The Gray Earth. Galsan Tschinag

      “Very, very far. If your father wanted to visit you, he’d have to ride his horse for months just to get there.”

      I am very impressed. Hadn’t I already thought of going away on my own?

      “Is that in Ulaanbaatar by any chance?”

      “It is. But don’t kid yourself and imagine you’re going to be sightseeing. You’ll be a prisoner, and prisoners aren’t allowed to take in the sights of our glorious capital. You will be taken there blindfolded, in a prison on wheels, and you’ll be thrown into a concrete-and-iron cell. You won’t see anything but a dark brick wall and a fence with barbed wire on top.”

      It still sounds intriguing. I ask if prisoners are allowed to acquire knowledge.

      “Sure,” the man replies offhandedly. But then he adds ominously, “In there you’re not just a student. First and foremost, you’re a prisoner who has to pay for his misdeeds.”

      This does not scare me. With the world of the unknown opening in the distance, I feel a longing to go there. “All right,” I say, “then I shall pay for my misdeeds.”

      Brother, who has silently watched as if none of this has anything to do with him, finally speaks: “So you think this is going to be easy, eh? In that case we’ll do something different: we’ll send your father or mother to prison because they have raised you poorly, and keep you here instead. You’ll have to study and spend your spare time in our local prison, serving the balance of your sentence.”

      Now I am shocked: Father or Mother sent to prison because of me! Good heavens! Brother must have observed me closely because he continues: “Now you’re getting it. Your father or mother will go to prison unless you repent your bad deeds and ask the Teachers’ Council for forgiveness. And you must promise to be obedient in the future.”

      At last I understand what I am expected to do. But to my own detriment something inside me hesitates to give in to the pressure, for I fear making a promise I may be unable to keep.

      The teachers remain seated, and I remain standing. Nothing new is said. What was said before gets repeated. It is the same as circling a rock: standing still or walking makes no real difference. Eventually someone notices it is late. Everyone agrees. And then the meeting is over.

      Before they leave the room, the light-skinned one has another go at me. “Do you know why you drown if you fall into a river?” he asks as he walks past. I do not know. “Because you’re fighting the current,” he says, not sounding unfriendly. I know what he means: I am stubborn.

      “It’s a pity you’re not in my class, my dear. Every day I’d pound you and make you a little softer. You and your stiff neck.” He laughs as he grasps the back of my head. His grip is rough, and I feel as if he is going to rip my head off. But I stand firm and clench my teeth, pressing my tongue hard against them. “Still,” he adds before letting go, “I hope we’ll bump into each other from time to time.”

      That evening, I get dragged through another meeting. Sister Torlaa, who now insists on being called Dsandan, chairs what she calls the “Council of Siblings.” Brother Dshokonaj makes no comment. What is worse, I don’t even know if he is listening. He lies on his bed and stares at the poles supporting the yurt’s roof. Brother Galkaan, whom we are now to call Gagaa, is a quiet, attentive listener. He limits himself to regular if brief affirmative responses.

      Sister really takes off: “Brother Dshokonaj has acquired that most valuable of all treasures: knowledge. He is the first in our clan to have come this far. Our clan, supposedly rich with herds, children, and fame, was in reality caught in darkness and as ignorant and pathetic as everyone else. Not every clan can produce a teacher, and not every teacher becomes a principal. Our brother has achieved both. We should be proud of him and pleased with his success. Pleased, in particular, because as the eldest he shows the rest of us the path to knowledge.

      “Yesterday,” she continues, “urged by myself and Brother Gagaa, Brother Dshokonaj crossed the wild river, risking his life twice. As the Council of Siblings we had decided to fetch you and bring you here to live with us. Now we four can stand surrounded by the winds that blow from the four directions, warming and supporting each other. You’re the lucky one who could have brought the number of students to exactly one hundred. You would have complemented both us and the whole school. And, as Number One Hundred, you would have been honored with a reward: you would have got a complete school uniform for free, a style no one here has ever seen, let alone worn. What a relief that would have been for Father and Mother! They suffer under the burdens of livestock taxes and quotas. How they would rejoice over any lamb they could save!”

      So far, in spite of her superior, unshakable manner and her fighting spirit—her grandmotherly tone, as Father always called it—she has been relatively restrained. But now comes the about-face. Just as I have anticipated and feared, she loses it: “You must have been possessed by the devil, you miserable snot! Your brother Dshokonaj put good fortune on the tip of your tongue like a drop of sweet cream, and you spat it out. Why didn’t you swallow? You made us all look like fools.”

      She bursts into tears, shakes and twitches, and screeches as if in great pain.

      Brother Gagaa agrees: “Yes, Galdan. You’ve broken something and you’ll never be able to put it back together again.”

      His words make Sister cry even harder. She sobs as if struck by terrible misfortune. Brother Dshokonaj lies motionless and stares into space. In the flickering light from the stubby candle his wide-open eyes have a terrifying shine.

      Oh heaven, oh earth! I think. What have I done to cause my sister and both brothers such misery? I try to look inside myself and find only a dark void. I listen for sounds outside and hear a distant dull roar. The cursed voice that so readily spurred me on to all sorts of impertinent remarks has fallen silent. Has it abandoned me? Why?

      Sister has finished crying. “Worst of all,” she says calmly but firmly, “your foolishness is putting others at risk. Envious people have been given ammunition. What if someone hears about what happened today and uses it to go to battle against Father or Brother? Father is the son of a kulak and not poor enough, and Brother is new at his job and not yet in the Party. Neither sits firm in his saddle.”

      I am not sure I follow everything she says, but I do understand “going to battle” and “not sitting firm in the saddle.” I get what that means.

      I recall Arganak’s fox face and manner. And I see Brother Dshokonaj lying in front of me, with his pale expressionless face and his shining eyes, looking lost.

      “What do you think I should do?” My voice sounds alien.

      Sister flares up: “Stop acting crazy!” But this time she calms down quickly and starts sewing me a pair of pants.

      “And listen to us, your brother and sister,” Brother Gagaa speaks up. “Above all, listen to your eldest brother. The State has entrusted him with leading a whole school. If he knows how to lead a hundred, he knows how to keep the three of us on the straight and narrow.”

      Suddenly I become the most attentive listener. Our big brother—head of our tiny State yurt with its four scissorgrid walls—lies flat on his back and grieves, but things around him are happening. Sister is sewing, younger Brother is cooking noodles, and I am the nimble errand boy flitting about, doing what I am told. I poke the fire, peel the onions, wash the pots, and am once more the baby whose small, nameless services are available to all. But in truth I am weighed down with worries. Fear as cold as ice clings to my inside like a tick: what if ...?

      When my much maligned, hapless bottom is finally clad in a pair of pants, I feel a quiet joy warming me down there and inside. But Gagaa and Dsandan, whom I secretly keep calling Galkaan and Torlaa, have to leave for the night, and that prospect casts a dark cloud over my joy. It is hard to spend another night with the man who is more Comrade Principal than a big brother to me. And the prospect of many more such nights is very discouraging. The dormitory, on the other hand, which I have not seen but have heard quite a bit about, seems more bearable. At this point, though,