Sasha’s mom worked as a supervisor in the radio plant where my mom also worked and they had become friends. After several years, a jet-jockey friend of Sasha’s dad, who had also been involved in the Korean War, became romantically interested in the widow. My mother knew this and urged her friend to consider the prospect. “You are getting older and you will not easily find such an attractive and desirable suitor. Do you want to spend your old age by yourself with no one to care for you?”
The answer was not too surprising, “You know that the government honored my husband and they took good care of me. The government gave me a house and a good pension to look forward to. Money is not a problem and my son will be able to receive a university education. People respect me because of my husband and I have his memories. What more could I possibly want?”
Sasha’s mom never remarried and remained true to her dead husband. My friend Sasha went on to become a high official in the Ryazan university education system.
One forgettable situation in my young life assumed importance recently as I pondered what to include in these family stories. Between the years that I was 11 to 14 years old, my mother gave me a special responsibility and, in hindsight, I came to understand that it greatly affected my character. Father developed ulcers and milk was his main food. Sometimes it was all he could have. However, usually it was mixed into his soup and his kasha and he drank it instead of tea. Happily, father usually could come home for lunch as our apartment was within walking distance of the KGB office. My mother, brother, and I never developed a love of milk and we consumed very little while father required a liter or so every day. He could obtain a liter a week from the KGB cafeteria and the rest had to come from either the state store or the local farmer’s market. Mother occasionally bought it in the market. She would take a ceramic-lined pail and fill it with small 5 x 15 centimeters (about 2 x 6 inches) of frozen disks of milk. It was an easy way for the local peasants to preserve, transport, and sell small amounts of milk.
Mother gave me the responsibility of keeping father supplied with milk. To my knowledge he never knew of this arrangement. Mother did rule the household and although she was quite protective of my brother and me, when the situation called for it mother could be hard as nails.
My daily schedule included attending classes, studying and maintaining high marks, keeping myself clean and presentable, and doing housework, especially cleaning my room. Frequently I would help friends and family with various chores, and they would help me. The schools then were organized into three shifts. The youngest students attended from 8 a.m. to 12 noon, my time was 2 to 8 p.m., and the older students from 8 a.m. to 2 p.m. It took 30 minutes for me to dress in the school uniform, layer on the heavy clothes, walk to school, take off the heavy coat, scarf, wool hat, galoshes, and leggings, and be standing at attention with my classmates when the teacher entered the classroom. Most mornings I had to go the state store and wait in a long line that usually was outside the store where it was too cold to study. When my place in the line moved indoors, out would come my books. If there was plenty of milk available, the women in line would happily let me go ahead of them. However, if demand exceeded supply, people had a deaf ear. Some days I went home with no milk or half a liter, other days I could fill up my galvanized pail with three liters of milk and avoid the store for two days.
My benefit was that I became excellent at organizing my own time. I took pride in helping to provide for my family and it brought me a measure of independence and self confidence. When I think about it now, it still brings me pleasure that I was able to help my daddy. If my father had known about this responsibility at the time, he would have stopped it. He never would have let me stand in line outside the store on a frosty morning.
Brother Slahva, about 1964.
The summer of 1965, following Varoonka and Yevdokia’s deaths, I left for the Crimea to spend 45 days in the KGB health spa for children. The Crimea was a kind of Soviet paradise, especially in the warm time of the year. Many spas and recreation areas are located on an isthmus that probes into the beautiful Black Sea. Welcoming beaches that gently slope into the clear turquoise water stretch along the sandy harbor. Thousands of vacationers, honeymooners, and tourists were spending time in this inviting region. It seemed like nature itself was luxuriating under the soft and tender southern sun.
The great rivers of Russia and middle Europe, the Danube, Don, Dnieper, and Dniester, make the Black Sea colder and less briny than the Mediterranean. These colder waters thrust southward through the Bosporus of Turkish Istanbul, aided by a prevailing northeast wind. Beneath them the warm waters of the Mediterranean push northward as a powerful undercurrent running through the same channel. This heat driven system is fortunate for Russian vacationers.
