Labyrinth 4

Remember how in the first part of the narrative, I wandered through the labyrinth of my memory and didn't know whether I would recall the years of my maturity? I thought: Well, that's it! I returned to my younger years, remembered pleasant things, breathed the air of carelessness and the absolute happiness of every new day, and... well, I jinxed it! As if dreams would just let me go!! "Comrade Morpheus" led me into yet another labyrinth, titled... Maturity (now, you be so kind as to remember!) I was not a street vendor of draft beer, a glass container receiver, a butcher at the market, or a Hero of, say, Socialist Labor, so for me, a simple doctor, claiming government housing would have been sheer insolence toward the Motherland. Building a cooperative apartment with my "hard-earned blood money," for the same reason, was also impossible. I mean, who am I? If only I had been, by God, at least a member of the Communist Party! But the Lord didn't bless me with such "happiness"—for that, you had to have very "tough" connections, or at least a "proletarian" origin. So, considering I wasn't on this list of the "chosen ones," in search of a better life and hoping for housing, I headed to the glorious city of Odessa (remember what Woland said about such people: "Ordinary people, it's just the housing problem that has corrupted them").

— Why Odessa?
— you might ask. I'll answer simply: it's not far from Moldavia, it's "warm and there are apples there," my friends Dimka and Levka lived there, and I loved visiting them, especially in the summer. Oh, how good we had it! Dimka lived with his parents on the top floor of a 9-story building right across from a beach with the beautiful name "Luzanovka." When my friend and I smoked on the balcony, we could use binoculars to see girls changing in the beach cabins. The image was blurry, and we couldn't make out the details, but the fact itself excited the imagination. And we went to the beach right in our swimming trunks (our figures still allowed for it). Very convenient. 
Now about the "dacha". Dimka has a cousin, Sofa, who was married to Levka. A 10-minute drive from Dimka's apartment, in a dacha settlement, they had a plot of land with a small house, albeit a stone one. The whole "hacienda" consisted of two tiny rooms and a kitchenette where only one housewife could fit, an open veranda under a wooden roof—as we used to say, "for one table." In the yard, there was a standard wooden outhouse (the so-called "birdhouse"), next to which hung a large, black-painted barrel, under which was the shower, enclosed by plywood boards! That was all the "amenities." But on the bright side—50 meters from the dacha, down a steep stone staircase (but who cared about that), there was a descent straight to the sea, and you were on the beach!! Pure delight!! Well, what more do young, healthy people need on vacation? 
Having swum and sunbathed to our hearts' content, we returned home, where something awaited us... More on that in detail. Near the settlement, there was a small grocery store. Back then, you could only buy something tasty at the market, but in this "wonderful store," sometimes they sold fantastic delicacies—specifically, shrimp frozen in ice blocks. We would take 2-3 blocks at once, 10 kg each, because the shrimp themselves in each block weighed no more than 2 kg, and the rest was ice. But this fact didn't bother us; we were grateful even for that. Near the store, also occasionally, they sold draft beer (an absolute delight!). Having drunk a mug of this "divine beverage" and filled the containers we brought with us—two enameled small cans and one 3-liter jar (totaling 7 liters)—we happily returned home. And at home..!! 
In Odessa, there is a "magical" place called "Privoz". It has existed since 1827, when a large market was built on the "Privoznaya Square." Since then, little has changed there, and you could buy anything you wanted, literally anything. Levka and Sofa lived near "Privoz" and periodically bought "Bychki" [gobies] there, our favorite treat (it's a black fish with funny "ears"). Sofka has a brother, Shurka, an avid fisherman, and sometimes we would go out to sea with him in a boat to catch those very gobies. The fishing was very simple—a fishing line with a sinker and a few hooks was wound around a finger, lowered into the water, and "voilà"—2-3 fish for every cast. Fishing was interesting, and most importantly, highly effective in terms of results (a couple of kilos of fish per catch guaranteed). So, we had no problems with fish delicacies. 
Then Sofa would fry them in a pan. "Fried gobies" (Aunt Asya's recipe—Dimka's mom): The head of the fish is cut off, the belly is sliced lengthwise, the innards are removed, and then the carcass is laid out in a "butterfly" style. Then it's washed under running water, dried with a towel, salt and pepper to taste, coated in flour, and pan-fried on both sides in lean oil (specifically "lean"—in Odessa they never say "sunflower"). That's it! A matter of minutes. A mountain of delicious, crispy fish, accompanied by ice-cold vodka, draft beer, homegrown tomatoes and cucumbers, and "heart-to-heart" conversations! M..M..M.. A mandatory afternoon rest, then the sea again, and in the evening: boiled shrimp, with bay leaf and dill, accompanied by ice-cold vodka, cold beer, and..... read above... M..M..M.. Mouth watering, huh? Yes, when everyone is alive and healthy... yes, the sea is nearby, yes.... As the legendary Odessan David Gotsman used to say in the movie "Liquidation": "An oil painting!" You couldn't say it better! 
Oh, oh, where is my memory taking me again, into which labyrinth? Now I'll start philosophizing and grumbling like an old man: "AH, IN OUR TIME"… No, seriously, why was it so tasty and fun back then? What's the secret? Was it just our youth? But there were older people around us, and they also had fun, laughed, and fooled around with us. No, there's something else here, and I think it's the "ABSENCE OF ENVY." Yes, yes, there was no feeling of envy among friends. We didn't strive for show-offs, and we simply didn't think about "wealth," which is why it was always tasty and fun. And what did we need? A toilet outside?

— Nonsense! The main thing is that it exists! A shower from a barrel?
— Excellent! Boiled potatoes with dill on the table - delicious!! We didn't waste our energy on hoarding, on an extra "rag," on something "for future use." We lived in the present day and were always happy. Why? They brought sausage to the store - hooray! They're selling draft beer - awesome! "Gobies" on the table - couldn't be tastier! "Got something scarce" — everyone to the table, we'll "wash it down" [celebrate it]! Life is a success, everyone is smiling!! 
Let me tell you a story. My parents had close friends, also doctors, who lived in the city of Bălți, 200 km from Tiraspol. One day, they invited us to a celebration. No matter how my relatives tried to find out the reason for the event, they stayed silent like "partisans under interrogation." We arrive. The two-room apartment is full of guests, the table is "groaning" with drinks and magnificent appetizers. Everyone asks each other in bewilderment what, exactly, we are celebrating, but the hosts, smiling mysteriously, ask us to wait a little.

— Dear friends!
— Milya (the hostess), in a beautiful evening dress, entered the room and stood at the head of the table. — I ask for your attention. We are glad to see you at our place and grateful that you came to our family celebration.
— So, what are we celebrating?
— the guests murmured, — can you finally tell us?
— I'll explain right now, — Milya smiled, — please follow me, — and she walked to the toilet. The crowd followed her.

— Dear friends!
— Milya said in a solemn voice. — For three months, our toilet tank was leaking, and I had to put a bucket underneath for the dripping water. I begged my husband to take action, and finally, it happened! Max (her husband) fixed the tank, and we invited you, our friends, — she swept her hand over the gathered crowd, — to celebrate this solemn event: the opening of the toilet! 
Max stepped into the hallway. He was wearing a strict black suit and a white shirt with a bow tie. In his hands was a velvet cushion with scissors on it. Milya asked for silence and carefully opened the door. A red ribbon blocked the entrance to the toilet.

— The honor of the first urination goes to our colleague, urologist Semyon Grinshpun, — Max proclaimed solemnly, and turning to a tall man, nodded his head and held out the cushion. 
To the roar of laughter from the audience, the man took the scissors, cut the ribbon, went into the toilet, and, turning to the spectators, said:

— Hello, we're not at an appointment in a clinic, can I at least close the door? 
We partied for two days. People repeatedly used the "poor" toilet, checking it for leaks, and after visiting the restroom, reported to the hostess that there were no leaks. Everyone had a great time; Max strutted around like a peacock! 
Okay, okay, we had our fun, and that's enough. It's time to wake up and return to reality. 
I started looking for "connections." As sometimes happens, chance helped out. My parents had acquaintances whose relative, a lawyer by profession, lived in Odessa. Passing through Tiraspol, she mentioned that a trial of several doctors from one hospital had recently ended, and the bribe-takers had received real prison sentences.


— So, some "cushy" spots opened up in Odessa, — she joked, — doctors are superstitious folks and are afraid to work in a hospital where their "brethren" were just convicted. A gift of fate! 
In short, we reached out to her, and through her connections (naturally, using the same methods of "gratitude" for which the doctors had received their real sentences), they got me a job at this hospital. The beginning of a new life. 
I ended up in an 80-bed surgical department in a large, multidisciplinary hospital. The head of the department, a short, middle-aged man, looked at me gloomily and led me to meet the staff. Three doctors were sitting in the residents' room: two older men and one younger one.

— Meet our new employee, — the head introduced me dryly and walked out.
— Yefim Iosifovich, — one of the older men said sluggishly.
— Ilya Davydovich, — the other nodded his head.
— Muntyan, — the young man raised his hand and, sighing, pointed to an empty desk, — have a seat, your spot. 
I introduced myself.

— You're the first Moldovan in our department, — Yefim Iosifovich raised his eyebrows and looked at me, — aren't you afraid it won't be boring?
— Before "marriage", I had a different last name, — I felt amused, — this current one is my mother's. The notorious fifth line in the passport [nationality], you know. I'm a Moldovan only by birthplace and residence. But what about Comrade Muntyan's last name?
— I looked at my young colleague, — sounds Moldovan?
— No!
— he reacted immediately, — I'm only a "sympathizer" (though he never explained what "sympathizer" meant). 
So, I started working. I can't say I was warmly welcomed into the team. In my presence, my colleagues spoke only about work. They assigned me wards, and a couple of days later, when a patient with an inguinal hernia was admitted, the head scheduled him for surgery.

