Everyone had to endure the isolation chamber, for periods ranging from ten days to two weeks. (The fact that you didn’t know how long it would be—that was part of the experiment.) I alone had to endure it on my birthday. They were eager to get in one more test before the holidays, before Grandpa Frost and New Year’s. They had every piece of information imaginable on everyone; they could have picked Leonov (or anyone, really), but they picked me. And I was stuck in there, unable to so much as send a letter to my wife to let her know. That was the first humiliation.

  •••

  I did not think I would be picked for East-1. I was at least spared that illusion. There were six in the running, and then it was just Gagarin and Titov and Nelyubov, and then it was just Gagarin and Titov. And we all know how that went.

  I will admit, they made a good decision—Korolev and Kamanin, and the rest of the State Commission. They made the right decision. Even I will admit to that.

  •••

  East-5 found me riding the bus to the launch pad. I was backing up Valery Bykovsky, but I knew there was still a chance I’d fly. As it turned out, it would be a large chance indeed.

  But I did not know that yet.

  We were on the same blue-and-white bus Gagarin had ridden, and we were suited up in orange SK-1 flight suits, just like he had worn on his hundred-and-six-minute ride to immortality. June sun on the endless steppe, that lifeless arid place where even if, God forbid, we had an unlucky Seven—one that turned earthward and plowed into the ground at full speed, a kerosene-and-oxygen conflagration turning all that finely machined aluminum into blackened twisted strips—chances are nobody would be hurt, and the endless flat earth would not only absorb the blow, but forget about it within the month.

  We were silent on the bus, that rumbling ride down the dusty steppe road, not all that different from the ones I’d landed on in my MiG. We were silent, and I remember glancing up at Bykovsky, watching him watch the emptiness roll by. It was not hard to read his thoughts; he was thinking about the future. Whereas I was mired in the past. The State Commission’s final decision, three days before: such a bitter blow! Everyone knew the program was coming to an end. How long would it be now?

  At last the bus lurched to a halt. He got up, beaming a self-satisfied smile; we were twins no more. All of the people and all of the activity: it was about to follow him off the bus. Except for me: I was to stay and wait. A bitter role: a supporting player in the movie of his life. Trained every bit as well as he was, but apparently destined for a less dramatic ride: an anticlimactic reversal of the bus trip, rather than a fiery and glorious ascent.

  I wished him good luck, of course. He paused and reached back, almost as an afterthought, and our gloved hands gripped in supposed solidarity, like athletes on rival teams after a bitter game. I said, “Good luck, Valery,” and his eyes darted away; he barely gave a reply. Did he know it was a lie?

  There was a ritual, supposedly started by Yuri, to urinate on the tire of the transfer bus before ascending the rocket to the stars. Despite the angle of the windows I could see Bykovsky was carrying on the ritual, the clot of people around him giggling and looking elsewhere as he stood fixed in place, giving that contented look. I wondered absently how Tereshkova was going to pull it off in two days.

  Then everyone—engineers, technicians, doctors, even the film cameraman—moved around him as he made his way to the launch pad stairs, as he ascended to the launch pad elevator and then turned and waved before getting on. It was his big day.

  I had to wait. Alone with the endless emptiness.

  It was cold, surprisingly cold. The bus had a fancy air conditioning system and they’d left it on, full blast. And my suit had a tank of compressed air to keep me ventilated, to keep me at the right temperature, but after a half hour, it ran out. And no one was paying attention to me. I thought about studying the checklists, perusing the flight plan for the mission I was now not taking. But what was the point? It was like sitting in the examination room at the doctor’s. Just sitting there. Waiting. Real life happening outside—everyone taking action and making decisions. But inside the room? Nothing to do but wait.

  I could at least see outside the bus; I could see the comings and goings at the base of the launch pad. But that made it worse. The sound on the movie had gone out. And my role was over, and everyone seemed quite content with that. I couldn’t nap; I hadn’t slept well but I was not quite tired. So I watched that boring movie for two full hours, and I was just about to draw the bus window curtains and bring the show to a close.

