The man in fatigues in the photos taken in the school yard is our math teacher, Boris Dmitrievich Dimidov. We loved him. He was a war veteran. He felt free, in occasional angry fits, to give us a good whack, or grab us by the collar and throw us into a door, which meant we would end up opening it with our heads, or whatever happened to land there first. I was the perfect size for this exercise because of my modest dimensions, and once in sixth grade was taught by this method. What I did to deserve this eludes me now, but the punishment sticks in my memory on the whole as just.
7th grade punishment was both more civilized and more offensive. Boris Dmitrievich would stride into the classroom and say in a dull and even tone of voice: “Zimin – out the door; Starikov – in the corner. Good morning, take your seats.” And so it went for several days in a row. Now punishment came not so much in fits of fury, but instead seemed well planned in advance. And perhaps that is why it stung more than an off-hand blow to the ear. To my pitiful babble – “But Boris Dmitirevich, no need to throw me out for the third day in a row, I’ve turned a new leaf ,” there would be the retort: “Not for the third, but for the second time.” “It is the third time,” I objected, “Yesterday I skipped your lesson.” “That doesn’t count.” (By the way, I had totally forgotten these episodes from school life. I was reminded of them almost thirty years later by a friend – and straight – A student – whom you can see next to Boris Dmitirevich in the school yard pictures. He remembers them, even though he was never on the receiving end of any punishment himself. That’s the memory of a straight-A student for you!)
In our class, it was common knowledge that Starikov came from the meanest courtyard in the neighborhood, which was right next to our school. I think this same courtyard is described by Rybakov in his “Children of the Arbat.” Starikov would come with tales of rowdy adventures. He was the one who gave us a colorful and moving account inspired by a sexual act. He was honest enough to admit that these antics weren’t his own, but those of his courtyard buddies.
Occasionally, Starikov would profit from cutting off the “avoska” bags that were hanging outside almost every window – there were no refrigerators back then. He’d snatch the bags from fire escapes and ledges, performing miracles of bravery and bring some of the loot to class.
Once or twice he’d treat us to scoops of “commercial ice cream” that he had deftly stolen from cardboard boxes next to the commercial store on Smolenskaya square, now home to the Seventh Continent supermarket. Commercial stores began to open soon after the war, but before rationing was abolished. They would sell food without food stamps, but at exorbitant (for us) prices.
By “we” here I mean a small group that usually walked home from school together, down Sivtsev Vrazhek in the direction of Gogolevsky Boulevard. Here we are on Gogolevsky Boulevard. Back then a tram was still running, the notorious “Annushka”.