— We have a rule, — he turned to me, — a new surgeon does his first operation in the presence of all the department's doctors, and I assist him. 
I understood this was a test. Believe me, when several pairs of "professional eyes" from colleagues are watching your hands and breathing down your neck... Oh well. It seemed everything went fine. 
The morning of the next day.

— Excuse me, doctor, — a visitor politely took my hand, — thank you so much for my brother. You operated on him, right?
— Yes, — I nodded and headed toward the residents' room, — don't worry, everything is fine.
— Just a second, doctor, — the man blocked my path, — you see, I am a specialist in breeding flowers and I want to give you a booklet. My article is on page 8. Read it, I think you'll find it interesting, — and shoving a small brochure into my hand, he quickly retreated. 
Returning to the residents' room, I sat at my desk and looked at the booklet. "Breeding Flowers at Home," I read the title and mechanically opened page 8. A 50-ruble bill was "cozily" lying between the pages. People of the older generation will understand. With my salary of 120 rubles a month, this gray-green piece of paper was an absolute "fortune." Barely suppressing my heartbeat, I looked up at my colleagues sitting at their desks. It was obvious they had seen EVERYTHING, but pretending nothing happened, they intently made notes in their patients' medical records.

— And what am I supposed to do with this?
— I asked quietly.
— What are you talking about?
— Ilya Davydovich smiled and, for some reason, looked not at me, but at Muntyan, — any problems? 
I silently opened the brochure and showed the bill lying between the pages.

— Yes!
— Muntyan thoughtfully scratched his nose, — such "bookmarks" indicate that you are a great lover of indoor plants. What, is it an interesting book? Ilya Davydovich, — he turned to the older doctor with an ironic smile, — I believe you have an acquaintance in a bookstore? If our colleague has such a "floral hobby," I suggest we chip in and buy him a manual on breeding flowers, eh? 
I left the booklet on the desk, left the residents' room feeling offended, and went to the cafeteria in a "distressed state of mind." Returning, I looked at my desk. The ill-fated brochure lay lonely right where I had left it.

— Colleague, — Ilya Davydovich smiled, — take the book home and continue breeding your flowers, but don't forget about medicine, of course. Come on, take it already, — he repeated, seeing my confusion, — take it. 
With a sigh, I shoved the brochure into my briefcase. Muntyan looked at Ilya Davydovich with relief and nodded in satisfaction. The latter responded with an approving smile. I understood - "test passed." 
After this incident, the attitude toward me from my colleagues improved, and as a reward, a week later, they gave me an extra half-time position as a surgeon in the polyclinic. What happened to those 50 rubles, I don't remember. Well, it's not that important. The main thing is the recognition of colleagues, isn't it? 
In the surgical office of the polyclinic, I was met by a nurse. No, no, more on that later, I need to rest, sleep... Psss... how nice, I fell asleep and I dream that I am a philosooopher. Such a smart, brave, and very talented philosopher. Like I.A. Ilyin or N. Berdyaev (in dreams this is possible), ah, I'm dreaming this...... 

As "Wikipedia" claims, the earth is inhabited by about 5 thousand ethnic groups, and most of the population is concentrated within the 15 largest nations. I don't want to argue with learned men, but I think they missed the fact that there exists a city on Earth like Odessa, and the population of this glorious city, in my opinion, should be classified as the 5001st ethnicity, under the name "ODESSANS"! 
A digression! Now, how do you make Ukrainian borscht? You put white cabbage, orange carrots, red beets, green hot peppers, bay leaf, and garlic for smell into a pot (Odessans say "kastrUlya"), add meat to make it hearty, stir, boil it, and "voilà" — you get borscht. BUT...! Have you ever tried eating borscht without salt? You put everything needed in—there's color, and smell, and heartiness, but—THERE IS NO TASTE! You must add salt to taste! 
And if you mix all the ethnicities, add nationalities, toss them into the "demographic cauldron," and "boil" for 600 years (the age of Odessa) — and "voilà," you get "Odessans"! BUT...! The Odessans are there, but there is no taste. Salt is added to taste! And who is our salt? That's right, the Jews! As Jesus said to his disciples during a sermon: "You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled underfoot." (Gospel of Matthew). Eh? What do you think? You couldn't say it better. 
Today, borscht in Odessa is, unfortunately, a bit bland, which is why it's not as tasty. But, interestingly, in that nasty America, especially in Brighton Beach, MORE and MORE native Americans, including African Americans, have "discovered" Ukrainian borscht and they really like it. Rumor has it that they cook it excellently in local Odessan restaurants, but sometimes, it is slightly "OVERSALTED!" 

Now, regarding language. There are 7151 languages on Earth, belonging to 142 different language families. But again, they didn't count Odessa. It has its own language and a special language family here. And how many Odessans are scattered all over the globe? Oh, so many. But, by the tonality and originality of pronunciation, one can always unmistakably determine where the speaker is from. This language can boldly be called "Odessan Esperanto." I think the creator of the "Esperanto" language, L. L. Zamenhof, although he was a linguist from Warsaw, surely visited Odessa (and perhaps, given his passport details, even had relatives there), and I'm sure he used elements of the Odessan language in his "Lingwe universala" project. 

And one more thing. It surprises me that, for example, "dwarf" Liechtenstein, with its "miserable" 39,055 citizens, not even having its own native language (their state language is German), is called a principality and has its own statehood, while Odessa, with its language, culture, originality, and 1,020,700 inhabitants, does not have it. I think this is unfair! Hasn't this glorious city earned the right to be called, for example, the "Principality of Odessa"!! Modest, of course, but tasteful! 
And lastly, the passport! In the famous 5th line, a citizen of the "Principality of Odessa" should have one nationality: ODESSAN! (but this, already after gaining independence and statehood). 
Pass the exam on the history of Odessa, pass the language test, decipher, for example, what it means:
— "Don't make my slippers laugh" [don't be ridiculous], or what the meaning of the expressions is:
— "Look, just don't do brains to me" [don't mess with my head]... or
— "Take your eyes in your hands" [look carefully]..., well, and: — That's it, barefoot boy, run bitsiker (Yiddish for quickly) to get your paCHport - you're an Odessan! You are a real Odessan!! Not some Liechtensteiner (ugh, God forgive me!). 
My God, where did Morpheus lead me, into what labyrinth? Okay, okay, philosopher, let's wake up. 

What about the polyclinic? 
In the surgical office of the polyclinic, I was met by a nurse. This was something, or rather, someone!!! An imposing lady of about 30, she was a ball of energy, a conglomerate of different cultures, religions, traditions, and nationalities. A dyed blonde of increased plumpness, with pronounced cosmetic excesses on her face that resembled the war paint of a Native American before a mortal battle. Her little white coat was so small that, despite the hostess's best desires, her incredibly sized breasts physically could not be covered by the fabric (though she wasn't striving for that; on the contrary, she "playfully" left the top button unbuttoned). For some reason (to myself), I immediately dubbed her outstanding forms: "The Hills of Manchuria" (although what does the Russo-Japanese War have to do with it?). At the same time, she was a very mobile person, so wherever you geographically stood relative to her—in front, behind, or on the side—such a coat provided ample opportunity to witness the significant differences between imported lingerie and domestically produced underwear (I think the poor clerk Bublikov from Eldar Ryazanov's famous film "Office Romance," who sat under the stairs the girls walked up, would have understood me). 
And one more detail. On her right thigh from behind, somewhere around the gluteal fold, the nurse had a tattoo with some inscription. This bothered me for a long time, because as I tried to make out what was written there, my gaze constantly returned to that spot, but I didn't have time to read it, and I was too embarrassed to ask (well, I couldn't admit that I had "accidentally" seen this inscription in such an intimate place). And only much later, Anna, laughing and not embarrassed in the slightest, told me about this female trick - to intrigue a member of the opposite sex with this ploy and chain his gaze "where needed." And it actually worked! And the inscription was very simple: "Hey, Slavs"! That's all! But what it meant, she never deciphered for me. Whether it was a call: "To action!" or, conversely: "Hands off!", I still don't know to this day. 
That's how they are, ODESSAN WOMEN! Oh, I need to rest and, under the guidance of the experienced guide Morpheus, set out on a short but fascinating journey through the Odessa polyclinic. 
And so - The first day of appointments.

— Anna, — the nurse introduced herself and, swaying one "hill," added, — for those close to me, you can call me Annushka.
— A pleasure, — I politely nodded my head, introduced myself, and added bashfully, — but we aren't that close yet, are we?
— Well, that's a matter of time, — she smiled and, swaying the second "hill," sang out, — I hope not a long time. Oh, he blushed, — and she burst out laughing, — what, are all Moldovans such prudes? 
(Jumping ahead a little... Naively assuming that since I was a new person here, nobody in the polyclinic knew anything about me, I was wrong! Oh, how wrong I was! They knew everything about me, and even more than I knew about myself).

— Doctor, — the nurse leaned over the desk, — we need a "sick note" for three days here, — and, swaying her "hills," she placed a patient's chart in front of me, from which the edge of a 10-ruble bill peeked out, and winking, added, — my acquaintance, a good guy.
— A good guy is not a diagnosis, — I frowned, — where is the patient?
— I don't understand!
— Anna raised her heavily painted eyebrows in surprise, — why do you need the patient? Write down "felon of some finger" and let the guy go on his fishing trip. A piece of cake, you get a "red one" [10-ruble bill], I get fish. What's the problem?
— No patient, no sick note, — I said firmly, and added, — and put the money away.
— What do you mean, no sick note?
— the nurse got agitated, switching to an "Odessa accent," — and what are you going to use to breed your flowers, or do they give them to you for free? Or are you, indeed, making so much moolah at the hospital that you look down on it here in the polyclinic?
— and she walked out of the office indignantly, slamming the door.

