My Russian Family

by Lilia Sariecheva

  Seeing my deep disappointment, my parents decided to hire a pianist to teach me and it worked well. I learned to play the piano, if not for the public, then certainly for myself. I had a piano teacher intermittently for many years.

  Winter in Russia is very cold. I can remember frozen birds lying dead on the city streets. The dvorniks, men who took care of the yard and the street in front of the houses, swept them away every morning but by evening dead birds were again strewn all over the ground. Children looking at the scene could not keep from crying.

  Mareika and children in Ryazan 1953

  I can remember how hard it was to breathe outside. The cold air could not warm up on its short trip from the nose to the lungs and my chest would get unbearably sharp cold pains with every breath. The human breathing and temperature control system is neither efficient nor well designed.

  My new and expensive black sealskin coat protected me very well. I looked like a fuzzy bear cub when I wore it. There were two reasons I loved my fur coat so much. First, of course, because it was warm. The second was because it had another important function. There was a hill near our house and during wintertime children rode sleds down it. These sleds were heavy because the runners were made of iron. It was fun to ride a sled down the hill but it was not so nice to pull it back up. So I decided to slide down the hill on my own back or stomach. It worked very well for me but not for the expensive fur coat. After a month, my coat became completely bald on the front and back. I remember someone saying, “You look like a plucked goose!”

  Many times our neighbors told my mom to stop her daughter from such behavior but Mom could not do that. For her, it was more important to keep her Lilia happy than to keep that expensive coat looking good. Years later, I never stopped my little son from doing the same sorts of things.

  44. Lapushka Princess

  It was a wonderful time, a mild spring in Central Russia! The bright green of new leaves extruded a tangy odor. Noisy birds, strung on branches like black pearls, lent background chatter. This time of year is sweet to everyone since it is the smell and sound of spring. Everybody and everything are in high spirits and looking forward to many lovely sunny days in summer. However, spring is also the time for peasants to start the hard work and a short summer can’t wait for slow people. Everyone is filled with eagerness to begin their labor.

  It was April of 1956 and I was five and a half when I arrived in my beloved grandparent’s village. My parents were reluctant to part with me. Because of my brother’s earlier serious health problems, they were overly protective of me. The fact that I could spend summers with my grandparents was mostly due to their begging, as they wanted a young one to help fill the void of their empty nest.

  My granny had purchased many little chicks. The government made baby chicks available at very low prices so the peasants could have poultry for themselves and for the markets. When I saw the tiny chicks I wanted to play with them but my grandparents told me that they were not for entertainment. Seeing the disappointment on my face Grandmother said, “Why don’t you take care of a few of the chicks? Can you manage five or ten of them?”

  I glanced at my granny’s sly, merry eyes and could not believe my good fortune. “Yes, yes! I’d love that!” I cried. Thus, I began as caretaker of ten very small yellow chicks. For the first few days they lived in a wide windowsill. The thick handmade walls, typical of old style Russian houses, offered many advantages. My grandfather Ivan fashioned a small fence from willow branches to serve as a barrier on the open side of the window. He then constructed a second, larger fence on the grass in the front yard. My responsibility was to feed the chicks and to protect them from the hawks. During the first few days I had to boil eggs, remove the shells and chop the eggs into little pieces for my hungry flock. Later, Granny Varvara boiled millet and the chicks pecked it.

  I loved to watch my new little friends. They were so funny because they looked always so busy but did nothing, of course, except exercise. My grandparents kept telling me, “Their business is to be healthy and grow up fast.”

  At that same time, my granny’s own hens’ eggs hatched and there were many new baby chicks in the poultry yard, so everyone was happy.

