The teacher obviously could not say to the class, “Why, the Red Army would have killed him.” She was left to stutter and stammer, to scold me and send me to the teacher’s room for more scolding. Then the principal phoned my daddy, the KGB man.
Father took me home and carefully explained that some events were not to be discussed and I had to understand that it could be very dangerous. There was no room for thought or questioning, he explained. “Just leave it alone, do not touch it, and do not go there!” His reproach was not 100 percent effective and he had to repeat it several times throughout my youth. Boys somehow have a different reaction to these events. Slahva only needed one episode when he was 12 and he was converted. Never again did he publicly raise embarrassing questions.
Lilia and family about 1960.
Well, everyone has to stand up for what is important to him or her. Schoolmates sometimes picked on me since I was so short, so I learned how to fight. It was 1960 and I was in the fourth grade. I shared a desk with a strong healthy boy named Veetya who constantly irritated me in class. He told me things and called me things that I had never heard before. His gestures and words were foreign to me and although at the time I just felt that it was very wrong, years later I understood just how morally offensive they were. He then started bad-mouthing my girlfriend. Every day it became nastier.
One day I’d had enough. I waited until the teacher was writing on the blackboard with her back to us and I landed a strong open-handed slap on Veetya face. I spent the rest of the day in peace and self-satisfaction, but I celebrated my triumph too early.
After classes I went to the school library and put some new books into my bag for reading at home, anticipating a pleasant evening, as I enjoyed reading before bedtime. I put on my heavy winter coat and proceeded outside.
Veetya was waiting in ambush for me. He swooped towards me and his menacing look momentarily discouraged me. Then, in a split second, I understood that I had to fight and I threw my bag on a snowdrift. Immediately, I received a hard right jab and was down on the icy ground. The boy laughed contemptuously and turned his back to me. That was his mistake and I took full advantage of it. I jumped up and like a wildcat landed on Veetya’s back. We fought so mercilessly that the snow around us was dappled red with our blood. I felt someone trying to unhook us but I was blind with rage and adrenalin and continued to fight. Several teachers finally got us pried apart and ended our fracas.
The following day in class our classmates studied our bruised and swollen faces and our misshapen noses. The boy and I kept silent and our teacher did not talk to us. In spite of our enmity, Veetya and I still had to share the same desk. The teacher made a big mistake in not separating us, thinking that Veetya and I could find a way to repair our broken relationship. This set the stage for what could have become a tragedy when summer arrived.
The Young Pioneers was for all children in Russia between the ages of ten and 14. It is somewhat comparable to the American 4-H Club or Boy/Girl Scouts. It was non-political and intended to help young people mature and become good citizens.
The Pioneer Camps were very popular in the Soviet Union and I joined one for a month every summer. Each factory, plant, and other large organization had their own Pioneer Camp for employee’s children. The KGB and the militia utilized a joint Pioneer Camp for their children.
On the first day of June, the year I turned 11, I arrived at a Pioneer Camp located in a pine forest and near a river. During the first hour there, our Young Pioneer detachment assembled around a campfire. We were dressed in blue skirts or trousers, white shirts, and red scarves. The boys and girls had to introduce themselves. Many of them I already knew from the previous summer. What I did not know was that my enemy Veetya would be there and, when I spied him, I could see that he was not pleased to see me either.
When the introductions were completed and the opening ceremonies concluded, everyone left. But I was still near the fire, choosing a strong dry branch to build up the flames. Veetya appeared out of nowhere like magic, saying, “You are a skinny little creature! Why did you come to our Pioneer Camp?”
I answered with contempt, “Why do you think it is only yours and not mine?”
“Because my father is a militia officer!”
“And my dad is a KGB officer!”
“Is that so?” he asked and punched me viciously in the chest.
I saw red stars in my eyes from the sharp pain in my developing left breast. Instinctively I grabbed a nearby rock from around the fireplace. I do not remember what I did but I do recall hugging Veetya who was lying on the ground in a pool of blood from a wound to his head. I was screaming hysterically, “Help me! Help me! I killed him!”