— No, well, you understand, — Anna's angry voice could be heard. — Do I need this kind of happiness? Fell on my head like crap from a passing airplane. Give me a cigarette. 
The friends were smoking outside under the window of the office.
— That Moldovan arrived and started laying down his laws, — the nurse raged, — I thought: Oh! Young, this and that, we'll get along! And he tells me: "No sick note!!" What does he think, — she fumed, blowing clouds of smoke from the "Hills of Manchuria," — that I will shake my "gorgeous buns" in front of him on just my salary? Wait till I put on my domestic fleece pantaloons and pack my "charms" into a bra from the "Bolshevik" factory, and deprive that Moldovan of a free striptease, then we'll see what it's like when there's no sick note! By the way, — she turned to her friend, — Tanka's lover, well, you know him, that boatswain from the barge, brought back a killer bra from abroad, but the bastard is asking for crazy money. And this shlimazl (Yiddish for unlucky fool) tells me: no sick note! Have you ever seen such a thing? 

I listened to the nurse's indignant speech, and it became clear to me—I wouldn't "survive" here. "Imported women's lingerie," just like "Breeding indoor flowers," was beyond my means. To live in Odessa, you have to be born here, then "stew in the demographic Odessan cauldron," absorb the local "flavor and temperament," and only after that, do you have the RIGHT to your position in life. As a "Moldovan," I had no such RIGHT, so I lasted only a month and a half. When I was quitting, my colleagues confessed their suspicions that I was a "decoy" planted by law enforcement into their team to uncover corrupt acts, in short—bribes. They persuaded me not to quit, saying they had been wrong, and that they really needed "Moldovan flower lovers," but it was too late. I didn't notice much persuasiveness or sincerity in their words, and they were persuading me, it seemed, not very persistently. Besides, solving the housing issue was problematic. Unless, considering the local traditions of "grateful patients" and knowing the fate of my predecessors, I, as a "flower lover" and especially a "son of the Moldovan people," by the decision of a People's Judge, could, like them, get only "state housing with full government provision" for the next few years. But such a prospect did not suit me (and I didn't want to burden the state either), so I made a decision and returned to the city of my childhood, Tiraspol. 
(But Nurse Anna and I became friends and, much later, she would arrange for us to stay in the "private sector" with her acquaintances, where we vacationed comfortably in the summer in plywood houses. But right by the Black Sea). 

Tiraspol. 
In Tiraspol lived my parents, my sister's large family, I studied here and successfully graduated from high school. A significant portion of my classmates had scattered across the vastness of the Motherland; some, unfortunately, were no longer alive. My wife and daughter moved to be with me from Chisinau, and the housing issue became acute for us. But, in my hometown, we solved it fairly quickly. 
Tiraspol was a city of retired military personnel and citizens working in the North. The warm and mild climate, an abundance of fruits and vegetables—all this attracted people, and given their "northern benefits" and earned money, these categories of citizens, while continuing to work in their jobs, acquired cooperative apartments in our city, so to speak, for future use, for old age. My sister's husband was the chairman of a large housing cooperative, where there were such purchased apartments, but their owners still continued to work in the north, and through my brother-in-law, we rented housing from them. (Jumping ahead, I can say that in one year, we changed 4 addresses!). 

Work. 
The city had a large multidisciplinary hospital, consisting of many 2-3-4 story buildings scattered over a large area, hence its name - "Lechgorodok" [Medical Town]. My father was a well-known traumatologist in the city and enjoyed authority with the head physician of the hospital, so we had no particular problems with employment. My wife and I are surgeons. Chance helped us here too. Right at that time, the head of purulent surgery, for personal reasons, moved to work at a hospital for WWII veterans, and my wife was appointed to her place (she had experience managing a surgical department in Chisinau), and I found a place as a surgeon in the emergency room. 

As you, my dear reader, might have noticed, I write my "novel" in a certain ironic manner, trying to find some light and even comical moments in our life. But, unfortunately, "Lechgorodok" does not fit into this framework. At all! The head physician of the hospital, a glorious son of the Azerbaijani people, was fundamentally uninterested in the medical process. According to his conviction, if "a theater begins at the cloakroom," then a hospital should begin with beautifully decorated surrounding grounds, so he directed all his energy toward the landscaping and aesthetic design of this very territory. He very much loved flowers with the mysterious name "Petunia," giving them a clear preference in the "exterior decor" of the hospital. Every workday began for him with a tour of the entire "Lechgorodok," and given its size, starting at 6:30 AM. He carefully monitored the watering and cleanliness of the grounds, tenderly inspected the numerous flowerbeds with his favorite flowers, and smiled with satisfaction, bearing a multitude of gold teeth. 
And he delegated the entire medical process to his deputy, an hysterical middle-aged man, whose work principle consisted of noisily "making waves of active activity" (with zero efficiency). I think William, you know, Shakespeare, back in 1600, with the title of his play "Much Ado About Nothing," foresaw the working methods of this medical functionary. He always "bubbled and stormed," so no one ever saw him calm. It was amazing, but the entire hospital (in my opinion) was simply stuffed with some kind of intrigues, gossip, and spying on one another. 
I'll quote the head nurse of the surgical department that my wife began to manage:
— I (she was talking about herself) don't have a "black mouth," but a "black with a blue tint"! 
How do you like that, impressive? 

My relationship with the head of the 1st Surgical Department went wrong right away. He was several years older than me, had an extremely high opinion of himself, and imagined himself a local "kingpin" (one must consider that the head physician's nephew worked in his department as an attending physician, and they were friends). In short, they didn't accept me into the team, and to this day I don't know whether this was related to my "proletarian origins" (they knew perfectly well who my father was), or if they considered me a "passing figure." 
My only "outlet" in the hospital was my good friend and institute classmate, Tolya Gass, who headed the functional diagnostics department. I frequently dropped by to see him for heart-to-heart conversations and relieved the stress of a joyless reality there. We are still friends and communicate to this day, even though we have long lived in different countries and very far apart, but this doesn't stop us from being close people. I sincerely wish him health and a long life. Mitrich, did you hear me?! 

A few months later, my beloved wife got pregnant and was admitted to gynecology for "maintenance." I don't know for what reason (maybe the head physician received information from Odessa that I was a "lover of flower breeding"?), but during her absence, I was appointed to the position of acting head of the department, which was simply a meteoric career rise in the hospital. This fact further exacerbated our already difficult relationship with the head of the 1st Surgery. But I didn't care. I "rolled up my sleeves" and got to work. The department was relatively small, with 40 beds. Besides me, there were 2 other doctors working there. The relations between us were steady but somehow soulless. I will not touch upon the purely professional side of my activities; it is of no interest to the reader, but how I reorganized the department deserves attention. First of all, I tried to get rid of the head ("blue-mouthed") nurse. I hated gossip since childhood. I managed to do this fairly quickly, and "the air in the department became cleaner." 

Our surgery was located on the second floor of a three-story building and across a corridor, it bordered the traumatology department. Many years ago, from this dividing corridor, which had an independent exit to the street, they had made two rooms, setting up a storage area for the hospital's plumbing inventory and equipment. Having such "wealth" as a separate entrance, the brave plumbers and the technical staff who joined them set up an "informal interest club" there, mostly for lovers of strong drinks, women, and card games. It was rumored that some medical staff also had a "membership" to this establishment. I decided that the space of the "club" could be used more rationally. 
When the plan finally ripened in my head, I came to work at 7:00 AM and "purely by chance" met the head physician, who was inspecting his domain as always.

— Keep in meend, — the boss raised a finger, — the idea of expandeeng your deeepartment at the expense of the storage, I approve, but you weell do the repairs yourself, weeth your own forces. I have no funds, — and he went to admire his petunias. 
I took action. Here my father's connections came in handy. His patient was the commercial director of a large Casting Machines plant. For a couple of weeks, I literally stalked him both at work and outside, and annoyed him so much that, at the enterprise's expense, by way of patronage assistance, we were allocated all the materials for the repair and even a brigade of builders. In literally a week, the storage room was destroyed, two wards were made and equipped from its rooms, linoleum was laid in the entire department, and even the walls of the residents' room were paneled with wood. The department became a 60-bed unit and "sparkled" with a fresh renovation that didn't cost the hospital a single kopeck. The head physician loved and greatly appreciated a "freebie," so he paid no attention to the colossal scandal caused by the head of the traumatology department, who had an amusing last name—Ozhog [Burn].

— These are my rooms, — the traumatologist boiled, "incinerating" me with his look, — I had been counting on them for a long time and I demand they be given to me (if the energy of his gaze could be measured and converted into degrees, from the resulting "burns," I probably wouldn't have survived!), — do you understand, mine!
— You wanted these rooms? — the head physician sighed "sadly" and spread his hands before the "burning" with indignation traumatology head, — well, he took them and did eet, — and turning to me, he added, — deed eet for free! Good job! 
Thus, I made another enemy, not to mention the members of the "interest club." But, frankly speaking, it bothered me little. My wife and I missed Chisinau very much and did not plan to stay in Tiraspol for long. 
Okay, okay! I need to sleep and relax. 

Hello, Morpheus, which labyrinth have you led me into again? I didn't expect to describe the Tiraspol period in such detail. We lived there for only a year and a half, but what a lot of memories. So, what besides work? Most importantly: our sons were born there, twin boys! My older daughter got little brothers. Today they are grown men, having their own children, our grandchildren! Health and happiness to everyone! 
What else? Ah, yes, Chernobyl! That terrible accident. But this is a universal tragedy, and I do not want to dwell on it. I can only state the fact that near our house, the military "pitched" a dosimetric tent and measured the radiation level at the entrance to the city, and this greatly stressed us. 
Oh-ho-ho! What else? Aha, we bought a car! And then, half a year later (of course, with the help of dad's connections), we bought a cooperative two-room apartment on the top floor of a 9-story building. Finally, our ordeals through rented apartments ended and we found our "nest." Our building was the last structure within the city limits, but the first one on the side of Odessa, and that, as a recent Odessan, warmed my soul. Well, considering we had a car (using other connections of dad's), we bought a stone garage in a garage cooperative, located "only" a 30-minute walk from our place of residence. But what is half an hour for the owner of his OWN GARAGE?! 

