My Russian Family

by Lilia Sariecheva

  Varvara filled a very old black cast iron kettle with water, brought in three large wood splinters about two inches long and lit all of them with a match. She said, “I will place the splinters in the water. If they sink you will be well but if they float I cannot continue and you will stay sick.”

  I protested, as I well knew that wood floats but she said, “Let’s wait and find out.”

  Low and behold, the three splinters sank in the water. I was astonished as I looked at the splinters lying at the bottom of the kettle. Varvara whispered some words to help make me healthy again. When she finished, she washed my face with this water and she said, “Do not swallow any of this water.” She splashed water all over the front of me with her fingertips.

  Looking out the window, she noticed that the first drops of rain were coming down. She immediately stripped me completely naked and marched me out to the little courtyard that contained the homemade wooden stalls for the various animals. Granny told me to just quietly stand there in the mud. It was a very private place and I felt protected. The cold rain from the thunderstorm was not pleasant as it beat upon me from the opening in the roof. The rain induced strong smells of fecal material from horses, cows, sheep, and poultry. Twenty minutes later the strong summer shower passed and Granny Varvara came to me and led me back home where she washed only my feet and legs, then dried me with towels, put a scarf on my head, placed me in bed, and told me to sleep. I immediately fell into a deep sleep. Twenty hours later I awoke, feeling great. I had a large breakfast and went outside to play with my friends. Granny told my mom when she arrived that I was sick for a day and said nothing more. Granny had cautioned me to say nothing of this and I didn’t until my high school days, when I told my mom. She had no comments about it.

  I later learned the details of this cure and had occasion years later to use it successfully with my four-month-old son Andre during one of our visits to my parents in Ryazan. A woman doctor had made several house calls and finally told me to take my son to a hospital. I did not want to take him to the hospital in the winter so I did the ritual and when the doctor returned the next day, my son was completely well. The doctor was very surprised. Andre’s symptoms, treatment and response was identical to my own with Varvara years earlier.

  46. School Years

  My formal education was proceeding. The KGB kindergartens were the best that one could attend. The teachers were highly trained and the facilities were outstanding.

  I recently found an old photo of my school class when I was six years old. I am easy to spot in the back row with my smiling inquisitive face. There are 23 children in this picture, although 20 was a more typical size class. The white daisies in the background are among my favorite flowers. The school principal, the teacher, and the teacher’s aid are wearing blue smocks over their street clothes. They changed smocks every day, as did the children. We took ours off for the picture. Our smocks were colorful, different for boys and girls and for each class, and decorated with prints of animals and other things. You can’t see it in the photo but I am standing on tip-toes to appear taller and elbowing my friend Sasha to get in front of him. Many lifelong friends came from this class.

  Lilia 1956

  Although the KGB kindergarten provided an excellent scholastic background, it was of little help in the spring of 1957 when Mom took me to visit the principal of our district’s best public school. He looked at me with pity in his eyes.

  After extensive verbal testing in several subjects he told my mom, “It’s surprising that your six-year-old Lilia is so well prepared for school. We could advance her to the fourth or even fifth grade but she is extremely short. She looks like a three-or four-year-old child and her constitution is very delicate, so Lilia would not be comfortable with older students. I do not wish to take such a little girl into my school. Wait another year; maybe your daughter will grow a bit.”

  Lilia’s KGB kindergarten 1956

  The strict rule was that children had to start first grade when they were seven years old. School always started on September First and my birthday was a week later, so I could either start school this year or wait a year.

  My growth worried my parents very much but the doctors had found nothing wrong. I was healthy, energetic, smart, and creative. A year passed and I was no taller, not even a centimeter.

  The same principal took a deep breath and proposed a special individual home-study program at the fourth grade level. It was undoubtedly the best option for academic success.

  Mother answered, “Lilia is only seven now and she needs friends. She was okay in preschool and kindergarten with other kids. She knows how to defend herself if somebody picks on her. Please do not worry about that. She is mentally and physically strong even though she is small. I think that she should be in a class with children her own age. Having friends is more important than skipping grades.” This was, to my memory, the only time that my parents ever ignored a teacher’s advice.

  Parents in that society understood that teachers were the professionals. Traditionally, teachers advised parents regarding their children’s problems and parents almost always sided with the teachers when there was a teacher/student disagreement.

  On the second day of school the Ryazan’s newspaper published an article about me calling me “the tiny infant prodigy.” However, at that time I was unaware of any unusual capabilities. My childhood was excellent in many ways. I could see, hear, or read something once and I knew it. For instance, by the age of seven I knew the multiplication table. I grasped concepts liked sentence structure and relationships of unrelated things. Spelling was a breeze. Art was the one area in which I had little skill. I could copy very well but I couldn’t do much without something to copy. Anyway, no studying for this girl. I had lots of time to do things I enjoyed and I basked in the glory of excellent grades and a mother who liked to show off my abilities to her friends. Mom would call me in and say, “What is the answer to 57,842 minus 16,397? She would write it down and calculate the answer.