  But then: an unexpected plot twist.

  A figure, a doctor, climbed down the green metal stairs at the base of the launch pad and walked straight towards the bus. He climbed on, and I lifted my head to listen.

  “Get yourself ready. We’re going to have to swap him out. Bykovsky will not fly. You will fly.”

  Electrifying news! My pulse quickened; the day, bright and boring just a minute before, now swelled in significance. I did need to study the flight plan again; I did need to review the checklists. June 14th, 1963: a monumental day after all. Everything now suddenly seemed fascinating—the high summer sun casting small shadows on the short brownish grass and the cracked concrete and glinting off the railway tracks down which had rolled the mighty rocket. Today is the day, and this is the place.

  Another man, an engineer, came down and explained the issue: a faulty gyroscope on the uppermost stage. There had been talk of taking the whole rocket down and draining the propellants; that seemed the safer bet after what had happened to Nedelin. But Sergei Pavlovich had apparently insisted: do the work in place. We’re not dealing with hypergolics; we’re not dealing with the devil’s venom. This is kerosene and liquid oxygen. Safe as baby’s milk.

  So they were doing the work in place, fuel tanks full, and meanwhile another tank was filling, the urine bag in Bykovsky’s suit, swelling and filling despite the ritual emptying of the bladder, and it would be unhygienic to launch him with a full urine bag; the tubing, the connection with the collection condom, was sure to come undone, especially once the g-forces started building during the rattling ascent. So they were going to launch me. They were going to have to launch me.

  “How is your bag?” the engineer asked.

  “Fine, not bad at all. I didn’t have much tea this morning. I had a feeling all of this would take a while.”

  “Good. That is good. We’re going to swap you out soon.”

  He returned to the pad. I watched his back as he ascended the long green staircase to the launch elevator, the same trip I’d be making soon, God willing. At last I undid the zipper in my SK-1; my own bag was, in truth, fuller than I would have admitted.

  I thought back to Bykovsky and the bus urination tradition. It seemed appropriate to carry on that ritual, to mark my territory, as it were. I carefully unzipped my flight suit and undid my connections, my tubing; I got off the bus, nonchalantly carrying my golden payload. Then I knelt by the front tire and emptied my external bladder, exactly where the hapless Bykovsky had done so just a few short hours before. And I stood and gave a little squirt from the internal one, just to be safe.

  Duplicitous? Presumptuous? Bykovsky would have done the same. Everyone would have done the same.

  And yet…

  “What is he doing, that little Jew?” With my back to the base of the pad I hadn’t seen Sergei Pavlovich, who had apparently just come down the elevator the engineer was waiting to re-ascend. He said it not to me, but to Kamanin, who was at his elbow; he said it just loudly enough that I could hear it over the various pumps and generators. I know that’s what he said.

  Quickly I stuffed the empty urine bag back in my suit: no time to reconnect the tubing. And no time to shake the last drops from my member. I zipped up and turned, studiously attempting to appear casual.

  They walked up to me. “What’s going on?” Kamanin asked.

  From somewhere—the unsecured bag in my flight suit, or my unshaken penis—I could feel a few wayward drops of urine seeping into my long underwear. “Just stretching my legs, sir.”

  Skeptical looks from both men. Eyes darting down to the fresh wet stain on the bus tire. “Stretching your legs,” Sergei Pavlovich said. Stern face, distorted jaw—broken in the 30s on his trip to the camps. No kindness in those eyes today.

  “I was told I needed to be ready to go.” Modified honesty: perhaps the wisest policy.

  “We’ll see. Get back on the bus.”

  I did as I was told. What choice did I have?

  The wait dragged on. Now every thought was darkened, filtered by too many layers of emotions: the thrill of having been selected to train for the mission, the crushing decision from the State Commission, the sunburst of hope that I would in fact fly after all, the dark realization that perhaps I’d messed that up, too. I drew the curtains, closed myself off from the scene.