Everybody was welcome at the Crimea. Most Russians went to the Black Sea for vacations often. The size of their income did not matter. The socialist system had worked out reasonable prices for transportation, food, lodging, and entertainment. Everyone could afford it.
I was even luckier than most Russians because my dad was sending me to the most delightful location that I could imagine. It was the magnificent KGB health spa for children located in the city of Yevpatoriya near a beach on the Black Sea isthmus. Experts designed it as a vacation paradise for the children of KGB members. The management carefully structured it with special diets; physical events like dancing, gymnastics, and swimming; mental events like games and excursions; and medical treatments such as mud baths, spas, and plenty of fresh air.
They built many one-and two-story buildings that looked like fairy palaces and the children could imagine that they were in a wonderland where Cinderella, Snow White, Prince Charming, and other fairytale princes and princesses lived. These little palaces were inside a magnificent park with fruit trees, including apricot which I liked to pick and eat directly from the tree.
What amazed me the most were peacocks and cranes walking here and there on the huge manicured lawns. These magnificent birds were not afraid of children and walked slowly and proudly, posing and preening.
This incredible place had its own small zoo. I was a dedicated daily visitor and the workers even let me help feed vegetables to some of the animals, but not the carnivorous ones. I particularly enjoyed watching and laughing with the monkeys at feeding times. I even trained them to mimic some of my goofy antics and they would individually respond to the names I bestowed upon them.
In 1965 I was in that health spa for the last time because it was only for children under 15. The 45 happy days passed like minutes and I was reluctant to leave that children’s KGB paradise forever. I knew that I would return to the Black Sea often but not to my fantasy childhood “palace-zoo-park” land.
During the train trip I was thinking mostly about my past, not about the future. I recalled my friends from the wonderland, which included children from all over the Soviet Union. Many pictures of them were in my purse. I was looking at these pictures with a particular touch of sadness. Bye-bye, my friends! Bye-bye, my childhood!
I traveled alone from the Crimea to Moscow as I usually did from the time I was ten years old. It was about 1,000 kilometers by train (621 miles). In Moscow, my Aunt Tania or some of her adult children always met me and took me to her home.
This time it was different. Through the train window I saw my aunt Tania with my mother. This had never happened before. My parents did not come to Moscow just to meet me at the station. They always insisted on making me think that I was quite independent. My mother and aunt were animated. They were smiling at each other and giggling. What was going on?
After the hugs and kisses, my first question was, “Do not hide anything from me. I see that something is going on. Tell me right away. What is it? It doesn’t matter right or wrong. Don’t make me wait until we get home. Tell me now!”
Aunt Tania about 52 years old, Uncle Vanya about 60 years and son Eugenie, outside their Moscow home, early 1960s.
They ignored my demands and continued
laughing as they loaded my baggage into a taxi. Then Tania said, “Can you imagine, Lilia? Finally, the government kicked my husband and me out of our house in the middle of Moscow. The government is tearing down our building and we are moving to a small apartment on the outskirts of Moscow next year. Your beloved zoo will be very far away and you won’t be able to just cross the street to see your animals as you always did when you visited us before.”
“Is that so?” I was completely disappointed. They lived near the famous Gorky Street and a wonderful zoo, and even the legendary Red Square was not too far off. It was one of the better parts of Moscow. I didn’t want them to move. Their house had a wonderful small grassy area around it. I loved that place!
“I see you are upset, but don’t be that way, please. The apartment is small. We are moving from a five-room house to a two-room apartment, but it will be just for the two of us, for my husband and me. At least it will be close to nature. Sometimes the good comes along with the bad. I will be able to breathe more oxygen by living there.”
I took a large breath and said, “Have you seen your new apartment?”
“Oh, yes. Yesterday your mother and I took a bus to the new construction site. It is far away but when the metro is completed it will be easier to get there, and the government promised to finish construction soon.” I knew it would not be completed until the following summer, as construction proceeds at a leisurely pace in Russia and includes the usual winter stoppages.
