The Orphan Sky by Ella Leya Read Free Book Online Page B

Azerbaijan. Another man emerged from the right. Short but sturdy, with a pale face, thin blond hair, and a military bearing, he gripped the wooden pole of a notably larger flag of the Soviet Union, the Red Banner.
    Meeting in the middle of the stage, they descended the stairs together and marched through the auditorium accompanied by the beat of the drums. Circling the rear, they returned to the stage, placed both flags next to the bronze bust of the leader of our country, Comrade Brezhnev, and gave him a military salute. The crowd rose and, on Comrade Farhad’s signal, began singing the State Anthem of the Azerbaijan SSR.
    â€œAzerbaijan, the splendorous f lower of the Republic…
    The astute leadership of the Party of Lenin set us on course…”
    The young woman next to me reached into her sack, dug up a handkerchief, and wiped away the tears sliding down her cheeks.
    â€œAttention!” Comrade Farhad knocked on the microphone, ordering silence. Leaning with both hands against the red of the podium, he announced, “Comrades, the thirty-seventh Assembly of the 26 Baku Commissars District Committee of Komsomol is officially opened. Long live Soviet Komsomol!”
    Springing to our feet, we applauded enthusiastically until Comrade Farhad gestured for us to stop. The ovation gradually subsided, and we settled in our seats.
    â€œLong live the next generation of the Communist Party!” Comrade Farhad shouted.
    In a flash we were back on our feet with another round of applause. This time the front row seemed to be leading the chaotic ovation into a steady beat. After a while, Comrade Farhad knocked on the microphone. We returned to our seats.
    â€œLong live the Communist Party of the Soviet Union!”
    Another standing ovation. Another signal to stop. Down…up…down.
    â€œLong live the Soviet people, the builders of Communism!”
    That ovation was the loudest by far. I thought the ceiling was going to come down. Finally, Comrade Farhad raised his right hand and ordered the people to take their seats. This time for good.
    â€œComrades,” he said, “today, as never before, we stand united against the vicious incursions of American imperialism. I have received an urgent memo from Moscow about the American military machine waving its muscle at our ally, the free people of Afghanistan. The people who have deposed their dictator and decided to choose the only right path of life”—Comrade Farhad struck his fist against the podium—“the path of Communism.”
    The room broke into a hurricane again. The peasant woman next to me shouted her support in the highest trumpet decibels.
    â€œI’ll tell you this.” Comrade Farhad’s powerful voice cut through the noise. “We will say to corrupt America—NO! We’ll say to gluttonous America—NO!”
    The crowd joined him: “We’ll say NO! We’ll say NO!”
    â€œLet the enemy beware,” Comrade Farhad continued, “that we, the Komsomol of Soviet Azerbaijan, the fearless future generation of the Communist Party, stand shoulder to shoulder with the freedom-choosing people of Afghanistan. And we are ready to spill our blood under our red banners!”
    Tall and commanding, his eyes shining with determination, successfully restraining his stutter by carefully articulating every word, Comrade Farhad was a drummer of the Communist faith. He delivered his message clearly, logically, and directly, his charisma and fervor echoing in the hearts of his audience. Leaders like Comrade Farhad stood on the front lines of our lives, capable—I believed—of changing history.
    But something didn’t feel right. Was it the pounding of his fist against the podium that kept distracting me? It seemed disconnected from his body or his words and reminded me of the orchestra at the Baku opera house accompanying the “Sabre Dance” by Aram Khachaturian. A poorly rehearsed