  I happened to overhear a conversation between my grandparents about a chick born with a defect. It had a damaged leg and their opinion was that it could not survive. I ran to their room crying, “Give the chick to me! Let me take care of it. Don’t kill it.” My grandparents glanced at each other and Grandpa Ivan decided to make an artificial leg for the chick. We saved it and the baby chicken with an artificial limb was my favorite. I called her Lapushka, which in Russian has no sexual gender and is a general name for someone or something with endearing qualities. It also refers to a tiny beautiful hand, foot, or paw. I took special care of Lapushka. When I fed the chicks, I noticed that they picked on my poor little one. The healthy mates jostled the disabled chick and kept her away from the food, so I fed Lapushka separately.

  A month or so passed as the chicks rapidly grew and became increasingly active. I kept my eye on them and none was lost, not even to the hawks flying overhead. I was proud of that because some adults lost chicks to the hungry hawks or to other mishaps.

  However, I was proud of myself prematurely. One morning, which I will remember all my life, I was taking care of my wards and somehow stepped backwards. Oh! I shuddered with horror! I felt something alive and trembling under my heel. I immediately froze and did not put any more weight on my foot. Nevertheless, I knew that it was enough to hurt the baby bird. I turned my head quickly and saw that it was my favorite under my heel. I took her in my hands. She was alive. I put Lapushka on the ground and she walked, but she was moving slowly and sometimes falling. My heart sank and I felt pain although I did not cry. I was hoping that everything would be fine, but two days later my chick died.

  I took Lapushka’s death very hard. My heart was grieving and I felt as though I myself was dying. My granny told me that my Lapushka was now in heaven and had a new, good leg, but I was inconsolable. I felt so guilty that I killed my Lapushka myself.

  Brokenhearted, I decided to bury my poor friend in the garden. Grandpa Ivan made a wood coffin for Lapushka. My grandparents, my country mother Manya, my friend Natasha who was the same age as me, and I proceeded with the funeral. For the rest of the summer, until I left to return to my parents, I placed fresh flowers on Lapushka’s grave every day.

  Almost 25 years later, I worked with disabled children and I called them my lapushkas.

  Arscent’evo had a multitude of domesticated animals including pigs, goats, sheep, cattle, and horses. The animals and the village people were mutually dependent upon each other and this led to close relationships, especially for the young. I remember a feeling of togetherness with them as we shared our universe and a respect for each other and I began to comprehend their intelligence. Not long after we buried Lapushka, another incident occurred. I saw a small group of men gathered around something and I ran over to see what was happening. They were slaughtering a spring lamb for meat and I got there just in time to see them hold her down and cut her throat so she would bleed out. My gaze locked on her left eye as it converted from a shinny bright color to the dull glaze of death. Although painful, it did give me a greater perception of life and it bonded me closer to the villagers who had undergone similar experiences. Of course, everyone was sorry that I had witnessed that at the tender age of five. However, it was not an unusual experience in village life.

  My grandmother realized how much I was suffering from Lapushka’s death and that the pain would not go away. One quiet evening she sat by me, gave me a hug, and told me a fairytale with a happy ending about another Lapushka. It was a remarkable story and based on true events.

  “Once upon a time,” my granny said, “King Mikhail and Queen Marieka had a new baby girl. They sent a letter with the wonderful news to Mikhail’s parents, but no pictures of the little princess were included. There were no pictures in the second letter, no
ne in the third, and none in the fourth. After a yearlong wait, the grandparents finally received a picture of the little girl. But the tiny princess’s hand did not look right. It looked like a stump. There were no fingers at all.

  “‘Poor thing! Poor thing!’ lamented Mikhail’s parents.

  “‘Poor thing! Poor thing!’ cried Mikhail’s sister.

  “‘Poor little girl!’ moaned all three of them as they cried bitter tears.

  “They were so unhappy about the baby princess’s damaged hand. They looked at the picture of their granddaughter every day and started to call the poor little one ‘our Lapushka.’ “Every day the grandmother prayed and cried for her granddaughter.

  “Then a miracle happened! One fine winter day, the Lapushka Princess came to live with her grandparents for a while. And she had beautiful, normal hands! The grandmother could not stop kissing Lapushka’s hand.”