  It was to be a joint flight; they were going to launch East-6 in a couple days with Tereshkova on board, and that would be the end of the program. Every flight a record, even East-5. Rockets mass-produced like sausages, triumphs rolling off the assembly line one after another, Taylorism plus Leninism equaling a glorious series of firsts. And I was part of that, right? All the training—violent spins in the centrifuge, forced isolation in the chamber, practice parachute jumps in the SK-1, hours on my back responding to lights and throwing switches—it seemed certain it would lead to something! But surely Bykovsky was thinking the same thing.

  Even as the bus started filling back up, I held on to a sliver of hope. Surely they would not tell a man he was flying and then not launch him?

  The lurch of the bus as it pulled away from the launch pad felt like a knife to the heart.

  The curtains were still closed. I was looking at nothing. Angry and oblivious. Nothing was as real as my thoughts.

  The bus ride was shorter than expected, far shorter than the trip out: just a few minutes. And I realized with horror that we had pulled up to the viewing stand. I would have to watch my humiliation with a smile.

  The others filed off, but one of Kamanin’s minions suggested I stay on board. The benches of the reviewing stand were weather-worn wood, rough and splintered from the harsh steppe weather; there was no point risking a puncture in my flight suit. Best to protect it, he said.

  My thoughts were at war. Protect it…for what? And yet: perhaps it was best to be left alone at a time like this. “Very well.”

  “Let me open these curtains for you, at least.”

  “Thank you.”

  It was a clear view across two kilometers of empty steppe to the solitary rocket. I would be able to see everything. No thank you.

  I waited until Kamanin’s toady got off the bus before closing the curtains again. I did not wish for disaster—I am better than that, at least—but I did not wish for anything. I was twenty-eight years old; all the things I was waiting for—surprised looks of recognition from strangers on the street, trips to the special stores with my wife, knowledge that my name was on the glorious lists—would have to wait. Anonymity—for how much longer? Had I known how many years and humiliations were to follow, would I have left the program?

  The rumbling of the rocket jarred loose so many emotions. My insides collapsing, a shell remaining. I did not look through the curtains. Not even a peek.

  Bykovsky, of course, flew safely. Everyone knew he would fly safely, most of all me. His bright accomplishment was eclipsed in the mind of popular memory by Tereshkova, the first woman in space. And he was nice and gracious about it afterwards, which of course made it all the worse. But he still holds the record for the longest solo flight: five days. A record that will never be broken: no one flies solo any more. A record that would have been mine, but for a decision I was not privy to, made in a small room next to a capsule atop a launch pad.

  This was the story I told myself for years, a story magnified by subsequent humiliations.

  And yet its meaning has been reversed by the accident. Everything now means something new, since the accident.

  •••

  The next launch was not until Sunrise-1, a year and a half later. Did I really think I was going to fly on it?

  It is difficult now to reconstruct my thoughts, sandwiched as they are between my initial bitter humiliations and my subsequent bitter triumphs. But I think I thought it was a logical certainty—when you were a backup, you were a prime next time; that’s always how it worked—while trying to ignore the nagging irrational voices telling me it would never happen that way for me.

  I do remember taking Tamara and Andrei on a train trip to central Moscow in early June of 1964, after I’d been picked, but before I was supposed to tell anyone. The training schedule would be picking back up soon; I wanted them to at least have some pleasant memories in case anything happened on the mission; I wanted them to know I’d chosen to spend time with them. (There are others whose passing would doubtless summon tales of drunken debauchery! I always imagine girlfriends and conquests whose identities and existence have been protected like state secrets coming out afterwards to tell their sordid tales—or, God forbid, showing up at funerals. Then again, it hadn’t happened with Yuri.)

