The Secret Holocaust Diaries

by Nonna Bannister

  I didn’t like my math teacher, so when he wrote a problem on the blackboard, I knew that I had to do it to him! When he asked for a volunteer to come up and solve the problem, I raised my hand up high (no one else wanted to go to the blackboard). He called my name and I marched up to the blackboard, picked up the chalk, and started to write whatever came to my mind—however stupid it was. When I got to the bottom of the blackboard, I made a “finished” sign. I really enjoyed watching the expression on Dr. Shutzburg’s face as it became red with anger. He told me to go back to my desk and work the same problem exactly as I had done it on the blackboard, and I did what he asked me to do. He asked for my paper, and he wrote a big F on it with red pen. He added the question, “Why?” He then put his initials under the question and told me to bring the paper back to school the next day with Papa’s signature on it.

  When I got home that afternoon, Papa was in his study, and I took the paper to him and waited for what was yet to come. To my amazement, Papa started to laugh (knowing that I liked algebra and always made excellent grades). I guess he thought it was funny. But then, with a very serious look on his face, he told me that what I had done was very wrong and that my punishment would be to sit at his desk (for as long as it took) and work this same problem over again until I finished it. It took me about two hours to get finished (it was about two pages of work), and Papa looked it over and signed it and told me to take it back to school the next day. However, he told me that Dr. Shutzburg may not be as tolerant as he was. He told me to apologize and ask the teacher to give me another chance—to give me another problem equally difficult to work on.

  I stood in the hallway waiting for Dr. Shutzburg; then I gave him the paper and apologized like Papa had said for me to do. I was really surprised when he said OK, and the first thing he did when he went into the classroom was to write another problem on the blackboard and call my name.

  Everyone in the class had a great time watching me march to the blackboard again, and I am sure they expected to have another laugh. This time I worked very fast and wrote all the answers, step by step. I did not turn around when I had finished. Dr. Shutzburg looked it over, faced the class, and spoke in a soft voice, saying, “Now, I hope that all of you learned something from this experience and that no one will try anything funny again. And now, Miss Lisowskaja will get her grade changed from an F to an A+.” From that day forward I liked him, and algebra continued to be one of my favorite subjects.

  Another lesson that stands out in my memories happened when I was six years old and in the first grade. The thing I remember most was that Papa was insistent about teaching me different languages while I was very young. By the time I started school (at age five), I spoke at least three other languages really well (Polish, Yiddish, and German). Of these three languages, German and Yiddish were the easiest for me to learn, with Yiddish being the easiest—however, German and Yiddish are both similar. When I was six years old, I was very proud that I could speak different languages. One day, I got angry with one of my classmates, and I called her some names—it was very harmless—but I used the Yiddish language to call her the names. The teachers sent for Papa, and he had to come down to the principal’s office and do some fast explaining on my behavior in school and why I was speaking Yiddish. Papa had to tell her that he had taught me several languages. He was very upset with me, and told me never to do such a thing again.

  * * *

  YIDDISH • Nonna’s teachers called Papa to the principal’s office because Yiddish was the language of the Jewish people. Papa had taught her Yiddish but had warned her to speak Yiddish only at home, not in public—since speaking the language of the Jews could arouse suspicions of having Jewish sympathies, if not heritage.

  * * *

  From then on, my every move in school was watched by the teachers. They also watched my brother, Anatoly, as well as my entire family. The teachers would question Anatoly and me and ask if we were Jewish, and from then on, I was careful to not use my language ability in school. With the rumors of war and all the suspicions from everyone, I was losing my excitement for school and was not as happy as I had been when I started school.

  19: Changing Times

  1934–35

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  Editors’ Note: Most farms in the Soviet Union had become the government’s “collective farms.” Communists had taken over private land and livestock. During these years, Nonna’s family—especially Feodosija—lost most of their wealth and property, including animals. Nonna noticed these drastic changes when she visited the Great House again.

  The laws the Communist government had enforced so strictly in other villages finally became enforced in Konstantinowka, too. They greatly affected Grandmother, Petrovich, and the Great House with its mill, land, and orchards.

  * * *

  The next visit to my grandmother’s house was in 1934–35. Things had changed quite drastically by then, and even though the Depression was easing up, the Soviet regime had taken over and a new style of life was being enforced on almost everyone. Grandmother no longer owned her horses—they had been “donated” to the collective farms, which had been organized everywhere in the villages. The orchard was still Grandmother’s, along with the empty stable, but the property was heavily taxed, and almost everything owned by Grandmother had to be given away to the “new government.” The house was still Grandmother’s, but she was no longer considered to be a private owner, and she had to pay heavy taxes on it.

