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– DACHA – legs, of a stairway’s standard proportion of rise to run; the sense of inside as distinct from out; a window’s relationship with light, air, and view; the meaning and utility of a door, a floor, ceiling or wall. What kind of consciousness plants geraniums into truck tires and puts airplane seats under a pear tree? What kind of body can relax in those chairs? What kind of pain blankets the dissonance of old tires and flowers? What kind of numbness allows feeling at home in such unease? What kind of touch does not sense the discord of debris and bloom? Lying in a hammock in the orchard marked off by barbed wire, I cannot imagine. I read testimonies, history and fiction. In the epilogue of her Journey Into the Whirlwind, I come across Evgenia Ginzburg’s afterthought about her eighteen years spent in the camps: During those years I experienced many conflicting feelings, but the dominant one was that of amazement. Was all this imaginable – was it really happening, could it be intended? Perhaps it was this very amazement which helped me to keep alive. I was not only a victim, but an observer also. If it was hard for her to imagine, how can I, three generations apart? It may be that this inability was protective – that one can remove oneself to stay alive. 152
page 165
– Dasha Shkurpela – Another attempt at imagination: I make believe I belong to my grandparents’ generation. As the regime built, it destroyed. In the midst of the epic construction, the familiar world has been shattered. The language has become foreign. All these new words, the meanings of which are unknown. Who are these ‘stakhanovites’ cramming five-year plans into four years? Why do they do it? People quietly vanish. It’s better not to ask any questions. The churches are gone. The sound heard is of a jackhammer. Nature is no longer to be understood, but to be conquered. There’s fear in the rustle of leaves. I would not have been able to put any feelings into words. I would have been lost, suspended, adrift. The split between generations would have been unbreachable. What would I talk about? What would I not talk about? Would I have tried to protect my children with silence? What would it take to keep silent on a daily basis? Would they have understood my language? I would not have thought about them living without the past. Would I and would they feel the rupture separating us? Could I reach across the rift with my touch? What kind of touch would it have been? Careful, cautious, and trying to make a connection? Or effortless, natural, and knowing? This make-belief is an inversion and it turns my eye inward. I observe the gone generation in my body and in my mind, feeling disoriented when I do this research. Shellshocked? Why do these words come to 153

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– DACHA –

legs, of a stairway’s standard proportion of rise to run; the sense of inside as distinct from out; a window’s relationship with light, air, and view; the meaning and utility of a door, a floor, ceiling or wall.

What kind of consciousness plants geraniums into truck tires and puts airplane seats under a pear tree?

What kind of body can relax in those chairs? What kind of pain blankets the dissonance of old tires and flowers?

What kind of numbness allows feeling at home in such unease?

What kind of touch does not sense the discord of debris and bloom?

Lying in a hammock in the orchard marked off by barbed wire, I cannot imagine. I read testimonies, history and fiction. In the epilogue of her Journey Into the Whirlwind, I come across Evgenia Ginzburg’s afterthought about her eighteen years spent in the camps:

During those years I experienced many conflicting feelings, but the dominant one was that of amazement. Was all this imaginable – was it really happening, could it be intended? Perhaps it was this very amazement which helped me to keep alive. I was not only a victim, but an observer also.

If it was hard for her to imagine, how can I, three generations apart? It may be that this inability was protective – that one can remove oneself to stay alive.

152

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