  The train alone seemed enough for my son: to wait on the platform, fidgeting with anticipation, while my wife and I periodically reminded him to stay away from the edge; then to watch the electric beast pull up and open its doors; then to climb onboard and watch the scenery roll by. “Turn around! Sit on the seat!” I kept telling him, but his eager eyes and youthful curiosity kept pulling him up and around so he was kneeling on the seat and facing the windows, until finally Tamara said, “Relax!”

  “He can’t,” I told her, exasperated. “He doesn’t know how to behave.”

  “I’m talking to you! This is as exciting for him as going up there would be for you.”

  Going up there. She said it aloud, on a train. I scanned the other passengers: a handful of housewives and a vodka-soaked veteran. None of them seemed to notice.

  “Let him enjoy it,” she went on. “Let’s let someone in the family have a fun trip.”

  I thought about telling her then, telling her I’d been picked: the flight that would end all fights. She was, after all, well on her way to a doctorate in metallurgy; in those years it was still an open question as to who was the more accomplished spouse. But after East-5 I was taking nothing for granted. So I stewed in silence for a few minutes before allowing myself to enjoy Andrei enjoying the ride: watching trees and apartment buildings with wide eyes, all of it fascinating and new. (Truly for a six-year-old, a suburban train ride is as exciting as a trip to space! And perhaps more so, for you at least know that the people in charge of the selection process put you there because they love you.)

  By the time we transferred to the Metro, we were holding hands and enjoying each other’s company. When we got off the subway I held Andrei’s a little tighter, eager to keep him from being swept away in the jostling currents of commuters, but I also tried to let him admire the arcing concrete vault ceilings of the station as we made our way up to the wide busy streets. And soon we were strolling down the Alexander Gardens, basking in the summer sun as Andrei marveled at the massive Kremlin wall.

  “If you’re good, maybe I can ask and they’ll let us inside,” I told him, and he looked up at me with all the love a son has to give.

  Meanwhile my wife conversed with me in the secret silent language of parents. They let everyone inside, her narrowing eyes seemed to say, to which my smiling ones told her: He doesn’t need to know that!

  At the Kutafya Tower I whispered in the ear of one of the guards; he nodded and gave Andrei a stern look: “Are you going to be a good boy if I let you in?”

  Andrei drew himself up straight. “Yes, sir!”

  “He was misbehaving on the train a little,” I pointed out, and Tamara elbowed me in the ribs.

  Even the guard gave me a look. “A train ride is very exciting for a young boy. But we do have to behave, especially in here.” He bent down to look directly in Andrei’s eyes. “There is a very big bell in there, and another little boy broke it. Just last week. And he got in a lot of trouble. You don’t want to get in trouble in here. Trust me.”

  Andrei’s eyes widened in fear; the guard stood and gave us a nod in the secret silent language of an accomplished parental accomplice, sending us on our way.

  We strolled along the bridge that leads up to Troitskaya Tower; despite the guard’s admonishment, Andrei didn’t make it halfway up the ramp before bolting over to the side to peer through the red brick crenellations at the gardens below; I tensed, getting ready to bark an order lest he fall to his death, but Tamara belayed it with a silent hand on my arm, and a nod of the head. “Look at the tower, Andrei! Isn’t that magnificent?”

  Her subtle approach worked; Andrei’s attention shifted from the deadly drop to the looming brick tower. But now he ran ahead, towards the tunnel and the Kremlin grounds, and inside he headed left towards the Arsenal, which I knew was off-limits.

  “OK, now you have to get him,” I said, and she glared: the secret silent language of parents who are not going to be sleeping together for quite some time. But she trotted ahead, and I followed, and as we got close I heard her say, “Look at that big new building,” in an attempt to turn him towards the Palace of Congresses. But the sterile concrete and glass held no allure, and he kept walking towards the restricted area.

  “Andrei, we’re inside the fortress now,” I said. “I heard there is a very big cannon up ahead, around the corner! Let’s go look at it!”

  “Borrowing my tactics,” Tamara said.

  “What do boys like? Boys like forts and cannons. You study so much, you should know these things.”

  “Such a great trip this is turning out to be.”

 

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