  Grandmother continued to live there with some of her children, and she kept Petrovich there, too, still living in his cottage. However, he was no longer her “hired hand,” since it had become unlawful to have employees. In order for him to remain, Grandmother had to make him her relative, so she called him her cousin. He continued to help Grandmother as he had done before, taking care of the orchard and whatever else that she was able to keep. Grandmother started to raise some hogs, and she had plenty of chickens, geese, and ducks, along with some goats that she kept for milk for her and her family. She gave up the mill and all the fields around it, except the land surrounding the house itself. The carriage and the sleigh remained in the stable and became precious symbols for our memories. People were told how many “living things” (goats, hogs, chickens, etc.) they could own. The rest of it had to be given away to the collective farms. The government called it “donating”—all to the cause of the new way of life for those who were “less fortunate.” When the hogs were slaughtered, one could keep the meat (bacon, ham, etc.), but the skins and the intestines had to be turned over to the government. The skin was used to make leather shoes, and the intestines were used to make sausages.

  The mill, along with all the property around it in the village, which had belonged to my family for so many years and which my grandfather had been so proud of, became the property of the collective farms. Grandmother denounced ownership of all of it as soon as the “new government” took over the village. The church was always there, but the doors were locked and boarded up and the worshipers stayed away. The priest had mysteriously disappeared, as well as other religious leaders—no one dared to talk about it, anyway. Grandmother put away all the icons in the attic, along with her other precious possessions. She buried some of her things in the ground in the cellar after they were packed in heavy metal trunks. None knew when a group of the new “militia” would appear and search the house, taking away whatever they wanted. The Bibles and the icons were burned right on the grounds where they were confiscated, and religion became a forbidden thing—all those who rebelled and dared to continue to practice it were arrested and sent away to Siberia.

  The Great House was divided up into sections with private entrances, and some of Grandmother’s children and their families were living in them. Many of Grandmother’s family had began to come back home. To those of us who had lived under different circumstances, this new government was becoming intolerable, but there was nothing that we could do to fight it.

  Mama and Papa w
ere talking about moving back. In 1937, we left the city of Rostov-on-Don and moved into that house also. The village of Santurinowka was annexed to the town of Konstantinowka and became known as such. Soon after, the streets were named, and many new buildings and stores (mostly food stores) were built around our home. The streetcar tracks were extended, and the streetcars began to travel all the way past our street—about three miles past our street, they would turn around and go back to the original town of Konstantinowka.

  We still had many neighbors who remembered Grandmother as she was before it all changed, and they treated her and her family with great respect, as they had done before. It was very difficult for Grandmother to accept this new lifestyle, but she was forced to, in order to blend in with the rest of the people and survive. Although she had to make many changes, she remained just as proud and as courageous as she had always been. Her beautiful clothes and jewels were packed away—some of the gold and silver and precious stones were packed in the trunks that had been buried along with Grandfather’s portrait, uniforms, watches, and other expensive memorabilia. Grandmother could still give her loving commands to her children and grandchildren, and to all of us, she was still “Babushka,” whom we all loved so very much!

  * * *

  “HER LOVING COMMANDS” • Nonna described her grandmother as kind and loving but also as “strict” and “command giving.” Feodosija had probably learned to be firm and strict, as well as courageous and enduring. As a young woman, she lost her husband through violent death and became a single parent to six children during the collapse of the Romanov dynasty and the Bolshevik Civil War. Feodosija proved herself a survivor, a strong Russian woman.

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  20: Wine-Tasting Time

  Even in these troubled times, there are many happy and sweet memories that stay with me, such as the story told in this chapter.

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  Editors’ Note: Nonna included happy memories along with the more sober stories in her transcripts. She remembered the wine-making days as good ones spent with her family, and she wrote about them in detail.

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  One of my grandmother’s specialties was making homemade cherry wine. The wine tasting took place in the orchard where there was a table set up, and the judges usually were her older children: Uncle Ivan; Aunt Xenja and her husband, Volodya (Vladimir); Mama; and Aunt Tonja (Antonja).

  Grandmother was very proud of her wine making. Every spring the orchard would break out in the most beautiful blossoms, meaning it was time for this special occasion to take place. She would open the wine bottles that had been stored in the cellar from the wine-making season (in the late summer) of the previous year. She had all the equipment for wine making, which consisted of special brass pots, tubing, etc. During this time, Grandmother was very busy for at least eight to ten days. She had a short window of time to get the wine made when the fruit was ripened to its peak. The children were assigned the job of picking the cherries off the trees and bringing them to Grandmother. Then she would take over.

  Needless to say, we children were looking forward to the task, since we could climb the larger trees, and the temptation to fill our bellies with ripe cherries was too strong to resist. For the next few days of work, we all had upset stomachs, and Grandmother would line us up and give us castor oil. You could not find a place to hide to escape from Grandmother’s treatment.

  She had two kinds of cherry trees. The larger cherries were used by her to make cherry preserves, and the small cherries (dark red ones) were used to make the wine. We all enjoyed the preserve making because Grandmother would let us taste some of the top of the boiling mixture called shum (foam) as it came to the surface. It tasted heavenly. We children would line up for the treat, and she would fill our cups.