Officials rushed the boy to a hospital and took me for discipline to a Young Pioneer’s council called up just for me. This was very serious. Everyone was standing in line and at attention as the punishment was decided. I was to be sent home in disgrace. Letters were to be prepared to inform my school principal and my parents about my unacceptable behavior.
No one would listen to me and, although I felt shame about my actions, mostly I felt anger at the authorities for keeping me from presenting my side. All I heard was “Shut up, shut up.”
However, the next morning before my punishment could take place, Veetya, still in the hospital, confessed to what really happened. His parents took him home and I became a hero among my friends.
Sometimes I wondered why boys always seemed to be fighting girls in our society. There is a theory that after the 1917 Revolution both men and women considered themselves to be equals. Children accepted this as fact from their parents. Therefore, there would no special reason for a boy and a girl not to fight. Several boys told me that if they had known about Veetya they would have protected me. But I saw no logic in that. It was my fight and best that I handle it; even my mother agreed with that. It is interesting that in Russia physical fighting ceased when children reached their teens. Now, this old attitude about boys and girls fighting with each other has generally stopped. Veetya left school and disappeared from my life, but not forever.
I was about 11 when Ryazan completed construction of a second train station. Public transportation was important and it was a big event. Someone noted that our Premier of the Soviet Union Nikita Khrushchev was on a rail trip, so a 20minute stop at the new station for a dedication ceremony was scheduled. Officials selected about 12 of us to present bouquets of flowers to the high-ranking dignitaries.
For us, it was a long day of hurry up and wait. It was chilly and we had coats over our Young Pioneer uniforms. Finally, the train arrived. There were handshakes and very short speeches as a large crowd of selected outstanding citizens of Ryazan watched in anticipation. They gave the signal and we flower-bearers surged forward to present our bouquets. As luck would have it, the premier was directly in front of me, so I headed to him. On both sides of me I saw flowers exchanged for kisses, as was the custom. However, Khrushchev did not kiss me. He took the flowers, politely said thank you, and walked back to the train.
I was thunderstruck. Where was my kiss! I ran after him waving my arms and yelling, “Hey, mister, where is my kiss? I want my kiss.” Several people ran after me and one of them got hold of the back of my coat before I could reach Khrushchev. I couldn’t understand why people were so excited. My father quietly watched everything, relieved that the outspoken daughter of the Ryazan KGB chief spy catcher did not have her picture taken for the evening paper.
In retrospect, Khrushchev looked tired from the trip. Maybe he even had a cold that he did not want to share with a young blond-haired girl. Like most Russians, I greatly respect the man. He had the boisterous and vulgar manner of a tough peasant political leader, but his personal courage was undeniable. He profoundly influenced the Soviet Union and the entire world communist movement during his seven-year term as Premier (19581964). His policy of peaceful coexistence with the noncommunist world was evidenced by loosening security controls, concessions to a consumer ec
onomy, and a break with established Soviet communist teachings. His de-Stalinization policy and liberalizing tendencies led the Kremlin to ease its grip on other communist countries. He laid the foundations for much of the future changes in the USSR and older Russian people honor him.
One of the political costs Khrushchev paid was that authorities denied him a state funeral and interment in the Kremlin walls. However, that does have advantages. He was buried in a Moscow cemetery where his relatives, friends, and admirers could visit and pay homage to this great man. His grandson, also named Nikita, appointed himself keeper of the grave and he regularly cleans and decorates the gravesite.