Ugh, I woke up in a cold sweat. No, no, no! Where have you led me, you trickster Morpheus? Garages!? That's such a "LABYRINTH" that you could wander through it all your life and never get out. Do you know, reader, what a GARAGE was in our time? Especially in Moldavia! 

The Garage. 
Not everyone could be a garage owner, far from everyone. You could either get it by inheritance, or be a "Hero of Socialist Labor," or at least, as a minimum, a leading worker of production, or have connections at the level of the city executive committee or higher. He who possessed a garage automatically transformed into a "celestial being." Ordinary folks respected him but did not love him. It's a great misconception to assume that a garage exists solely for your car to stand in. A GARAGE is a lifestyle, it's a religion, it's a destiny. It's naive to think that a garage owner lives at home and only goes to the garage when he needs his car. Nonsense! He lives in the garage, and goes home only out of extreme necessity, for example, to sleep. And even then, far from always. 
I saw garages that, in their interior design, were in no way inferior to a one-room apartment with all amenities. There were sofas, armchairs with coffee tables, and a kitchenette with dishes, not to mention a cellar with canned goods, preserves, and, of course, barrels of wine, or, at worst, in demijohns. This is Moldavia, gentlemen! You may ask, where, exactly, did the car fit? Sometimes, there was no car at all. There was a garage, but no car. But, let's be fair, this was rare. Usually, something stood there, though often just a rusty "skeleton" of a former automobile, disassembled by its owner into numerous parts. But the owner came every day, sat next to his "rarity," and with the maniacal stubbornness of a paranoiac, sorted through this scrap metal hoping that THIS would eventually start. 

A small digression. Garage cooperatives are a purely our, domestic invention, and I believe this needs to be registered in the Guinness Book of Records. In the West, in private houses, there are also special rooms where their cars are kept. But these pathetic imitations cannot be called a GARAGE! A garage cannot be in the house! It is, after all, insulting! Well, call IT a utility room, a pantry, after all—a technical room, but just not a GARAGE! No inspection pit, no cellar with canned goods, no jars of wine, no scattered parts - NOTHING! And they call this by the proud name GARAGE?! "A space for a car in your own home" — that's what it's called. And that's it! 
What kind of garage is it if your wife can walk in on you at any minute, and:
— How long can you sit next to this junk? When will you finally nail up the shelf at home? Or:
— Getting wasted again? When do you even manage? 
Etc., etc... Nightmare, disaster, horror! No friends, no neighbors, no one to sit down quietly with and, sipping wine, discuss the latest football match of your favorite team, or the alarming international situation, or simply have a "heart-to-heart" talk. And this is called a GARAGE? Ugh, disgusting. It's a completely different matter with us!!! 

Let me give you a specific example. When my twin sons were born, my friend came from Chisinau to congratulate me on this event and to see our new apartment, where he hadn't been yet. My wife with the newborns was still in the maternity hospital, so from the train station, I drove him straight to the garage, where my neighbors from the cooperative and I were celebrating this event.

— It's impolite to offend people, — I apologized, — we'll sit for a couple of hours and go to my place, and there we'll really celebrate. 
So I thought! Yeah, right! We walked into the garage... 
The next day, someone took my friend to the train station, from where he went back to Chisinau. His absence was noticed only a day later, but since the era of mobile communication had not yet arrived, I could only reach him by phone the following day. From his chaotic account, it turned out that at the height of the fun, he went with someone to a neighboring garage, from there to another, a third... and then... got lost. He was picked up by some cooperative member, who regretfully informed him that he didn't know me, but he was willing to lead my friend out of this garage labyrinth, on the condition that they would go to his brother's place in a neighboring village and continue their "fruit-and-berry" communication. It was getting toward night, he had nowhere to sleep, so he had to agree. The brother, too, was a motorist and he, TOO, had a GARAGE... with a CELLAR...! My friend didn't know my home address, and there was no way to contact me, so the only option was to leave for home. In the morning, his new buddies took him to the train station. He didn't remember the names of the motorist brothers, nor the name of the village where he spent the night. Is it really that important? 
P.S. And he saw my apartment 2 months later, when he visited us again. 
That's what a garage labyrinth is! And you say the West! 


About a sore subject (Philosophical conclusions).
A few words about the residents of garages. Yes, yes, specifically about the residents. A resident of a city is called a CITIZEN [in Russian: GOROZHanin], and a member of society is a CITIZEN [GRAZHdanin]! Right? And, if I may ask, what are the members of garage communities and the residents of garages called? Nothing, and that's unfair. It's time to create new "GARAGE-dan" societies, where a free and independent people will live - the "GARAGE-zhans"! "GARAGE-danin of the Garage Republic" — GGR! Beautiful! And it sounds proud! 
Residents of garages! I am sure that it is absolutely necessary to grant them state status. How do garage cooperatives differ from a normal state? Well, in no way. Is there a chairman of the cooperative, that is, a President?
— Yes! Is there a board, that is, a government?
— Yes. There is a "Council of Sages" (a council of ministers from the most experienced mechanics), there are working GARAGE-zhans, there are pensioners, there is legislative power (determining borders between garages), there is executive power (condemnation and punishment for breaking the rules), there's even judicial power (punching someone in the face). And what fanatical patriotism the GARAGE-zhans have, what cohesion, what "sense of elbow" [solidarity]? 
And what if we unite cooperative garages into "Garage Enclaves"? With a unified leadership and its own Constitution! Identity documents are available—a photograph of the owner is glued into the car's registration certificate, and the document of a "GARAGE-danin of the Garage Republic" is ready! Every GARAGE-zhan is provided with private property in the form of a garage, transport, food, work (outside the cooperative's borders), a pension! Even their own alcohol! 
And most importantly: no women in the Enclaves! Those nagging, whining creatures (drunk again), quarrelsome (slept in the garage again), contentious (you only think about your car), always dissatisfied (I don't have a coat, and you bought some piece of iron for your jalopy again). Only a community of free and proud men!! 

You say "Utopia"? Let me object! What about the City-State of Vatican City, where only 800 citizens + the Pope reside! And they live, and live quite well. But we have significantly more GARAGE-zhans! Significantly!! 
Long live the "Garage Republics"! Hurrah, comrades! 

By the way, today, many years after the collapse of the "Empire," some dream of its restoration. Easy! I can offer a concrete plan: First, "Garage Republics" are created in the post-Soviet space, then the "Commonwealth of Independent Garages" (CIG) is formed from them. When critical mass is reached, they are united into Enclaves and "voilà" — 
— "Long live the USSR - the Union of Free Satellite Republics"! 
How do you like the plan? Yeah, Tommaso Campanella, with his "City of the Sun," can take a back seat. Here, we are planning an entire "Empire of the Sun"! A new USSR! Lyolik from "The Diamond Arm" would say: "Brilliant, chief! Just like that, without noise and dust." What do you think? 

Oh, "Ostap got carried away." I need to rest. I dozed off again and I dream... The weekdays of the "Garage Republic." 
All GARAGE-zhans respect each other very much. You won't see this in a normal city.

— Petrovich!
— a young one addresses a veteran, — my carburetor is acting up, will you take a look? 
Petrovich, sitting in his garage next to a battered and disassembled old car, raises his tired eyes, spits out a dead cigarette from his mouth, carefully places some part on the floor, meticulously wipes his grease-stained hands with a rag (the veteran always has grease-stained hands), then slowly and with dignity, walks to his neighbor's garage.

— Yes, a carburetor, — he says, carefully examining the part, — and states once again, — exactly, a carburetor. 
At the same time, it isn't entirely clear whether he has found a problem in the part, or if he is simply confirming the fact that what he has in his hands is indeed a carburetor and not another part. But that is no longer so important.

— Petrovich, — the young man asks ingratiatingly, — will you help?
— How can I not help a neighbor, — the veteran nods understandingly, — I'll look around my place, I should have one.
— Maybe you'll have a glass of wine first?
— the young man rejoiced, — I brought some fresh stuff.
— Well, maybe just a glass, — Petrovich agrees, — if it's fresh. 

Gradually, people from neighboring garages drift over, ask what the problem is. Someone brings their homemade wine and begs the attendees to taste it; others drag in various appetizers, preserves, pickles, vegetables, and fruits. The feast takes on a massive scale; everyone remembers their own story with a carburetor, everyone listens attentively, comments, they are terribly interested, some actively try to help immediately but are dissuaded, poured wine, then everyone fraternizes and disperses long past midnight. Some stay to sleep in their garages. 
The next day, the "hero of the occasion" rushes around the cooperative and begs for his carburetor back, but no one, including Petrovich, genuinely understands what he is talking about and what he wants from them. What carburetor? 

Okay, okay, it's time to climb out of this garage labyrinth, get out into freedom, and look to the future. Everything seemed fine - family, children, work, apartment, car, even a garage. But there was no peace of mind! I generally have a restless character. I am constantly drawn to a change of places. It's not for nothing they say: "A Jew only feels good on the road"! Over my life, I've lived in 4 countries - Moldova, Tiraspol (today Transnistria), Israel, and currently, I live in the Czech Republic. I won't even mention apartments. Once, in my spare time, I tried to remember how many there had been in my life; I counted up to 29 and lost track. But in this case, my wife unconditionally supported the idea of moving to Chisinau. 