  The empty wine bottles, which had been used the previous summer, were filled with wine, and the bottles were closed with corks that had narrow tubes inserted into them. This was done (as Grandmother explained) to allow gases to escape. You could see the bubbles coming up to the top and out of the bottles, allowing the wine to ferment without exploding the bottles. Occasionally, a tube would become plugged, and the bottles would explode like little bombs. To prevent any damages or injuries, Grandmother would have Petrovich, her helper, bury them in the sand in the cellar.

  Somehow, she would end up with enough wine to last to the next wine-making season (sometimes longer). Grandmother would serve her wine with every large meal, but she didn’t let anyone drink her wine “just anytime.” It was also served on special occasions such as birthdays and holidays.

  There were some funny times when Grandmother would throw the remnants of the cherries used in the wine making to her flock of geese. She raised the geese to be used for the Christmas holidays and other times when meat was needed. We never baked turkeys—just chicken and fat geese. Beef was used sparingly in those times—the cattle were usually given to the government’s collective farms and slaughtered for the government’s meat markets. However, the people were allowed to raise hogs and poultry.

  Let’s get back to the funny times—feeding the geese the cherries. One morning, we heard Grandmother let out an alarming, desperate yell. She had gone in back of the stable, and she saw a whole bunch of geese rolling around on the ground and acting sick. She was desperate and called a veterinarian to check on her geese. The veterinarian told Grandmother that the birds had gotten drunk from eating the wine cherries. We all got a big laugh out of that, and we picked on Grandmother for a long time. It was quite a funny story.

  Grandmother’s orchard was very large, and she had many other fruit trees there: apples, peaches, pears, and plums (she made some plum wine also). But mostly cherries were used for preserves and wine making. These were just some of the happy memories from my early childhood, and these memories will be cherished forever.

  After World War II started, Grandmother had to give up her wine making due to the shortage of sugar, which was needed for making wine. Everything was disappearing fast. But the trees kept blooming every spring, and there were always plenty of cherries and other fruit. Every spring, the whole area around the orchard would be filled with the heavenly smell of the blossoms. Grandmother would let everyone in the neighborhood help themselves to the fruit, since selling it was not possible—money had no value due to the war. However, sometimes Grandmother and other people would trade one thing for another (whatever they had). Everyone was helping each other to survive in any way possible.

  21: Times of Uncertainty

  1937

  When we moved back to live in Grandmother’s Great House, along with other members of the Ljaschov family, we had everyone together again. Each family had their own living quarters in the huge thirty-seven-room house, and yet we were close to the ones that we loved. In spite of the uncertain times, there were also times that we could act as a family unit, and certainly Grandmother was the leader in pulling this all together.

  Papa and Mama opened a portrait and photography studio in Konstantinowka, and Mama busily engaged herself in working in the Little Theater at the Civic Club, which was next door to the studio. She also organized a music club for young girls at the Civic Club, and spent a lot of time doing these things. Papa was also still trying to find a way out of Russia for his family, and as the certainty of war escalated, he redoubled his efforts. Papa continued to communicate with his Romanian college friend who was trying to help Papa get out of Russia—to anyplace in the West. Papa made a trip to Yalta in the Crimea (a resort area) on the Black Sea to meet with his friend. This time he was willing to go to Romania as the first step to freedom. Papa spent several days in Yalta and made some plans that his friend was to work out as quickly as possible.

  * * *

  “LOVE MY BROTHER” • Nonna and her brother were close. In the winter of 1935, eight-year-old Nonna writes of her love for him: “Love my brother, Anatoly. (I am 8 years and 3 months old—Anatoly is 10 years old.) He reads so well and makes funny faces—he makes me laugh a
lot. He teaches me to ice-skate and ski—we spend a lot of time on the frozen pond. We play chess (and I beat him twice today).”

  * * *

  There were more pressing problems that Papa was faced with involving my brother, Anatoly. In those times, when young men reached Anatoly’s age, the Soviets would place them into a communist youth group, a Komsomol, and later draft them into the army. Papa was strongly opposed to having Anatoly join the Komsomol and becoming a communist. However, the only way young men could attend the university was if they were members of the Komsomol, and this presented yet another problem for Anatoly. Plans were considered to send Anatoly away to live with some distant relatives in Riga, Latvia. However, Papa took Anatoly to St. Petersburg and enrolled him in the university, where he was to live with some relatives. I am sure that Papa utilized his connections with influential people to get Anatoly enrolled in the university.

  This was a time of sadness for me since I didn’t understand what was going on, but I could see the looks of concern in Papa’s eyes, and I knew that we were in trouble. During these times, Mama and Papa were having emotional outbursts between them, since Mama was against sending Anatoly away. But she was trying to reassure me that everything was all right and that this was the right thing to do. For the first time in my life, I resented Papa’s ideas, but there was nothing I could do about it.