It was some years later on, about 1963, that my easy academic ride deserted me. One morning when I was 13 I woke up with a splitting headache. Mother kept me out of school and took me to the KGB health clinic, which was about 1.6 kilometers (a mile) away. We tried to use the bus but the jarring motion was too much for my highly sensitive head and we ended up walking at a slow pace. They could find nothing wrong after three hours of checking and testing by a neurologist, an ophthalmologist, and other specialists. It was a well-supplied clinic with few patients. My father’s office was across the street and so he became involved. Dad finally decided to give it up and take me home. Even my father’s sleek car had too many vibrations and motions for my poor head. Mom and I ended up walking home at the same slow gait that we had used to get to the clinic. I spent most of the day in bed. I never figured out what caused that. Maybe it was a mild stroke. Who knows?
The next morning I awoke feeling fine and insisted on going to school, which I did against my mom’s better judgment. I felt okay but all day people commented on how bad I looked. That event marked the beginning of my losing my extraordinary powers and I found that, more and more, I had to study in the conventional manner. The prodigy bubble burst for me completely the following year. I was 14 years old and taking the eighth grade National Exams. The difficult exams had always been easy for me and I would finish early and with exceptionally high marks. This time it was not so easy and I used up all the allotted time. My score was high but I had to work for it. Over a period of the next few years, I lost my inherent abilities. I remained an excellent student but it was no longer easy.
Piano teachers had worked with me three times a week, on and off, for seven years. I reapplied to the music school when I was 14 years old and this time it was determined that I did have an ear for music and I was admitted. I worked hard and always got excellent marks. However, two years later I realized that I could not remember music. I had to hear it numerous times to remember it while my brother could hear a melody once and know it forever. I could not change that fact, so I decided to spend my time on more rewarding pursuits.
Lilia with her piano about 1962.
This episode in my childhood revealed to me that there were some things I could not do and that I would have to work hard for the things I wanted. Ultimately, I chose long-term goals I could attain.
47. Land on Your Feet
How magnificent it was to be 14 years old! Everything was wonderful. I could feel my young blood pulsating in my veins. I wanted to laugh and sing, and everything amazed me. I did not yet know how to suffer and be unhappy. I just assumed that I would be happy forever and I would always be young, healthy, and good-looking.
I didn’t know that one day sadness would come with a myriad of changes. I would experience tragedy and suffering. I would also learn how to express sympathy to someone in need, and how to comfort a sufferer. I would feel myself growing stronger and wiser when someone cried on my shoulder in inconsolable grief.
I opened the door and saw the son of Alexe and Varoonka looking at me with moist eyes and trembling lips.
“Come in, please,” I said. “What is the matter? Is something wrong?” Then I yelled, “Mama, Papa, Victor is here!”
My father understood everything without asking. He hugged Victor. “Stay here with Lilia. My wife and I will go over and help your father.”
Victor was only one year older than I was. His mom had spinal cancer and suffered badly. My parents and I often went to see her. My mother was very sad that she was going to lose such a close friend as Varoonka and she cried a lot. It was impossible to fight that disease in the mid-1960s. The word cancer invoked irrational images of suffering and death. You could only prepare yourself for the inevitable end and hope that it would not be too painful.
That evening was the worst time in my short life. I was only a teenager with no experience on how to handle such a situation. But then an idea came into my head. I turned to Victor and said, “I’m hungry. Are you?”
“No, I don’t have any appetite,” he replied despondently.
“I will start some dinner anyway,” I said casually. “I’m always hungry and can eat a lot.”
“If you eat so much, then how can you be so skinny?” he asked.
Oh, good, I thought. His mind is on something besides his mom. I cheerfully responded, “I don’t know! Maybe food just goes through me too fast and not much of it remains in my body. My brother used to say that I am skinny because I use the bathroom too often.”
Victor made a grimace and I knew that I lost him. I counted on my brother’s idiotic joke about me to make Victor forget, but no such luck. I pretended that I was hungry and the boy kept me company. He ate mechanically. It was obvious that he was physically and mentally exhausted. He could neither concentrate nor carry on a conversation. Victor was sleeping when my parents returned home much later. His moaning and sobbing revealed bad dreams. My mother came to the bedroom and put her hand on Victor’s cheek. He did not open his eyes. She adjusted the blanket and kissed the boy’s sweaty forehead. She told me, “Lilia, tomorrow we will be gone the whole day. Take good care of the poor boy.”