So, the main thing is housing. At that time, the most common way to change your housing conditions was through an exchange. If you had your own apartment, then, using all sorts of tricks and connections with "deeply undercover individuals," there was an opportunity to exchange it for another. The work of such a "professional" is shown in the film "For Family Reasons," where the great Basov played it brilliantly. Today there is a vast multitude of real estate agencies with catalogs of services. In our time, this "profession" was illegal, and the employees of the "invisible front" were deep "underground." 
The working scheme. Around the BTI [Bureau of Technical Inventory], "pleasant" individuals hovered, whose task was to "sympathetically" support desperate citizens coming out of the building's doors in a state of utter despair. To understand what I am narrating, you need to know what the BTI is - the "Bureau of Technical Inventory." This office had no connection to technical or any other inventory. But any "operation to change housing conditions" was impossible without this "Bureau." You needed their resolution and stamp. It is very reminiscent of today's collection agencies, with one difference - in the BTI they didn't beat you, and you left your money there "voluntarily." 

To work in this "Bureau," employees didn't require education or professional knowledge, but experience was welcomed. All employees were someone's relatives (connected to the given industry), and the profession was often passed down by inheritance. Random people didn't work there; the spots were far too "lucrative." The work was not difficult and did not require vast knowledge. You simply had to learn a set of necessary papers and documents, and older comrades would teach you the technique of extorting money from an unfortunate client. And that's it, in a short time you are a professional: "No, the stamp is not clear. No, you must wear a tie in the photograph! No, your certificate from the housing office is on a yellow form, and we need a blue one... (pink, white)... Come back in a week..., in a month...." In short, there was a "vast field" here for the employee's imagination. 
But they didn't take money from clients directly. For this, there were those very "random" and "sympathetic" comrades, who amicably ("I liked you immediately," "how I understand you!"), offered the despairing client ("only for you, but, shh..., not a word to anyone, she's just my neighbor and for your sake I can arrange it") to solve your issue for a certain amount ("I personally don't need anything from you, I'm just being human, but you understand, right?"). These same individuals were the intermediaries between the client wanting to exchange housing and the "underground realtor." 

The scheme was somewhat complex, but it reliably protected against prosecution by law enforcement agencies. I will not go into details, but through these "intermediary professionals," having lost a lot of time, nerves, and of course, money, almost losing faith in the "friendship of peoples," and even beginning to doubt that "The Party is the mind, honor, and conscience of our epoch," I found an option to exchange our small cooperative apartment in Tiraspol for a 2-room apartment, with stove heating, without a kitchen, toilet, or bathtub, but in return, in the center of Chisinau. 

Ah, Morpheus my Morpheus, where have you led me again? A new labyrinth? Although, no, I myself want to remember our house on Shchusev Street, one of the oldest and most beautiful streets in Chisinau. Until 1924, it was called Leovska, then until 1944 - General Berthelot (beautiful, but I have no idea what it means), then Shchusev. Imagine a quiet street, immersed in the greenery of centuries-old poplars, oaks, and lindens, with rows of one-story houses and inner courtyards, which you can only enter through old, creaky gates. Remember the Odessa courtyard where the legendary detective Gotsman from the movie "Liquidation" lived? Our courtyards are similar. By the way, the highly talented actress Svetlana Kryuchkova, who played "Aunt Pesya" in this movie, was born in Chisinau and lived in exactly such a courtyard. 

Our courtyard. As I said - entrance through the gates, then a short tunnel running into a two-story structure with sheds "divided" into sections, and a courtyard along the perimeter of which there were connected one- and two-story houses, with a total of 22 apartments. In the middle of the courtyard grew two large trees, "tied" together by clotheslines, another row of "sectional" sheds, and a dovecote with a feathered flock (neighbor Grisha was a pigeon breeder). A characteristic feature of all old courtyards were wooden verandas, which gave them a special flavor, and ours was no exception. 
Our apartment was on the second floor of a two-story building. Entrance through a wooden veranda, to the left and right two creaky staircases with carved handrails leading to the second floor. Three apartments on each side. The house was over a hundred years old and earlier, as they used to say, "back under the Romanians," it housed a fashionable "Bordel" ("Brothel"). By the way, some of our neighbors claimed that occasionally at night, especially in windy weather, they allegedly heard the gentle sounds of a violin, the clinking of glasses, and "voluptuous moans." Well, I don't know, no matter how much I listened, I never heard it once. Oh, these fantasists, they're probably lying. 

Yes, another "landmark" of the courtyard. Next to the sheds stood a stone "veteran," with two "holes." Apparently ("under the Romanians"), it was used by the service staff of the "House of Love." However, as it turned out, it was still in demand in our time, since some of our neighbors' apartments had no toilets and the residents used the public one. By the way, this applies to my "mansion" too (I mean the toilet). 
Before us, the owner of the apartment was an old woman who, whether due to her ancient age or financial difficulties, paid little attention to everyday life. It was already difficult for her to arrange her home and heat the stoves, which served as the basis for the exchange. The apartment consisted of two large adjoining rooms with access to an open wooden veranda, a corridor, at the end of which a "hole" yawned in the floor, which probably, in those distant times ("under the Romanians"), the visitors of the "priestesses of love" had used. But the apartment had its own "attractions" - ceiling heights of 3.20m, massive carved doors with huge shaped brass handles, windows closed with wooden shutters, house walls 60 cm thick, two antique stoves built back in the 19th century (when we dismantled them, we found well-preserved scraps of a Romanian newspaper and a cigarette box from the late 19th century in the masonry). 

For a family with children, living in such an unequipped apartment was impossible, so the housing exchange agreement, drawn up with the help of "experienced people," stipulated that I had 3 weeks to repair our "new" apartment. I quit my job and, leaving my family in Tiraspol, "rolled up my sleeves" and started the reconstruction of the housing. A "brigade of builders," consisting of friends and relatives, gathered and took it upon themselves to help me. It was December, the weather outside was freezing, but that didn't bother us. There was firewood left from the previous owner, we heated the stoves, and the house was warm. In our time, it was impossible to buy building materials through official channels, but the profession of a surgeon brought its "fruits," and although with difficulty, I obtained what was needed. And a lot was needed, a very lot. The work was in full swing. 

One day, I went to Tiraspol for some documents, while the guys continued the repairs. Returning to Chisinau and approaching my new residence, even a block away I smelled smoke, which intensified as I got closer to the house. Still on the street, outside the gates of our courtyard, I was met by my agitated "builders." Smudged clothes, soot-covered faces, and the suffocating smell of smoke eloquently spoke of what had happened.

— Edik!
— Uncle Yasha sighed, — just don't worry. Everything is fine, but... well... the apartment... kinda... burned down, — and hugging my shoulders, — but everyone, you hear me, everyone is alive. That's the main thing! Don't worry, there are no casualties. And the firemen have already left, — he waved his hand sadly, pointing in a direction, — you didn't meet them? 
The remnants of the roof over my apartment were still smoking slightly. The smell of burning was suffocating. The ceiling in one room burned out completely, in the other partially - a fairly large chunk in the corner was missing. A thin layer of snow covered the dirty floor, strewn with ashes and flooded with water by the valiant firemen, along with the remains of the burned roof. My soot-covered team and I looked up through the ceiling at the gloomy frosty sky and remained mournfully silent. It was as quiet as in a church. 

"The enemies burned down his native hut, 
Ruined his whole family" 
— suddenly, someone started singing quietly, and the others picked it up, 
"Where should a soldier go now, 
To whom should he bring his sorrow?" 
then in a chorus, more cheerfully: 
"A soldier stands, and it's like lumps, 
Are stuck in his throat. 
The soldier said - meet, Elena (my wife), 
The Hero - your husband!" 
And everyone started smiling. Thank God, everyone is alive and well. We'll break through!! 

The calendar showed December 15, 1986. There were still a whole 16 days until the New Year. A commission from the fire department arrived and dismantled the stove. The cause of the fire was deemed to be the shifting of a brick in the "spark arrester," which occurred, in their opinion, either due to the stove's age or as a result of a small earthquake that happened in Moldavia back in the summer. So, it was not our fault, which was noted in the protocol. 

The next day, I went to the Housing Office (ZhEK).
— Say thank you, well, — the head of the office grimaced, reading the protocol, — that, well, you didn't set the house on fire yourself, — and adjusting her hair, added, — otherwise, you'd be repairing, well, the whole house. So, you're free to go, — she muttered regretfully.
— What do you mean, free to go?
— I didn't understand, — what about the repairs? When will you start the repairs? The house is state-owned, an accident occurred, and it is your duty to fix it. I have to move in with my family in 12 days!
— Well, move in then, — she shrugged indifferently, — what do you want from me? I'll put you in the queue, and maybe, well, in the second quarter of next year, we'll do it, well. Or maybe the third, — and thinking for a moment, added, — yes, well, the third.
— What do you mean, WELL?
— I boiled over, — I have three children, two of them infants, where am I supposed to move with them in winter? For me, WELL, snow is falling on my head (out of indignation, I involuntarily started using her "linguistic slang," but she, WELL, didn't even notice). Where are we supposed to live, huh, WELL?
— What do you mean where, well?
— she shrugged, — there's another room, only a corner of the ceiling burned out there, right? So, well, plug it up and live there. During the war, people lived in worse conditions, like, well, in dugouts!
— But it doesn't seem to be a war right now, — I mumbled, — we live in peacetime.
— Well, well, it's a matter of time, — she sighed, — our armored train... In short, you'll make it till spring, well, and then, maybe we'll do the repairs, in the second, no, the third quarter. That's it, that's it, well, you're free! 

