She told Mikhail of the plot and she tried to keep him at her home on the scheduled night but she could not tell her parents why, so Mikhail had to leave and go home. Mikhail heard the young gang on the quiet forest road, possibly due to deliberate noise by Zeena’s brother. He slipped through a grove of birch trees and went into a small horse barn. The band searched for him and eventually came to the barn. A number of them carried large, heavy sticks.
My father was more angry than scared. He listened to the song of a nightingale and thought, “This may be the last time that I will ever hear a nightingale sing.” Citizens were very patriotic at that time in Russia and Mikhail was quite willing to die fighting Japanese in Mongolia. However, it was something else to die for no reason in his own backyard! His senses became very keen and he could even hear grass moving when someone walked through it. He heard low voices near the barn and someone said, “I am not going in that barn. I want nothing to do with killing him.”
The leader responded, “Don’t worry, there are so many of us, the militia will never figure out who did this. I will not let this guy mess around with my girl!” Their arguments continued and Mikhail realized that some of the boys were aggressive and some wanted to quit.
My father made a rapid decision. “Hey, boys! Here I am! I have a gun! The first one into the barn will die.” It became very silent. Then Mikhail heard the boys throwing away their sticks and leaving.
He waited for several hours and an old man appeared to feed the horses as dawn was breaking, about 2:30 a.m. (dawn comes early in springtime at 55 degrees North Latitude). “Hey, boy, are you still alive? Are you in here?”
Mikhail awoke and answered, “I’m here!”
After a pause, the brave old man said, “I heard you were dead. Wait until I harness up and I will take you home. Best you not go out alone.”
Mikhail heard the same story of his death upon arriving home. His mother Varvara was in tears. His father Ivan and the rest of the family wanted him to leave immediately for Moscow or the Far East. His father had killed a bull and had been preparing the meat for the wedding, scheduled a few days later, on Sunday.
Mikhail was not afraid of Zeena’s suitor and he wanted him and everyone else to know that. He was a combat experienced army officer and he surely was not frightened of any civilian. Mikhail was also aware that he and Zeena had no chemistry between them and if that guy felt so strongly about the girl that he was willing to go to prison, well, the wedding just might be a bad idea. The problem was that, morally, the one to break it off should be the girl. Mikhail’s younger sister Manya volunteered to go by way of back roads to Zeena’s house and talk to her. Zeena readily agreed to break it off.
Mikhail hung around a day or so, then made a trip to Ryazan. He returned with a toy pistol and a grin. He could have purchased the toy pistol in the small local town of Vyshetravino, but within a day or two everyone would have known that. Every night the following week, Mikhail went to the clubhouse and enjoyed himself, the handle of the pistol sticking prominently out of his pocket. The villagers assumed that it was his military revolver, when in fact military personnel could not carry their arms when off military bases except during wartime, and Russia was not officially at war.
A few days later, Mikhail boarded the Trans-Siberian Railroad for the long trip back to his unit. Years later Zeena did get married but not to the ex-suitor with the big stick. It was also years afterward that Mikhail finally told his family that he really did not have a pistol, just a toy gun.
Mikhail was sorry for only one thing, the bull that was being prepared for the wedding died for nothing.
A sequel almost occurred in the year 2000. My young and only son Andre drove my father Mikhail on an overnight trip to visit an old friend and to see the disappearing village of Arscent’evo, where he was born. During the afternoon my father, with the help of his cane, walked down to the river to catch some sun and enjoy the view. He came across a beautiful young girl lying on a blanket and taking the sun. Father would normally honor her privacy and avoid her but something about her looked familiar. Ah, he thought, she looks like young Zeena. He stared for a few more seconds and then approached her and they started talking. He asked about her parents and she said her parents had worked in Siberia and saved enough money to buy a house and retire in Ryazan. The girl was visiting her grandparents at a local village and her granny’s name was Zeena, the same girl that was once engaged to my father.
Father described the granddaughter as tall, but not too tall, strong, but not too strong, thin, but not too thin, just all right, a perfect country girl. She had the deep blue languishing eyes of her granny but actually was better looking. The girl was very friendly to my dad. They parted good friends. Father had gotten her address, thinking it would be good to see Zeena and perhaps my son would be interested in this young beauty. Reality soon shattered this dream. My son already had a girl or three and was not interested in meeting this one. My later attempts to arrange a meeting between Zeena and my dad failed.
Therefore, my grandparent’s arranged romance ended with a bittersweet taste and there was another time-space switchback, as dad met his youth.
20. The Balcony
My father had discovered that only two things provided a real escape from the harsh reality of desert life. The first was friends, and he had made some good ones in Mongolia. The second was fatigue-induced sleep where he could live in the past with the contented feeling that arises from dreaming the good dreams of family and friends.
His aborted wedding with Zeena was no longer of concern. He was also not worried that he was still unmarried or that he was living with hardship in the Mongolian desert. Life was not sweet on the Red Army base but he was young and strong and took it as a challenge to strengthen himself further. There would be plenty of time to marry after the war was over.