  The friend would say, “Oh Marieka, that is too hard. Your daughter can’t do that!” I would think for a few seconds and then give the right answer. I just had this skill; no one taught it to me. Actually, Mom was proud of my abilities but she really would rather I had a normal life and she used to agonize over this.

  My teachers correctly informed my mother that I possessed no artistic talent. However, Mother was aware that all the other members of our family had various artistic capabilities and so she kept encouraging me, especially with drawing. I still remember one time that I lovingly set out my watercolor paint and prepared to create another masterpiece for the enjoyment of my parents. Then I made a startling discovery. There was no more blank paper in the watercolor paper sketchbooks. I was almost in tears at the thought of depriving my parents. Oh, how desolate my parents would be without the newest Lilia painting.

  Mom tried in vain to explain that sometimes paper was just not available, even in Moscow. I remained inconsolable. But necessity is the mother of invention. Mom found some heavy-duty brown wrapping paper. Using scissors and a sewing machine, she laboriously fashioned an acceptable sketchpad. The heavy paper kept the watercolors from penetrating through the paper and I could resume my numerous masterpieces.

  Unfortunately, none of these homemade books survived the passage of time, but the thought of them is another reminder of Mom’s childhood pledge to protect and pamper her children.

  My dad made a relatively high salary and my mother excelled at managing it, having learned from the school of hard knocks. Typically, the Russian husband would hand over all of his pay to his wife. She would then dole it out as needed, including the husband’s pocket money.

  The mid to late 1950s, after Joseph Stalin’s death in 1953, were economically hard times for Russians and few parents had extra money to spend on parties or a birthday. Often, some of my schoolmates would play at my house and this would include a much-anticipated snack. One day one of my friends mentioned that anothe
r girl, Nina, had a birthday but there was to be no celebration or party. Mother immediately invited that girl and the classmates to visit our house after school on that day.

  I can still remember her answering my mom’s question of, “What do you wish for your birthday?”

  She hesitantly requested a box of colored pencils like Lilia’s.

  “Okay. You will get it!”

  A week or so later, Mom answered the very early morning knock on the front door and Nina quietly asked, “Is it here, do you have it?”

  “Yes,” replied my reassuring mom wiping the sleep from her eyes, “it is here!”

  “Can I have it?”

  “No, you must wait until this afternoon, after school, when we have your party!”

  “I can have it then?”

  “Yes, you certainly can!”

  “Okay. Goodbye!”

  Thus, my mother became an expert in the art of giving children’s parties. During my early years in the public schools she would frequently host a birthday party for my schoolmates. Mother would relate the details of each party to my dad as he smiled.

  I was about eight years old when I woke up one night about 2:00 a.m. and couldn’t get back to sleep. Father was working on some paper in the library room and I headed there for some comfort. He was concerned and asked me, “Why are you up? What is the matter? Do you need something?”

  I started to whimper as I asked, “Why do the American people want to bomb us? Why are they so mean to us? We don’t want to be killed!”

  Father gave me a funny look and asked, “Where did you get that idea?”

  I grabbed the copy of the Russian political satire magazine Crocodile that was lying nearby. I had read some of it earlier that day and I hurriedly opened it up and showed Father the article that had disturbed me. It was a sarcastic satire involving American women’s fashion. It included a reprint of an American picture with a fashionable looking woman sporting a crazy hairdo that closely resembled an atomic bomb blast. I remembered that the blond woman had a very beautiful face. This had been the last straw for me. It seemed that television, radio, and the whole environment had lately been full of bomb threats and scares.

  Father, about 1955

  Father settled me comfortably on his lap, thought for a few seconds, and then calmly replied, “Americans do not want to kill you. They are people just as we are. They have families, they go to school or to work, and come home and love each other.” His voice droned softly on explaining about an American father comforting his daughter who was similarly afraid of bombs and dying. “Americans do not want war. They want peace, just like we do. It is only the leaders who are playing games and making these threats.” Father talked for a long time as he rocked me back and forth on his lap.

  I became peaceful and sleepy. Father tucked me back into bed and never again did I worry about atomic bombs killing me.

  About that same time, Mother had won a large lottery and she spent part of the money on a new bicycle. Slahva, my brother, kept the bike clean and shiny, a labor of love. This black expensive bicycle had a small gas motor that was useful for long trips. Slahva’s friends had a grand time riding the bike up and down the street. Slahva had the bike for almost a year and enjoyed it all summer. During the cold part of the year bikes in Russia are stored away.

  His new bike was good news for me. I already had a kid’s bike but Slahva’s old bike could be my first adult bike. It was a man’s bike with a crossbar running straight from the seat to the handlebars. I tried to ride it but when I straddled the seat with some help from my friend Jenia, my feet could not reach the pedals, much less the ground. I felt like a monkey on top of a giant ball! After some experimenting, we found that if I stayed on one side of the bike and stuck my leg under the cross bar, I could operate the pedals and successfully take short rides. I had to hang on for dear life off the side and keep the bike tilted way over to maintain my balance. Riding a horse sidesaddle would be a piece of cake after this. Mother finally saw me one day as I crazily cruised down a dirt path. She tried to talk me out of doing this and to go back to my old bike but I would have none of it. I was having a good time.