Here you go, my dear Morpheus. You led me into a highly unpleasant labyrinth, and it is very hard to find the way out of it, but I'll have to. A contract, as the head of the Housing Office would say: "WELL, it's not a joking matter," must be fulfilled. 
The next month of my life, in terms of labor activity, can be compared to the labor feat on the socialist front by our childhood hero, Pavka Korchagin. The only difference was that he built a public railway, and I built my apartment. 
Do you know, my dear reader, where in our time one could find building materials to restore a roof and ceiling? Answer: NOWHERE! What is a "lath" or a "spindle"? Where to find "sleepers" for ceilings, roofing felt, cement, and.......... And all this amidst total shortages. I managed to get some things, bartered for others, bought some from "hustlers" (knowing it was stolen), had some "smuggled out" to me from military units, from the railway, from collective farms—in short, I did not "disdain" anything. I needed to "survive," so I "plowed" in the Korchagin way, 15-16 hours a day. 
A mountain of garbage grew under our windows, which got covered in snow, and the neighborhood children used it as a slide. 

On December 25, my family moved to Chisinau and we settled in with my wife's relatives. On New Year's Eve, having listened to the congratulatory speech by the General Secretary of the CPSU, to the chiming of the clock, my wife and I drank a glass of champagne each and continued the repairs. 
By mid-January of the following year, the apartment was habitable. We glazed the veranda, making a wonderful kitchen out of it; at the end of the corridor we built a wall and made a toilet and bathroom; we removed the stoves and installed gas heating—and not just in our apartment, but also in the apartment of our neighbor, the sweetest Muza Fedorovna. 

Oh, oh, Morpheus! Lead me out, please, from this labyrinth. This apartment cost us a lot of effort, and much labor was put into it, but we loved it very much. It is all the more difficult, now, many years later, to see what our neighbors, who got it after our departure, did to it. Horror and a nightmare. 
Yes, by the way, another amusing touch! Leaving for permanent residence in Israel, we had to "hand over" the apartment to the Housing Office, since it was state-owned. I had to meet with the directress again.

— Pay 900 rubles, — she said gloomily, — then, well, you'll get a certificate of handing over the apartment.
— What's that for?
— I inquired.
— What do you mean, what for?
— the directress grimaced and smirked, — well, the major repairs we did after the fire that you started, forgot about that?
— What?
— the blood "rushed" to my head, — for the repair? After the fire?
— I started stuttering, — in my house? You did it?
— Who else?
— the directress stood up, — in short, that's it! Well, no money, no certificate. And you're not going to any of your Palestines, traitor. 
Of course I paid! 
Okay, okay, of course it's hard. But who has it easy, may I ask you? I need to sleep, rest, gather my strength and thoughts. Zzz-zzz (that's me sleeping), and I dream... well, well, what's that folk wisdom? What, what does folk wisdom say? Come on, come on, Morpheus, give me a hint. Ah, yes, exactly, I remembered....... So! I seem to have built a house, had a son (even two), what else is there?
— Aha, a tree! I need to plant a tree! Fine, I'll plant one, but that will be a little later. For now, I need to yum-yum, I mean eat, feed my family, you know. And for that, money is needed. I have to work. So, wake up, my friend, and look for a job. 

Work. 
Without going into the details of my employment, I will simply say that I managed to get a job as a surgeon in the Railway Hospital. This was a highly prestigious departmental hospital in the city, and getting into it was a stroke of great luck. The hospital had just moved into a new building, and I even had the chance to participate in the arrangement of the premises. 
A few words about the staff of the surgical department. I knew the head of the department. There was a time when we worked together. He was a wonderful, very approachable person. Another surgeon in the department, Petrovich, I had known for many years, since he, as an urgent surgeon, was on duty at our hospital (at my previous workplace), and we were friends. Also working in the department were two other surgeons, significantly older than me, specialists with titles - both Candidates of Medical Sciences, with the highest qualification categories. I was accepted into the team very well, and despite the age difference, we quickly became friends. 

And, finally, the "Chief"! The "Chief Surgeon of the Railway"—the longtime head of the entire surgical service, a Doctor of Medical Sciences, with undisputed authority in the hospital and colossal work experience. He possessed the amazing ability to use both hands equally; he drew beautifully with both his right and left hand, and even operated the same way, if you could call it that—"Macedonian style." But, unlike the famous hitman Lesha the Macedonian, he did not kill, but saved people. He was a very interesting person, combining, on one hand, exceptional giftedness, a sharp analytical mind, and encyclopedic knowledge, and on the other—the nastiest character. But this could be survived, and jumping ahead, I can say—we lived amicably, and he helped me more than once in the profession, and even occasionally bailed me out. 
As I said, I was well received, and working in this hospital was very comfortable. But I'm not going to describe my professional activities, as this is uninteresting to the reader. It's better if I tell you about my friend and colleague. 

Petrovich. 
Petrovich was 8 years older than me and 8 cm taller (as he used to say, 8x8). Moreover, he wore an incredibly tall medical cap, more reminiscent of a chef's hat from a prestigious French restaurant, which significantly increased his already imposing height.
— For solidity, — he liked to repeat, — and significance! 
Petrovich was an incredibly amusing personality. A smart and knowledgeable surgeon, well-educated, knowing literature, with a good sense of humor, and at the same time an absolute fatalist, convinced of the inevitability of events. He never planned anything ahead and lived by the rule of the ancient Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius: "Do what you must, and let happen what is destined." 
I must say that this lifestyle of his had certain grounds. The fact was that Petrovich had a very serious and incurable kidney disease, with which, unfortunately, a fatal outcome is predetermined, and it was only a matter of time. The decisive factors for the quality and, indeed, prolongation of his life should have been systematic treatment, monitoring of tests, and a healthy lifestyle. And this is where the "as it should be" ended, and the "real fatalist Petrovich" began! He did not recognize any treatment, and with a complete lack of a regimen and a healthy lifestyle, he was a card player, a libertine, and, as he himself called it: a "Household drunkard"!

— Edya!
— he would deeply "ventriloquize," — you and I bear the honorable title of "Household drunkards"! Mind you, — and raising his glass, he continued thoughtfully, — alcoholics are "declassed elements without a moral code, moreover, they are sociopaths with dissocial personality disorders." We, however, are simple "household drunkards," with episodic consumption of alcoholic beverages, and, what is important, without forming a dependence, and observing a moral code. Therefore, personality disorders are not observed in us. Think about that, — and frowning, he would raise his glass, — think about it! 

A literacy campaign from Petrovich.
— Sit down, my friend, and listen, — Petrovich carefully combed his sparse hair, then blew on the comb and, hiding it in his suit's breast pocket (he always wore a suit), continued thoughtfully, — I will initiate you into the great mystery - the "mystery of drinking"! Let's turn to the classics, — he brought his eyebrows together into a "house" shape and fell deep into thought, remembering something.
— What does the "guru" of alcoholics, Venya Yerofeyev, write in his great poem "Moscow-Petushki": "I, for example, drink just like that! I just like to drink! So I drink!". 
Petrovich half-rose from his chair and solemnly pronounced:
— See! This is the essence of alcoholics, these "declassed elements without a moral code"!
— he raised his finger, — you see, they "like to drink"! Just like it! Primitivism! Lack of principle and vulgarity! No! This is not our method! We, "Household drunkards," are categorically against this concept, — he waved his hand decisively, — therefore, we drink not when we want to (we always want to), but only when NOT drinking is no longer possible. We drink with "soul," and the soul must "ripen"! We observe the "moral code"! Now, for example, how does the drinking process occur in alcoholics? 
Petrovich looked inquiringly straight into my eyes and, seeing my confusion, answered his own question:
— He wanted to drink and he drinks, stupidly pouring the noble product from the bottle into his throat! Well, absolutely no romance. And what about us? 
Petrovich's face brightened.
— Very carefully, by the neck, you take out a "squirrel" [vodka] (I'll explain the origin of this name later), — and leaning toward his "briefcase," he picked up a bottle, — and it's frosted, trembling all over, because it doesn't know what awaits it, — Petrovich smiled softly, — and you stroke it and calm it down: Don't be afraid, darling, I won't hurt you, I'll just carefully unscrew the little cap, — he poured the contents into the glasses, — and ...... Edya, the pinky, the pinky needs to be raised and pointed slightly to the side, — the teacher showed how to do it, — like this. Well, now you understand the difference between us, "Household drunkards," and alcoholics. Cheers! Ah-ah, — Petrovich wagged his finger, seeing that after drinking, I reached for the sausage, — don't chase the first shot with food! Here I agree with Venya, — he continued, — who teaches us: "Drink more, eat less. It's the best remedy against conceit and superficial atheism." Well said, and most importantly, intelligible. Well, let's continue, — and holding out his glass, he added, — let's do a second one. I only ask of you, — he smiled, — more feeling, romance, and inspiration. Pour!

— Let's go, — I sighed, realizing that to reach the level of a "master," one must have a healthy liver and study for a long time. 
He was very consistent in his predilections, therefore he "consumed" regularly and thoroughly. Often, our workday began with the question:
— Edya!
— breathing in my direction, Petrovich would ask, — how is the "exhaust"? 
Usually, the "exhaust was toxic."
— Meaning, protection is needed, — pulling a surgical mask over his face, Petrovich would get upset, — and now?
— and he would try again.
— Seems fine, — I would sniff, — doesn't smell now.
— Sigh, — he would sigh, — the "ginger" [cognac] was unnecessary. I should have limited myself to the "squirrel." You see, the cards fell well, I got carried away, which is why I sinned. The "ginger" was unnecessary, — he shook his head, — unnecessary. 

Here, I must clarify something and decipher my friend's speech. Petrovich had his own original system for designating the alcoholic beverage being consumed, depending on the color. "Ginger" was cognac (ginger-colored), "Squirrel" was vodka (white-colored [belka]), "Party Ticket" was fortified red wine (from the brand "Port wine"), "Belomor" was white wine (fortified or dry, depending on the strength), "Night Moonshine" was homemade hooch, and... many others... 
He was a very romantic personality. According to him, he had been writing a fairy tale in verse all his life, though he never read it to anyone.
— Edya, — he would enthusiastically roll his eyes, — she has such a pinky toe, it drives me crazy!
— and sighing, he would point to an elderly orderly walking past, — I would give everything for a night with her! 
Believe me, dear reader, I am not joking. That was exactly how he treated "various parts of the female body" and, sometimes, after massive libations of "gingers and squirrels," he realized his fantasies with members of the opposite sex, and he was never bothered by the "beloved's" age or her social status (a pinky, an ankle, a knee) ....... Well, what can I say, a "romantic"! 