  The wrinkles around Granny’s eyes reminded me of little sunrays and her eyes appeared even more compassionate than usual. I gazed into her sea blue eyes and smiled. I realized that the little princess in the story was myself but I did not know that this event had actually happened.

  “Oh, Granny! Tell me how that happened. How did the hand become whole? Was it a miracle?”

  “It seemed like a miracle. The confusion occurred when a photographer was taking a picture of the baby princess. The young girl moved one of her hands, which caused a blurred image of it. The hand was normal from the very beginning.”

  “It is an unusual story,” said I. “Tell me, why didn’t my parents send a picture of me for so long a time?”

  “I don’t know, love. I really don’t know.”

  Although I didn’t learn the real reason at that time, my parents had a good one. It was one of many secrets in my family.

  45. Love and Hate

  My grandparents had a young couple as neighbors. They were always giving me sweets and small presents, playing and joking with me.

  The wife Marusia was in her mid-20s and Anton was 30. Ten years earlier, he had returned from World War II with many wounds and medals. The couple did not have any children and so they lavished their attention on me. Anton, laughing and making funny faces, would cry out to me, “Oh, look who came! No, no, no! You had better leave because I’m going to steal a kiss from you.” I also made a funny face and took to my heels, laughing, while Anton ran after me, grabbed me, and kissed my nose. His wife rolled with laughter. This happy couple brought much light into my life.

  However, I began to hate the man and continued to for many years. Nobody could change my mind. The circumstances that severed our relationship are always with me. How unjust it was and how sorry I am now, because I cannot change anything and I cannot say thanks to him. I will never stop thinking about it. Anton died when I was about 15 years old. His old war wounds finally caught up with him.

  It all started one day in early spring as I arrived at my grandparents and, as usual, I began to inspect everything. As I came upon the doghouse I saw that a new dog was there. This dog was twice as big as the old one who was a red longhaired friend named Sharick which translates as “a little ball.” Sharick was my grandparent’s dog and my precious friend, as I had known him since I first came to the village at the age of 16 months. I asked, “Whose dog is this? Where is my doggie? And what is the name of this one?”

  My Granddaddy who was following me did not respond for a while but finally he answered, “His name is also Sharick.”

  I stared at the new Sharick with a puzzled look. This dog was large and strong and did not appear friendly, and he did not look like a little ball. He looked like a large beast! His fierce snarl put me on edge. “What happened to my gentle Sharick?”

  After a short silence, my Grandpa Ivan murmured, “Sharick is gone.” I did not understand and continued questioning him. He finally confided, “He is with your Lapushka now.” Grandfather refused to give me any details but my strong curiosity finally led me to discover what had happened. In September of the previous year, I had left for the city with my broken heart from Lapushka’s funeral but was looking forward to my return to the village in the spring. Shortly after I had left, a rabid fox bit Sharick and he would himself inevitably become rabid; mad, dangerous, and foaming at the mouth. My grandparents blamed themselves for not being careful enough. Anton possessed the only rifle in Arscent’evo and so he performed the difficult but necessary deed and shot the unlucky Sharick.

  Neither my grandparents nor my country mom Manya told me of the sad fate that befell my poor dog. They were reluctant to tell me anything negative, remembering my suffering with Lapushka. They both believed that they could protect me from the troubles and tragedies of my young life.

  My kind, loving, naïve grandparents! They had no idea how many times they did successfully protect me and how much they had done for me. They helped me to grow up strong both emotionally and physically. They taught me how to overcome difficulties, misfortunes, and tragedies. They showed me how to love the entire world, how to be fair, and how to forgive.

  The new Sharick was a German shepherd with a loud and scary bark that irritated everyone. The local kids did not like him and wouldn’t come into our yard anymore. Grandfather then moved his doghouse to the garden behind the high fence with the thought that again children would visit without fear.