  Then one day my brother Slahva’s black motor bicycle went missing. I was only nine years old but I still vividly remember the outrage of such a dastardly deed. I was angry but I kept it to myself. Both my brother and I would lose our bikes, as he would reclaim his old one that I was using. It was a double theft.

  The mighty forces of law and order prevailed, with the KGB and the militia cooperating. Citizens had seen a poor boy riding a fancy black bike in a local village. This could not be right during these hard times and it drew the attention of the local militia. A militia officer questioned the boy and he broke down and confessed. They recovered the bike from a under a pile of hay inside a horse barn and arrested the culprit. They discovered that he had a rap sheet which included robbery. This news did not surprise me. I thought they should lock him up and throw away the key. My poor brother was suffering. With his record, he could receive three to six months in a juvenile detention facility. I was aghast at my parent’s subsequent actions.

  Mom had found out what was going on and she asked my brother, “Slahva, you know that your father checked into this and he does not want to prosecute that 16-year-old boy who took your bike. His name is Vova.”

  Slahva silently nodded yes.

  “What do you think if Vova keeps the bike since he needs one and cannot buy it?”

  Slahva listened intently and remained silent.

  “You know, we will not be buying you another one so you will just have to make do with your old one. Okay?”

  “Yes, Mom, I know.”

  I overheard this conversation and knew that I would be back to my old kiddie’s bike.

  Mom paused for a little bit as she gazed at her son’s sad face, “It is your bicycle and if you really want it back, it is okay. All you have to do is tell Vova to give it back. Do you understand? Do you want to talk to Vova and get it back?”

  Slahva was silent for maybe five minutes, then said, “Vova can keep the bike.”

  That evening, as part of my dad’s conditions, Vova came to our house. Dad had a long talk with him. He was from a poor village family with few prospects for a good future even though he was working while he attended school. My dad refused to press charges and the militia released the boy with his promise to walk the straight path.

  Father, late 1950s.

  Mother had just made a batch of perozhki, cooked in oil on top of the stove. I loved them. After my dad finished talking to the boy, he asked Vova to join my mom and me. We settled in around the small kitchen table to feast from the large bowl of golden brown perozhki, still warm from the oven. We each had a small plate and Mom placed a perozhki on each one. I stayed silent and stared as I ate. Vova’s clothes were old and not very clean. He wore a frayed shirt, especially on the collar and cuffs, and one elbow was torn. His socks had holes and he had on stained and worn pants. His fingernails were dirty, he had pimples, and his hair needed a barber. Mom talked to Vova about various things and finally got him relaxed and comfortable. I noticed that Vova would not reach for a perozhki, despite Mom’s urging. She had to put one on his plate and then he would eat it. This newfound knowledge caused my anger to dissipate.

  I remember being amazed at how many perozhki the boy ate. It was years later that I realized his enormous appetite was the result of long-term hunger. Vova had worn out his shoes completely and it came out in the conversation that he had no way to replace them and that he had very few clothes. Mom arranged to take him shopping the next day.

  I accompanied Mom on that buying trip. We purchased clothes and then went to the shoe store but because they were painting it there was a heavy odor inside. Mom told me to wait outside and I spent the time dreaming of what beautiful shoes they would buy. When mother and Vova finally emerged, I asked to see the new shoes. I was greatly disappointed; they were black and ugly, kind of a short boot. Vova
explained to me that he lived in the country and there were no sidewalks or clean streets. He needed strong and functional shoes, not pretty city things.

  Several days after the buying trip, Mom bought a new red bike for Vova and my brother got his black motor bike back.

  Vova was true to his word and changed his life. He graduated from a secondary technical school (similar to a junior college) and completed a mandatory two years in the army as an enlisted man. He then entered the prestigious Radio Academy and graduated as an engineer. From time to time, dad would update us on his progress. Vova is now retired and living in Ryazan.

  • • • • •

  The fourth grade held some surprises for me. I was an excellent student with a burning desire to expand my knowledge. I loved to ask questions in class and got in trouble a few times because of the kinds of questions I asked. I remember one in particular that occurred as we were studying the Revolution of 1917.

  Our teacher was telling us the story of Aleksandr Kerensky. He was head of the Provisional Government from July to October 1917, after Tsar Nicholas abdicated. Kerensky failed to unite the various factions and to implement their radical reforms, and there was whispering that he was moving toward a dictatorship, so Vladimir Lenin took control as the first Head of the Soviet State. Kerensky barely escaped with his life. He hid until the following spring and then escaped to Western Europe. In 1940 he moved to the United States where he lectured in universities and wrote books for the rest of his life.

  Naturally, the Soviet State had little use for Kerensky and our textbooks made large of the fact that he wore a woman’s dress to escape from Moscow. I could not accept things as presented in class and asked, “What would happen to him if they caught him? He was head of the government and everyone knew his face. If it was me, I would have dressed differently too!”