Mikhail was only 21 years old when he came to Mongolia. It was a terrible place for young soldiers and officers. The Red Army at first lived in tents, and then slowly improved their situation by digging in and living below ground level. Even its hospitals and mess halls were located in holes in the ground. After two years of living there, it was still a difficult life in harsh circumstances with constant challenges, severe food shortages, and continuous risks from the environment and from the Japanese. His military duties were some 200 kilometers (124 miles) ahead of the rear echelon area that contained the supply depots and the army hospital. Several times a year his duties brought him back for supplies. He did not like the trip but it was the only way he could be sure he would get exactly what he needed. He was ambitions and responsible and his attention to detail earned him the respect of his superiors.
Lyosha, one of Mikhail’s friends from the Military School who was stationed there, had room for Mikhail and he would stay with him for two or three days. It was always a joyful reunion which they both looked forward to sharing.
Mikhail knew of the clubhouse on the base but duty or fatigue had always kept him from going. Each weekend included dancing at the club. It was underground with a roof, and people had to go downstairs, not upstairs like in a regular building. This unusual club had an inside balcony, which young officers used to look down on girls. However, the club was of little interest to him; sleep was preferable.
On one trip, Mikhail was lying down, nearly asleep when his friend Lyosha said, “I’m going to the club. There is a new nurse who sometimes shows up at the clubhouse on Saturdays and I want to see her again and maybe dance with her.”
Mikhail rose up on one elbow, “This sounds interesting, tell me more!”
“Well, she usually comes with the same officer, actually a doctor from the hospital. He is handsome and evidently a good talker but he does not dance much. Another officer, about 35, short, and ugly sometimes gets her on the dance floor. They are an odd couple but they are terrific dancers, especially the tango. That guy is the only short tango dancer I ever heard of. The best are usually tall and slender, you know. Anyway, when they tan
go, everyone clears the floor and watches them. Other officers approach her but she never dances with them.”
The half-dozing Mikhail suddenly and inexplicably found himself wide awake. He rose and started getting dressed as though someone else were controlling his actions, as if he had no choice. He felt fresh, alert, and ambitious. Lyosha watched as Mikhail started to shine his high-topped black boots. “Hey, Lyosha, make me a new collar or we will be here all night.”
Mikhail dumped his kit bag out on top of the bunk. Lyosha grabbed the white cotton material and a small pair of scissors and expertly cut out a long rectangular piece. He folded it over and held it in place on the backside of the collar of the officer’s tunic. He located a needle with olive drab thread and proceeded to sew the white cotton strip onto the inside of the collar so that just the tip of the white would show, like piping around the top of the collar. Theoretically, one could wash this collar liner but the shortage of water made it easier to just rip off the old soiled one and sew on a new one. They were soon ready and joined several other officers for the walk to the clubhouse.
The jovial group entered the club and stood on the balcony looking down at the dancers. “I don’t see her. Where is she?” Lyosha asked.
“Well, who knows, maybe she did not come tonight!” an officer answered.
“Naw, just wait a bit, she will show up, mark my words!” another officer piped in. “She comes every other Saturday and she was not here last Saturday. Trust me, I know!”
The light conversation continued among the officers. Several of them moved off to talk with women. Some were nurses and some were civilian contractors working in the laundry, the kitchen, or the military store. Neither Lyosha nor Mikhail danced. They just stood and talked on the balcony as they waited and watched the dancing below. Several hours passed.
“Do you think that she will come tomorrow?” Mikhail asked.
“No, she only comes on Saturdays, or so they tell me. It is such a pity that she has not come as she is my type and I really would like you to see her.”
“Your type is all types. I know you better than you think.”
“No you don’t, you just think that you do. Darn, I really wanted you to see what good taste I have in women. It really is a pity that she didn’t come tonight.” Lyosha continued his thoughts.
“Oh well, I don’t care anymore,” Mikhail said, glancing at his watch and yawning. “It’s almost 10 o’clock. I need to get some sleep. Let’s go back to your place.”
They took a last look at the dance floor. Mikhail felt a flash of light enter him. The scene from the balcony burned into Mikhail’s memory cells forever, as it was the place where he first saw the girl named Mareika. There she is! “Lyosha, there is my future wife!”
Lyosha responded, “Not possible!” but he was talking to himself. Mikhail had already left and was flying on rapid wings of love down the stairs to the hard-packed earthen dance floor below.
My Mother Mareika
Literal translation:
There’s no bad without the good.
Meaning:
Every cloud has a silver lining.
21. Sins of the Father
IS IT JUSTICE FOR GOD TO PUNISH YOUR CHILD FOR YOUR own sins? The bible says that it is. Does this stop you from sinning? If your child’s punishment really happened, would it be a nightmarish horror or just acceptable reality and could you live with it to your grave? Many people do!
My mother Maria Ivanovna Sariecheva was born in 1922, five years after the October Socialist Revolution. The typical Russian nickname for Maria is either Manya or Masha. However, her mother Lena wanted a different term of endearment for her daughter and so this second child became Mareika.