  It seemed that Sharick was bored behind the fence. He began to break his chain, jump over the fence, and chase hens, children, and anything else he could find that would run.

  One day, my girlfriend Natasha and I decided to play outside and Sharick jumped the fence and landed right between my girlfriend and myself. I still have no explanation for how it happened, but filled with adrenaline, I instantly jumped up on the fence which was about five feet high and then climbed up a very tall cherry tree. Four or five teenagers were playing cards nearby on the grass and they saw everything. My actions surprised them, as it seemed impossible for a child to jump that high even with a running start. Even more surprising was the climbing of the cherry tree which had no branches near the fence. It was a big problem for the adults to get me down. Natasha’s escape was not nearly as dramatic, she was close to the fence gate, so she merely opened it, stepped through and shut it from the other side.

  The next day, someone took Sharick away and I never saw him again. I knew that Anton had nothing to do with the disappearance of the new Sharick because, at the time the dog disappeared, Anton was again bedridden with pain from his war wounds.

  Like Anton, many Russian military men were still recovering from the ravages of war. I vividly remember images of men disfigured or missing a hand or an arm or a leg. Some were missing both legs and used a homemade small-wheeled board or cart to maneuver around with their hands. The mental problems were the worst and, in those days, post traumatic stress disorder was unknown. PTSD is an emotional disorder that seriously affects behavior. A few countries now even diagnose and treat it after combat.

  It was a very old tradition for the military to issue rations of vodka in times of stress to encourage the troops. When these combat veterans returned to civilian life, some were able to make the transition but others had a difficult time and these unfortunates kept the vodka flowing. This horrible invisible net also caught some women. Most people understood this and sympathized with the occasional drunk lying in the street; even children yelled for assistance when they found someone down. A citizen would approach and offer to take him home. If he was incoherent they checked his documents for his address. If he had no documents they would take him to their own home until he sobered up enough to tell them his address.

  Granny Varvara told me that this compassion was typical after all wars, going back to the time of the tsars. Nowadays, people passed out drunk in public places get no respect; they are more apt to receive a kick and a curse than a helping hand.

  World War II had an obvious strong influence on the baby boomers of my generation. We thought that they were the best people in the world becaus
e they had defeated the fascists. I remember one remarkable event when I was almost six. My brother Slahva brought home a picture of his class with his teacher. Slahva’s class was his teacher’s main responsibility but she was also the German language teacher. The students all had to take a foreign language, German, English, or French. Slahva decided upon German because he liked his teacher. After studying the picture, I remarked with scorn, “She is very ugly and those round glasses make her look even funnier.” I made a funny face with my fingers and thumbs in a circle to imitate her wearing glasses.

  Slahva gave me a dirty look and proceeded to correct me. “She is my German language teacher and she is excellent. She speaks German without an accent and she has all the correct mannerisms of a German.” I started to listen with respect to my older and wiser brother.

  He continued, “During the war, she was a spy and she got herself attached to a German command staff. She passed over much valuable information and she has a chest full of medals. She helped us to beat the Germans. I think she is beautiful. She is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Why am I talking to you? Grow up!”

  I was awestruck. I again studied her picture. Yes, yes, I could see it now. She was beautiful. I still firmly believe that she was a very beautiful woman!

  Another event happened at the end of that summer and at the time I understood little of it. It was just before I turned six years old and while I was still at my grandparents in Arscent’evo. Mother had sent word from Ryazan that she would arrive for her short monthly visit to see me on the following Wednesday.

  On Friday, I did not feel good and by Saturday, I was very sick with a high temperature. Manya and my grandparents Varvara and Ivan were scared; they mentioned influenza and discussed taking me to a hospital. The summer had been long and hot without the usual summer rains that irrigated the crops. I remember seeing some clouds in the sky and when Granny noted them she decided to try her own treatment. Varvara would talk to no one except me. Grandfather Ivan and Aunt Manya left us alone.