In our hospital worked an endoscopist named Yefim. For sterilizing instruments and wiping the optics of his "endoscopes," he received medical alcohol from the hospital pharmacy.
— I don't get it, — Petrovich marveled, — to sit on such wealth and be an absolute teetotaler. Well, I don't get it! It's some kind of pathology! 
In his opinion, this contradicted human nature and, in his words: "It's a mockery of the ''dominant nation'' and disrespect for a noble product," which, even for Petrovich, did not have a derogatory nickname and proudly bore its legal name - ALCOHOL!
— Fimochka, — Petrovich "purred," — the best sons of two peoples, — pointing to me and himself, — the "dominant" one in my person and the "oppressed" one in the person of your tribesman, tearing ourselves away from the noble but thankless task of saving human lives and setting off for the consumption of disgusting and unhealthy food in the cafeteria....
— Go to hell, — Fima snorted, — I have no alcohol, you've already guzzled it all! Get out, you alcoholics. Yeah right, saving human lives! You drink the blood of the workers, not save their lives. And don't talk to me about tribesmen. There are no alcoholics among Jews, — and looking at me with regret, he added, — but, apparently, there are exceptions.
— Fimochka, — as if nothing had happened, Petrovich continued, — stop your "Jewish Wars." We appreciate your eloquence, but you are not Josephus Flavius, and we do not have 7 years to fight your Jewish rebellion. We only have 40 minutes to consume low-calorie and unhealthy public catering food. And since we stand guard over the health of the workers, builders of communism, by the way, — he raised his finger, — we need calories, so come on, don't be stingy, — and handing Fima two test tubes, he whispered tenderly, — pour! 

We carried alcohol in test tubes closed with little rubber stoppers. Very convenient and practical. I mean, what can doctors have in test tubes? Probably some material for research, I mean, surely not alcohol, really? 
Next to our hospital was a student dormitory that had a cafeteria, and we would go there for lunch right in our lab coats. The food was so-so, but considering the meager financial capabilities of the students, the assortment of public catering culinary "delights" usually included cheap tomato juice and 100-gram portions of sour cream packaged in glasses. Cheap and filling. 

And now, attention!!! Exclusive!! Petrovich's recipe! "The Railwayman's Cocktail." 
You put a part of the sour cream into the borscht, then carefully, so as not to spill, you move the plate aside and start doing the main thing. Into the glass with the remaining sour cream, you pour tomato juice, then add the contents of the test tube (hidden in the sleeve of your lab coat), a little salt (similar to "Tequila," but "Lime" in our case is not mandatory), stir with a spoon, and wait 3-4 minutes (so that the ingredients mix evenly with each other), and then..... slowly, thoughtfully, and with feeling, you "imbibe" the contents. 
Attention!! Mandatory condition - do not rush! The taste receptors of the tongue must fully appreciate the exclusivity of the composition. The cocktail does not like haste! Then, carefully, with a finger (or spoon), collect the remains of the sour cream from the walls of the glass, and then, inconspicuously, lick it (the finger or spoon). Divine! You can believe me. 
P.S. Other ingredients, like pepper, anise, turmeric, basil, black cumin, acacia seeds, "Grains of Paradise," "Cassia Buds"..., and other spices are not mandatory to add. It's tasty as it is! 

Attention!! As Petrovich taught, a true "Household drunkard" must follow two rules: "WHAT are you drinking?" and "HOW are you drinking?" 
Well, "WHAT are you drinking?" - we figured out, but "HOW?" 
Important!! Do not start consuming food immediately, but sit quietly for 3-4 minutes, evaluating the flavor "bouquet" of the cocktail, through rotational movements of the tongue in the oral cavity... m-m-m.... During this time, the molecules of C2H5OH (alcohol) will reach the necessary centers...... tick-tick-tick.... there-there.... Got it! And only after that,... unhurriedly,... a spoonful, another,... m-m.. 
I assure you - the borscht and other culinary "delicacies" will become significantly tastier. "I give my tooth for it" [I swear]! 
Well, dear reader, did you write down the signature recipe for "The Railwayman's Cocktail"? Excellent! Try it, you won't regret it. 
But... Simply a "Household drunkard" - according to Petrovich - is the minor league. There is also a major league! Fortunately, I was "initiated" by him into the "Honorary Knights" of this "honorable organization." I will take the liberty and reveal some secrets of this secret society. I am just afraid that with our passing, the secrets of preparing wonderful old cocktails might be lost forever. So... 

A small digression. Petrovich had a "wonderful briefcase" that he always carried with him. A special feature of this miracle briefcase was the ability to fit 5! "multi-caliber" bottles inside its "belly." 
In our time, shops periodically "threw out" [stocked] a "divine beverage" called "Zhigulevskoe Beer." Sometimes Petrovich brought 2-3 bottles to work (just in case). He would leave his briefcase in the office of the head nurse of the emergency room, his longtime girlfriend, the lucky owner of either an "awesome pinky toe" on her foot or a "gorgeous left knee," I don't remember. So, right in her office, we would "charge" these beer bottles with "liquid from Fima," take the briefcase with us, and go to the cafeteria for lunch, without medical coats, but as regular visitors. 

A recipe from the major league: Cocktail "Honorary Railwayman." 
The beginning is the same (see "Railwayman's Cocktail"), BUT... Into the glass with sour cream and tomato juice, a new ingredient is added, and what an ingredient - "Consecrated Zhigulevskoe Beer"! 
The cocktail "sparkled," both in color and in taste! The advantages are obvious - you don't need to collect the remnants of "nectar" from the walls of the glass at the end of the procedure and then lick your fingers. It's enough to swish the glass and drink the cocktail to the last drop. Everything else is according to the already described scheme. 
A trifle, you say?
— No!
— Petrovich would say, — the "bouquet" of the beverage became much richer, didn't it? This is the "Major League," son! 

Oh, I seem to be talking about our silliness for a long time. Do not think, my dear reader, that we only drank and discussed the fundamental differences between household drunkenness and alcoholism. We also worked, by the way. And worked quite well. Daily operations, endless shifts... the work was stressful and carried great responsibility. And stress needs to be relieved. So, don't judge us harshly; we relieved it as best we could. 

Oh yes, I completely forgot. I also had to plant a tree! Now I'll sleep a little and..... (I'm already dreaming this), here, here, the labyrinth again. What is it this time? Ah.... The Hacienda. 
People of the older generation well remember this fashionable word that came from the Portuguese language and firmly entered our lexicon after the famous TV series "Slave Isaura." In "decaying" Latin America, this was the name for a country estate with land plantations, a church, and buildings for workers and servants, whereas in our developed and progressive Soviet Society, it meant a "garden plot of 6 ares [600 sq. m]," a wooden shed for tools (which doubled as the house for owners and servants), and as for a church... well, there are enough churches in the country, even synagogues (though not many). So, why am I bringing up this historical reference? Aha, I'm still sleeping and dreaming.... dreaming... how did this start for me?.... 

So, I work as a surgeon at the Chisinau Railway Hospital. The hospital is departmental, so only railway workers could be treated there. But that was in theory, and in practice... if needed... well, really needed... then... patients of other professions (non-railway workers) were admitted as "thematic." Based in our department was the "Department of Surgery" of the medical institute, and the educational process required "thematic" patients with various surgical pathologies. So we (why hide it) took advantage of this. 
Grisha lived in a village 15 km from Chisinau, where he worked as a veterinarian in a large livestock complex (cow shed) and suffered from hemorrhoids. The illness seemed trivial, but it significantly complicated life. How he got to me, I don't remember, probably at someone's request. I operated on him, not giving this fact much significance, but in vain. I take the liberty to declare: "There is no patient more grateful than a resident of a Moldovan village." 

Shortly after, a "flock" of "thematic" patients from that village came to me, and soon, I received an offer I couldn't refuse.
— Doctor, — Grisha said solemnly, — we have an empty house with a plot in the village, and you can buy it! I spoke with the chairman of the village council, he's not against it. 
And there you have a "Hacienda"—a real country house, with a summer kitchen, a cellar, and a huge plot of land. In short, we bought it. 
Grateful rural patients took an active part in landscaping the house, cultivating the plot, helped with the acquisition of 60 meters of picket fence (a fence), brought fertilizer, rural blacksmiths forged iron gates, set up a parking spot for the car, and a mass of other services - all this was the villagers' gratitude. But, even taking their help into account, and considering the fact that no negroes lived in our area, the heavy "slave labor on the plantations" fell on our shoulders and backs, but despite the "penal" labor, we were happy. We sat with the children in the summer kitchen, drank tea (and not only), looked at the blooming "plantations," and we felt good. We received all dairy products directly from the farm, in huge quantities, and most importantly, of excellent quality. I won't even mention the homemade wine. Forgive me, my dear villagers, but if you knew how many liters of wine my wife poured down the sink... Oh, Petrovich! 
That was when I planted a TREE, although it was far from the first one. 

It was a good time, productive. I was moving forward all the time. I fulfilled the commandment from the "Talmud" - built a house, had sons, planted a tree! Money appeared. Ah, yes! Money! I haven't yet told you anything about the cooperative. And that is an interesting labyrinth. 