I had always spoken my mind and my family encouraged this by treating me like a grownup from a very early age. Looking at my mom and aunt’s faces, I suspected that they were hiding something else. They glanced at each other with cheerful and devious sparks in their eyes. “What is the matter with you two? You have something in your mind, so tell me,” I demanded.
My mother took my hand and embraced it, “There is wonderful news, darling, your Aunt Manya finally got married!”
“Got married? How? Who?” I was instantly in shock.
“Can you guess?” My mom smiled again happily.
“I give up. I have no idea!” I did not sound happy because I had evidently missed the wedding of my loving country mom. “How could she do this to me? Why didn’t she wait for me to come back from vacation? Who is the lucky man?”
“Do not be so upset, my dear daughter. Everything happened too fast for us also.” Mom paused to hug me. “About two weeks ago, Alexe with his son Victor came to us. Alexe looked a little confused and shy, so his son spoke for him. The boy said that his father started to drink after Varoonka’s death. It was obvious that Alexe was in trouble. Victor lost his mother to a brutal disease and it appeared that he was about to lose his father to the Vodka Monster.
I replied, “Oh yeah, I’m with Victor. It must be very difficult to live with a father who is always drunk.” I did a flashback on earlier memories. Alexe was always a nice man, dependable, quiet and a hard worker. I recalled a Ninth of May celebration of Victory Day (World War II), I was just a young girl and we were all sitting around a huge table, finishing a feast. Everyone had been drinking. Alexe became despondent and started to cry and yell. Manya went to him and was able to calm him a bit. Then Alexe started to share some stories that he had never talked about before. He was 27 years old when the war started and after basic training they assigned him duties as a truck driver in a supply convoy. Many frontline troops consider this safe work. As they typically did for their own military reasons, the Red Army kept childhood friends together in military units so Alexe had many good friends with him. Fresh out of training camp, the young soldiers were on their first convoy when German fighter-bombers attacked and devastated the truck column. Alexe and his truck were one of the few not hit. The dazed man staggered out of his vehicle in shock and gazed around at the utter destruction. He began to cry out in confusion and despair. He only stopped when a friend gave Alexe a mighty blow on his chin with a huge doubled-up fist.
This was Alexe’s worst experience in the war, even after he transferred to the frontline infantry. He always had trouble sleeping at night after the war and his dreams were always of that annihilated convoy. He would wake up all those around him with his nightmarish screams. Alexe was never an alcoholic but the basis was there for it to happen.
I listened as my mom continued, “Alexe wanted to marry Manya but you know how bashful he is. Your father was ready to go to Manya with him and ask for her hand immediately but Alexe was so confused and scared your father finally said, ‘Leave everything to me! I will make a couple of phone calls.’” I looked at my mom and asked, “What did you do?”
“It was very easy for me. I was so happy, I couldn’t speak. I simply lost my ability to talk. I opened my mouth anyway and could not close it for a long time. Now I believe that it was probably for the best.”
I burst out laughing, “It is very difficult to believe that you were quiet during all this.”
“Yes, I know, but believe me I was. I knew that if your father did not organize Alexe’s proposal rapidly, it would never happen! Alexe would never do it. He could drag this out forever!”
I remembered the story of how Alexe had procrastinated with his proposal to Varoonka. I asked again, “You didn’t even advise my dad about how to do it?”
“Nope! Your dad even advised me about something.”
“He advised you. For what? I do not believe that! Excuse me, but I don’t.”
“You better believe it! He told me not to change my clothes and to forget about doing my hair. I had to go with them wearing the clothes I had on at that moment. I understood immediately your father’s thoughts and accepted his advice, of course.”
“Unbelievable.” I glanced at my mother with doubt. What she claimed that she did was beyond my understanding of her capabilities. However, it must be the truth if my Aunt Manya was really married already.