My mother Mareika remembers a comfortable childhood with family and friends and living in a beautiful area. Their mansion featured large white columns in the front. It was located near a wonderful lake with drinkable water and framed by a birch grove that extended for several kilometers. It was her family’s summer home. The Soviet Government had confiscated their two houses in St. Petersburg after the revolution and 13 years later, in 1930, they took over this home and mother’s hard story began.
Even though Mareika was very little, she realized that many bitter thoughts visited her mother Lena. Only a few months after her father’s disappearance, her 32-year-old mother began to look old and depressed. Often Mareika watched her mother’s face as her mother was sitting quietly with her eyes closed. Sometimes it seemed that little spasms of pain were going through her face. Mareika knew that her mother was in a deep depression but she didn’t know why. There were shades of the past going through Lena’s memories and she pondered past decisions. Was Ivan right when he wanted to take neither side in the revolution, either for the Communists or for the aristocrats? Was Ivan right when he decided to stay in Russia with the Russian people while many of his friends immigrated abroad?
Lena frequently remembered that horrible night when the black-jacketed men broke into their house and shattered their family. The decision to stay in Russia cost Ivan his life. He was too young to die, even though he was 54 years old.
Lena never paid attention to the fact that her loving husband was really much older. She simply loved her man with a passion that defied age differences. She still remembered all the small details of their marriage day, when Ivan was on a short military leave from fighting the Germans in the First World War. Their first kiss was on that day, in that church, to celebrate and seal their wedding vows. Her pure and innocent love for Ivan stayed with her like a swan’s undying love for its lifetime mate. Lena had lost her desire to live, but their daughters were like small pieces of the parental love, intimate reminders of what had been and Lena knew that she had to carry on.
The Great Depression with all its misery was in full swing. This horrendous event during the 1930s was the worst depression ever experienced by the world. Its profound effects relentlessly trickled down to Lena and her three girls.
It was a desperate time. No one wanted to give Lena a job. She and her children would go hungry for days at a time. Lena began to go from house to house asking for work. Most families had both parents working because they needed the money, and that was good for Lena as it created housework. Some housewives paid her only a piece of bread to clean a floor. Occasionally, when she finished a job she was not even paid bread for her work, just cruelly ordered out. Nevertheless, most people were not especially mean, just poor with little to spare.
Lena needed something more than just housecleaning to support her family. One morning she was talking to a housewife with a large ugly growth on her forearm. It was easy to understand that the growth bothered the woman. It triggered a thought in Lena. Her mother’s family had an inherent ability that had been passed down through countless generations. A sacred utterance or mantra accompanied by a pressing of the ring finger on the afflicted area could cure various skin ailments and diseases, typically within one to three days depending upon the severity.
The mantra theoretically possesses mystical or spiritual powers. People speak some mantras aloud, while other mantras are silent and merely sounded in one’s thoughts. Some are said only once and others are continuously sounded for some time. Most are without any apparent verbal meaning. However, they have a profound underlying significance and are, in effect, distillations of spiritual wisdom. They can lead to higher levels of spiritual awareness or be used for other psychic or spiritual purposes such as healing, insight, or protecting oneself from evil psychic powers.
Lena received this information from her grandmother. This secret knowledge was passed down from a grandmother to a selected granddaughter unless one was not available, in which case the grandmother selected a worthy recipient that possessed the same middle name.
When she first learned this technique, Lena had not been fully convinced that her efforts would be successful and she was a bit apprehensive, so she had only used this generous gift within the family and just for simple things like sti
es on eyelids, carbuncles, or infected ingrown hairs. Now the times were different. She boldly asked the woman, “Do you want me to try and remove that growth?”
With pleading eyes the woman said, “Yes, please!”
“If we do this, it must be a secret between us. If you break your word, I will make the growth return to you!”
The woman nodded her agreement. Lena squeezed her eyes shut and grimaced as she concentrated on remembering the extraordinary words and, as she used them, her ring finger touched the woman’s imperfection.
Several mornings later, Lena returned. The ecstatic housewife waved her armonly a reddish mark remained of the growth. She paid Lena in food and eagerly told her of two other people with skin problems. Lena found that the process tended to drain her energy so she still cleaned houses and only took on a client when it felt right. This psychic ability became a large part of her family’s survival.
Sadly, the circumstances of Grandmother Lena’s death prevented “a passing of the torch” to a granddaughter and this ability to cure diseases and disorders of the skin was lost to the family. However, it is certain that she passed these secrets on to someone else, a woman with the same middle name, as Lena could not leave this earth until she did so. A healer dies in agony unless she passes it on. Somewhere today in St. Petersburg an old woman is curing carbuncles.
Lena’s oldest daughter, Vera, was now living with a large family where she worked for food and lodgings. The mother and three daughters had grown closer with the shared ordeal of survival and they hated the separation, but there was nothing to do about it. Vera was fed, clothed, and sheltered with good people, so be grateful.
My Russian Family Page 14