto fabric that had worn thin between the legs. If her work wasn't noticeable and the item looked almost new, it could stay in the house; Grigory likely wouldn't notice. Items with more obvious signs of repair were neatly folded and taken to a commission shop — or "second-hand" store, as people were starting to call them — that had recently opened in the next block. The shop owner would give Irina a slip; a couple of weeks later, Irina would return to collect the meager pittance from anything that had sold. It was mere pocket change, but she refused to turn up her nose at it. Grigory’s extravagance with new clothes for the children felt like a crime to her. she understood perfectly well that their family had been in a serious crisis for several years and tried to earn an extra money however she could—she was, of course, not allowed to work officially. Not even allowed to think about it. The collapse of power and the fall of the USSR in 1991 had dealt a heavy blow to Grigory’s career. He was a man of strictly conservative Soviet values and believed that adapting to the new order was synonymous with betraying his principles. Among the wives of high-ranking Moscow police officials, gossip spread that Rozanov was getting into open conflicts with the updated leadership, sabotaging instructions, and turning his subordinates against the new administration. Consequently, his salary was cut, his bonuses were withheld, and there were hints of a potential forced retirement if he didn't start falling in line. It was dragging him and his family down. Money was becoming tighter and tighter; Irina knew they were living largely off the proceeds from the sale of their old suburban estate and the cash hidden in various spots around the apartment. “Ira, either Bauer or CCM, do you hear me?” The elder Rozanov pulled several crisp, fresh banknotes from a worn leather wallet. He gave his wife instructions passed to him by his friend, coach Gennady Vetrov: she was to go to Luzhniki and find a stall among the market rows where an acquaintance of his — a "shuttle" trader — worked. This man brought the latest sports equipment from Germany, the US, and Canada to Moscow and had promised to help the Rozanovs choose and give them a good "friend's discount." Ilya looked forward to this day more than his own birthday. His very own stick and hockey skates! The kids at kindergarten would be green with envy when they found out. He impatiently counted the minutes in his head as he, his mother, and his older brother rode the metro from Prospekt Vernadskogo to Sportivnaya. His mother held Ilya’s hand, while Alexey walked beside them, grumbling and wondering why they had dragged him along. “Here, look at what we have for kids. I couldn't bring much; the junior and adult sizes sell faster. But these are all good, imports. American quality,” a man wrapped up to his eyes in a wool scarf led them between rows of sticks leaning against the fabric wall of the stall. The adult sticks were nearly twice as tall as Ilya and looked intimidating. Hockey helmets were laid out on a plywood table, covered in thick plastic wrap to protect them from snow and dirt. “What’s your name, kid?” The man leaned toward Ilya, his face reddened by the cold and featuring a large, bulbous nose. Instinctively, Ilya pressed against his mother, gripping her hand tighter. “Ilya,” he answered quietly, receiving an encouraging nod from his mother. “Dad said I’m going to play hockey.” “Well, of course you are!” The seller laughed with a hollow, unpleasant sound. “Going to play for Russia?” Ilya ignored him. The child’s gaze was locked onto a short junior stick, black with neon-orange stripes and the wordBauerin white. He had good taste—Ilya had intuitively picked the most expensive one in the shop. “Excellent choice, little man,” the man in the wool scarf rubbed his hands together gleefully and began explaining all its advantages in unnecessary detail, twirling the stick in his hands and not letting little Ilya touch it until his mother showed him the money. Choosing skates wasn't as much fun. His feet were cold. He sat on the edge of a plastic chair, his feet dangling over a piece of cardboard soaked by the street slush, while his mother laced up the brand-new black skates. “We’ll get them a size up for now; they’ll be just right with a wool sock. Just don’t tell Dad, okay?” she whispered as she handed over the neatly folded bills. Alexey looked bored as he scanned the hockey gear, only lighting up when the seller showed him an Adidas soccer ball—the same kind used by the best FIFA teams, the man claimed. They bought that too. The seller was beaming, unlike Irina. She asked to have the purchases wrapped tightly in plastic so the imported brand names wouldn't catch the eyes of passersby, and asked the seller to walk them to the nearest bus stop to catch a taxi. At the market exit stood three burly, grim-faced guys in black leather jackets. As Irina and the children got into the taxi and pulled away, the men gestured for the stall owner to come over. The family didn't see what happened next. January 6, 1997. At five and a half, Ilya didn't quite grasp the concept of dates, but he would remember this day for the rest of his life. A stick and skates — unbelievable!