“Believe it or not, Lilia, but four of us arrived at your aunt and Granny’s half an hour later. Your father and Victor looked very resolute. Now I think that I still had my mouth open because when I looked at Alexe he still had his eyes wide open.”
I giggled; I did not doubt Alexe’s actions. My mom touched my hand and continued, “I could not close my mouth and he could not open his. The silence became unbearable. Victor took the incentive and suddenly declared, ’Dear Aunt Manya, I am here today asking for your hand in marriage. I promise you that I will be a good husband for you. Moreover, my son will be a good son for you. Please accept my proposal and be my wife!’ It became very quiet as everyone tried to comprehend what Victor had said.”
It was easily understandable that Victor and Alexe had prepared the speech together but since Alexe was unable to make the delivery, Victor jumped in to save the day. The only problem was he neglected to mention his father. The speech Victor delivered was as if he was proposing to Manya himself.
I roared with laughter. My mom and Aunt Tania, even the driver of the taxi, could not keep from laughing. Finally, the driver gave it up. He pulled over, stopped the taxi, turned toward the back seat, and prepared to listen. Through the laughter, my mom continued, “For a minute there, nobody could even talk. I think that I probably lost my senses for a few minutes.”
Our group in the parked taxi were laughing so hard that pedestrians stopped and stared. My mom continued, “Your granny pulled herself together faster than any of us. She tried to smile but her face was a grimace. The old woman said, ‘That was marvelous, Victor. We are very pleased with your proposition. Nevertheless, I think that you are just a little bit young for my daughter. Your father will be a better man for her, don’t you think?’ Victor was struck dumb.”
I asked my mom, “Did you close your mouth that time?” “Yes, I did! The proposal was so unexpected. Look at your Aunt Manya’s wedding pictures. You can see for yourself that everyone in this picture looks startled.”
My mother took the pictures out of her purse, and she was right. Everybody looked just like she described. I never saw more funny faces in my
life. Everybody in the picture looked like a fresh cooked perch with large round eyes. They closed their mouths for sure! Nobody smiled in that picture.
Only Victor and his dad were dressed up in suits. Everyone else just had on street clothes. About a week later, the group got together again wearing their best clothes and took another formal picture of the wedding party.
Mom continued the story, “When we arrived at the marriage office, first into the room was your dad and Manya and your dad told the officials, ‘We’re here to have a marriage.’ The official asked, ‘Who is the bride?’ Your dad answered, ‘This woman,’ holding up Manya’s hand.
“‘Okay, let us get started. You two stand over here,’ the clerk directed. ‘No, no!’ your dad cried out, ‘I’m not the groom-he is.’ The silent and humble wide-eyed Alexe was pushed to the front of the wedding party. And that, my darling daughter is the story of your country mom’s wedding and why we could not wait for you!”
When I returned home to Ryazan after a week or so in Moscow, I visited Granny Varvara and Aunt Manya. Victor was there and I joked, “Congratulations, Victor, now you are officially my brother. Prepare yourself to be miserable!”
He answered, “Don’t forget Lilia, now I have the legal rights of a brother to give you a kiss.”
My mouth and my eyes opened wide, just like a perch!
I was happy to have another brother who liked me as much as I liked him. I was glad that he did not mind that I was still a bony, boyish juvenile. I had serious reservations about my outer beauty, but I never doubted my inner beauty and I hoped that he liked it. The point was, subconsciously, I just did not care about my face, my figure, or my outer beauty. I stayed happy and did my thing and years later, I came to understand that was the force behind any success or happiness I enjoyed.
Alexe’s son Victor in Russian Naval uniform, early 1970s.
Of course, I dreamed of looking like Greta Garbo in the future. What 14-year-old girl didn’t? I asked my mama, “Most of my girlfriends look like a woman, but I still look like a tomboy. What can I do about that?” I knew that this was bothering her because of something that happened when I was three years old. My mother Mareika and others in the family have discussed the details with me many times.
My Russian Family Page 36