Cooperative "Medic." 
In the late 80s, a few guys from the non-drinking (in the words of the endoscopist Fima) "oppressed" nation, doctors by profession, gathered over a "glass of tea" and decided that, if it was ALREADY allowed ("Perestroika"), then it was time to transfer medicine from the non-productive sphere to the commercial one.
— Friends!
— Ayzik raised his glass of "green tea," — if we take as a basis the well-known wisdom: "If there are domestic housewives, then somewhere there must be wild ones" and paraphrase it: "If there is free medicine, then somewhere there must be paid medicine" (stormy applause from the audience, with shouts - Right on! It's time!), — he raised his hand and, calming the attendees, continued, — then the question arises: Why not here? Here, — he swept his "glass of tea" over the audience, — are gathered the best minds of the "oppressed nation" with medical education, and I take the liberty to ask you: How long? (Ayzik was always eloquent and very convincing). 
Through the melodic clinking of glasses with "tea," voices were heard: "It's time... The hour has struck... Who, if not us?..." 
Thus, the cooperative "Medic" was opened. 

I headed a branch of the cooperative in my hospital. I had very good relations with the head physician, and we fairly quickly concluded an agreement on renting premises and equipment. The hospital was financed through non-cash transfers from the Railway Administration (at that time the Odessa-Chisinau one), and any issue had to be solved by the method of "knocking out" funds from the financial department located in Odessa. The hospital desperately needed cash, and cooperation with us was mutually beneficial. We had no experience working as private entrepreneurs, but we learned quickly in the process. The working scheme was as follows - until 16:00 we worked as hospital employees, and from 16:01 to 21:30 (often later), as cooperative employees. The team gathered was very good, everyone worked with heart, and I strictly monitored the quality of work. 

The volume of medical services grew quickly, the number of employees too, and soon, on some issues, especially in diagnostics and gynecological care, we began to compete with official specialized medical institutions. This caused irritation at the City Health Department and even reached the Ministry. "Thorough" inspections began based on "citizens' letters." Moreover, they never showed me these letters; it wasn't allowed. 
One day, I was summoned to the Administration to the chief medical officer of the railway. I had only seen him once, when he signed the order to hire me. Due to his love of strong drinks, he constantly had a reddish-blue nose and "bags" under his eyes, so among the staff he went by the nickname "Sinyak" ["Bruise" / "Drunkard"].

— I heard, — looking out the window, "Sinyak" said, — that you've unfolded commercial activities in our hospital, huh?
— Yes, — I answered cautiously, — we have a medical cooperative and a contract with the hospital. It's allowed by law, — and added, — everything is completely official.
— And is it allowed by law, — "Sinyak" turned around and pointed his finger at me, — that a little quack earns more than the head of the medical service of the railway in a general's position? Did you sign a contract with me?
— By law, it's enough to sign a contract with the head physician of the hospital, — I only had time to say, — and my salary....
— Do you know, — "Sinyak" interrupted me, — who Marinesko is?
— I know only one Marinesko, — I mumbled, — a hero of WWII, submarine commander, I read about that. Do you mean him?
— Uh-huh, — he nodded his head, — and for his active work (!?), Hitler considered him his personal enemy. So, — he hissed, — now, you are my personal enemy, and I will destroy you! I'll crush you like a flea, — he twisted his mouth, — together with your cooperative, understood? Dismissed! 

And he kept his word. During the 7 months of the cooperative's operation, based on his statements, the transport prosecutor's office opened 6 (six!) cases against me. They checked everything - the registration of patients, the use and cleaning of hospital premises, the legality of operating hospital equipment, the maintenance of documentation, medications, and, of course, financial flows.... I was interrogated right at my workplace in the department, in the head physician's office, forced to lead their commissions through the premises we "exploited for private reception," and once, they even "invited" the accountant, an elderly woman, and me to the prosecutor's office. Surely, the lack of the "desired result" infuriated "Sinyak," and I understood that he wouldn't stop until he "buried" me. Although, on the other hand, I asked myself: And who said it would be easy to engage in private enterprise in a developed socialist society? Especially if you are surrounded by "drunkards" in general's positions. 

But, despite the "attacks of the siloviki" [law enforcement], the cooperative lived and developed, which reflected on our incomes. Sometimes, it reached tragicomic situations. I come to work in the morning.
— Did you hear, — a colleague asks me anxiously, — that V.P. (our gynecologist) has been lying in intensive care since last night with a hypertensive crisis? Literally a pre-infarction state. 
I run to the intensive care unit. In a separate ward lies a pale V.P., connected to monitors and IV drips.
— Nothing surprising, — the resuscitator shakes his head, — she didn't leave the hospital for three days. Morning in the department, then until night in your cooperative, then the department again, a night shift, and so on for three days in a row. What heart could withstand that?
— he shook his head, — especially since she's no longer a young girl. Talk to her, — he told me and left.

— Are you out of your mind, — I leaned over the patient, — three days at work in such a rhythm, why?
— Leonych (that's me), — V.P. smiled weakly, — the patients were coming in "flocks" and, well, for money! Well, I couldn't stop, — she sighed, — couldn't! When I think about what kind of money that is, — she shook her head, — after all, I've never earned that much in my life. The "toad" strangled me [I got greedy], — she sighed and, smiling sadly, added, — turned out to be an "angina pectoris." [lit. chest toad]. 
Thank God, everything ended well. 

Yes, and the country, too, was restless. As they used to say here, "Perestroika" [Restructuring] - "Peredelka" [Remaking], "Perkovka" [Reforging] - "Perestrelka" [Shootout]. Life was being restructured, thinking was being remade. The "Prophet Micah" (Mikhail [Gorbachev]) wanted to Reforge "swords into plowshares," but due to "excesses on the ground," a Shootout began. In the Moldovan scenario - the "Popular Front." Everything "fermented," masses of people, with flags, took to the streets shouting "Jos" ("Out")! I don't think all the protesters understood whom they wanted to kick out, from where, and why. But wine fumes heated up their not very educated heads, and sometimes, they even shot, having "fun." 

To top it all off, the chairman of the village council where my "Hacienda" was located invited me over and sadly informed me that the "Popular Front" demanded all non-locals surrender their real estate and leave the village.
— You are the only one, — the chairman said sadly, — to whom I want to return the money for the house. But in our cash register there is only (he named a miserable amount).... and that, excuse me, is all. Take it, take it, tomorrow even this won't be there. 
I thanked him, took the money, and we sadly left the "Hacienda," into which so much labor, love, and money had been invested. (A couple of years ago, I visited that village and saw our "Hacienda." Nobody had ever lived in the house. The fence around the plot, along with the iron gates, had disappeared; an abandoned house stood with a slanted roof, devastation on the plot, as well as in the souls of the villagers. By the way, the cowshed in the village is long gone too!). 

A massive emigration began, and not just Jewish. Troubled times came and people "crawled" away to wherever they could. I went to Israel with my parents and thoughts of emigration appeared. Some circumstances pushed us to accelerate the resolution of this issue. At one time, I operated on a patient whose son was one of the deputies of the head of the railway, and since then, his son and I had been friends.
— "Sinyak" won't calm down until he puts you in jail, — my friend confidently told me, — and if until now your cooperative was dealt with by our local transport prosecutor's office, now, I know for sure, he wrote a complaint to the central apparatus and is waiting for investigators from Moscow. Ed!
— he said seriously, — I know you're planning to go abroad, so my advice: don't delay and scram as fast as possible. 
And so we did. 
(Three years ago, while in Chisinau, I stopped by my hospital. From those I had the chance to work with in those years, almost no one was left. Well, thirty years have passed. Moreover, I was amazed to learn that "Sinyak," at that time, was the head physician of the hospital. This, of course, was a demotion from his previous status, but still... I decided to see him and went to the reception room. I was met by the secretary who had worked there back in my time, today an elderly lady. After long and warm embraces, I outlined the purpose of my visit.
— Oh come on, — she waved her hand, — do you need this? Don't you know "Sinyak"? Yeah, drunk since morning, — she sighed, — he won't even remember you. Gets drunk and doesn't leave his office all day, a complete degenerate! In a word - a "Sinyak"! 
I left without seeing the "general," whose "personal enemy" I "had the honor" to be. It's a pity for the hospital! Worthy people used to work here, and now...). 

Okay, okay! I'm tired. I need to sleep, gather my thoughts. So many memories, events. What life activity there was, constant forward movement, faith in the future. Okay, I'm sleeping, ...sleeping,.... hello Morpheus, long time no see. But what is this, ugh..., damn it, what am I dreaming about? What is that smell? What is this "red mug" "sitting" on a fat neck that smoothly transitions into sloping shoulders with epaulets with stars on them? His little eyes are swollen with fat, he breathes heavily, with every exhale releasing thick miasmas of wine fumes mixed with garlic. Ah-ah-ah.., I remember - it's a major from the OVIR [Visa and Registration Department], a representative of the law! Here, here, he takes our passports in his hands and with large scissors, sticking out his tongue from diligence, cuts them, shreds them with undisguised pleasure, and mutters: "Scram, scram to your Palestines! The air will be cleaner here without you" (and this despite his own "exhaust!"). 
No, no! I don't want to crawl into this labyrinth, Morpheus, don't. I'd better wake up,... although, what is so scary here? A normal story, everything as always and there's nothing to be offended about. Some labyrinth! Did the Housing Office accept my apartment? (remember, I wrote about this) - Yes! So what if all our money "burned"? We were allowed, upon leaving, to buy a WHOLE $150 per person - allowed! Thank you to our dear Party! So what if they forced us to appraise all OUR jewelry (bought with OUR money) with OUR money, and then (since this is national property), hung an appraisal tag on every piece? They worked, appraised! They "kicked out" (as my landlady Maria Zakharovna used to say), "Naked and barefoot" "enemies of the people" abroad - but they didn't kill us, they let us out! What is there to complain about? We should say thank you! THANK-YOU!!!! 

Only one thing interests me - without three doctors, a nurse, two engineers, five children who later became economists, teachers, medical workers, and speaking five languages each - did the "air get cleaner" in our Motherland? Huh, major?