***

In February 1997, Ilya was accepted into the children’s section of the CSKA hockey club. On practice days, his mother would pick him up early from kindergarten and take him to the sessions. If a practice fell on a Saturday or Sunday, his father would come too. Sometimes Gennady Vetrov joined him; they sat in the third row of the stands for a good view of the ice, watching Ilya’s performance closely. Every now and then, Gennady would nod approvingly and say something to his father, who would then start nodding as well. After what he thought was a good pass, Ilya would turn his head toward the stands where his father sat, trying to make out the expression on his face. In little Ilya’s impressionable mind, cause-and-effect patterns were quickly forming: Dad nodding meant a good shot; Dad pursing his lips and shaking his head meant a bad shot. After practice, Grigory would buy his son chocolate bars or Chupa Chups based on the number of goals scored — or give him the belt, four strikes for every goal he let in when Ilya was put in net. Ilya figured out this pattern after about a year of practice — it was how he learned basic addition before he even started school. At five, six, or even seven years old, a child is not yet able to see through the rapidly growing authority of a father figure to recognize things like cruelty, violence, or injustice. The blows were perceived as a deserved punishment for mistakes and failures. To avoid punishment, you simply had to not make those mistakes. Then everything would be fine. Over time, Ilya learned to predict the force with which the leather belt would land on his bare bottom by the sounds behind him. At the start of a whipping, his father would huff with rage like a steam engine, spitting out phrases like “I’ll teach you to miss goals.” By the middle of the process, his arm would be tired, making the swings weaker — the sound of the belt cutting the air was less of a whistle, allowing Ilya to unclench his jaw and breathe. Yes, he had to hold his breath; it helped him cry in a way that was least noticeable to his father. Hot streams of tears would roll down little Ilyusha’s flushed cheeks and drip onto the red carpet. His nose would run too; he’d wipe it every so often with the cuff of his flannel pajama shirt. Whatever got into his mouth tasted salty. It was a taste Ilya remembered very clearly. Irina didn't realize what was happening at home right away. Grigory knew perfectly well that his wife would try to interfere with the "disciplinary process," so he timed the beltings for the hours when Irina was out grocery shopping for lunch or dinner. He would then tell her he had already bathed little Ilya to hide the fresh red marks on his small, pale buttocks. Ilya’s skin healed quickly, so no bruises or welts remained. Eventually, of course, his mother found out. Ilya overheard an argument on the subject, standing in his usual spot around the corner in the hallway. From their dialogue, Ilya learned the following: everything this family had was thanks to Grigory alone; he had given them everything; he’d give Irina a whipping too for everything she’d done; that "loose slut" would have laid down for anyone. The younger Rozanov didn't know the meaning of all those words and phrases, but he picked up on the negative connotation from his mother’s shouting. She rarely shouted. He heard her high, almost choking voice — "I hate you!" — followed by a sharp, cartoonish slap. Then silence. A few seconds of icy, menacing silence, like the moments before a hurricane hits. Then, everything in the kitchen began to move and crash: something metallic hit the linoleum, softening the blow; aluminum pots and lids clattered; plates and the silver cutlery drawer rattled. His mother began to sob. Terrified, Ilya ran to his brother’s room before he could hear his father’s footsteps in the hall heading toward the study — not just footsteps, but the heavy thud of his feet on the creaking wooden parquet. “Mom and Dad are fighting again,” Ilya told his brother, sitting on his bed. “They’re always fighting, forget it,” Alexey replied indifferently, sliding aside a foam-padded headphone. “Want to watch me play racing games?” For his last birthday, Alexey had been given his first computer, and he rarely left it when he was home. “Yeah.”