I felt myself older and stronger after the sad experience of that tomorrow. I did not know that Varoonka’s death would affect our family so much. I had no idea of the intertwining of Victor’s and my own destiny. Actually, it is good that the future lies hidden from people. If you knew everything that was going to happen to you, it would take away the joy of life. Mystery is greatly superior to knowledge. It is safer, anyway.
Unfortunately, sometimes events happen to reveal something of the future and one is then stuck with that knowledge, like it or not. This is a mixed blessing and it can be painful and even cause one to lie just to avoid giving pain to others. It is not something one would wish upon a friend!
Shortly after Varoonka’s death from cancer in 1964, Yevdokia Ivanovna Sariecheva also died. She was the wife of my Uncle Vassily who had disappeared on the Western Front in World War II. She was only 50 years old but she had never been strong and her heart finally gave out. They only had one child, a boy Anatoly, my cousin born in 1935.
Anatoly was six years old when the war between Russia and Germany started and he only vaguely remembered his dad, but he recalled that Vassily was very large and tall and that he was strong. Anatoly knew that his dad was a hero because he gave up his life for his Mother Russia. The boy was proud of his dad and he wanted to be just like him. Anatoly was a good student in high school and a good helper to his mother Yevdokia and his grandmother with whom he often lived in Ryazan.
These two women tried everything to keep the boy happy but Anatoly had a difficult time after the war. Like so many other fatherless boys in those years, he needed a father’s guidance. He became involved with five or six friends. They were a fun group and he had a great time hanging out with them. They would go to the stadium and watch the soccer games or to the cinema to see patriotic movies about the last war.
Some of his friends were good boys but several of them started picking on other teenagers, threatening and robbing them. It bothered Anatoly enough that he talked to his mother about it. Then he and his mother paid a visit to my dad. Mikhail listened to their story and then told them that the militia would keep an eye on the gang’s activities. He told Anatoly to stay completely away from the gang and to s
pend all his spare time at our place. After that Anatoly was either at his home with his mother, at our home, or at school. Mother always found time to talk to Anatoly and he accepted us as a second loving family. Anatoly finished high school, then college and became a construction superintendent.
I remember Anatoly’s 1960 marriage vividly. I was ten years old and I desperately wanted to see the bride in her beautiful gown and veil, but my parents had another plan. They did not want me to spend all day inside Yevdokia’s house during the wedding reception while the young adult friends of the bride and groom drank and told wild stories. I spent two days with just a girlfriend in my parent’s apartment. The attitude in Russia was to raise children to be independent at an early age and no one would think it unusual that I stayed in the apartment for two days and one night without a grownup. Of course, the friendly neighbors kept an eye on our door.
Lilia with cousin Anatoly, 1955
Following the death of Anatoly’s mom Yevdokia in 1964, the old street gang somehow managed to reunite and they have all remained good friends and good citizens with a strong bond uniting them. Most of these former buddies went into the Army and after that they evidently walked a straight path.
Around 1960, I started playing volleyball with a group of young teenagers. One of them was a schoolmate of mine named Sasha. He was born in 1950 and two years later his father, a highly decorated combat pilot, died in his MIG fighter plane in “MIG alley” during the Korean War. The experienced Americans flying the jet powered F86 Saber reached a ten to one kill ratio (more than 70 Sabers and 700 MIGS were destroyed) flying against Korean and Chinese pilots flying Russian-built MIGs. Likely, Sasha’s dad was training pilots when, for whatever reason, he flew a combat mission, as some of the Russian pilots did during that time.
Korea for us was not some unknown place halfway around the world. Russia and North Korea share a common border for a short distance by the Pacific Ocean. The two countries share a long history.
My Russian Family Page 35