Two Months From Home | Pt 02

Finishing our breakfast, we piled into the tiny car once again and headed out. We were definitely not in St. Petersburg anymore, this was now Don Cossack territory.

We passed miles of steppe as far as the horizon when I noticed a white security car that said something along the lines of “Cossack” on it. I asked Uncle Misha what the difference is between them and a policeman.

“Well, let’s say there was a drunkard harassing civilians in the street. A Cossack would be informed about the situation, he would show up and smack the drunkard in the face to sober him up and get his head on straight”.

“So, no fines or tickets. It’s that simple”?

Uncle Misha chuckled and shook his head, “no…no fines. Issues get resolved much quicker this way”.

We were getting close to the village. The roads got narrower, there was more dirt, less asphalt and lots of pot holes. We hit a bump and all thumped our heads on the roof of the vehicle. I laughed out loud, we really are in a clown car.

Arriving in the tiny village, we found the plot of land where grandmas house used to stand. I looked into the distance of never ending plains and imagined her life here during the second World War. She was twelve years old when they heard the bombings from Stalingrad (now Volgograd) 240km away.

“We would put our ears to the ground and listen to the earth cry out”, Babushka Maria recalled to me one day. Her stories came flooding back as a warm breeze picked up and brushed it’s fingers through the tall grass. Bringing up the memories of ancestors before me who survived a war in each of their lifetimes so I could be here.

Her father, Ivan, was a Don Cossack who fought in the civil war and lost his eye during the battle by a bullet. Him, on the side of the white army, and his own brothers on the red. The communist party spread their propaganda then started taking the country by force. Ivans brothers found him at a hospital when he got wounded and spared his life just in time by telling the nurse he was in support of the communists.

But it wasn’t long after that the Bolsheviks were at his door to arrest him on the claims that he was caught exclaiming, “May these be the heads of the communists”! While he worked the field with a sickle. It was late at night and Babushka Maria was just a little girl, sound asleep. Her father gently woke her to say goodbye only for her to be too tired to understand what was occurring and quickly fell back into a slumber as he was escorted out of the house, vanishing forever. “To this day I regret not getting up, I would have hugged him longer and tried to remember every detail”. Her deep brown eyes reflected that small child who still needed her father.

Looking down, I noticed colorful wild flowers growing where the house used to stand and collected them to bring home for her. When grandma’s father was arrested, the Bolsheviks eradicated them from their home and took what they deemed “unnecessary” to own. In all this chaos, her mother collected their belongings, strapped everything to a cart lead by their family cow and headed to a nearby village.

There were no houses standing there either, but as we walked through the field we found remnants of their soviet era belongings. An old tea kettle, tin cans, a sink. My aunt pointed out a tree and showed us where she carved the name of her first crush.

Life under communist rule was painful for them here. Locals who joined the party would seize what they wanted from the citizens. “One day, a group of them came and took our down pillows, blankets and other belongings, considering them luxuries. A few days later my mother saw one of the women rolling around on the side of the road, tortured by the fleas who occupied the previous owners possessions. At this point many of us already made more pillows and blankets from goose feathers. But that was the difference between us, communists were considered the “working class party”, yet they didn’t want to work for the comforts in life and learn these basic skills”.

I couldn’t wrap my mind around everything they’ve been through and what their daily lives were like. We were shown the small graveyard that had many of our relatives buried and long forgotten. It was odd standing there, aware that they wouldn’t know who I am or my future children and their children’s children. We will never know each others personal stories, yet we are connected through decades of survival.

“Now…”, said uncle Misha, “Our next stop is more family where you will be staying for a few days, but you won’t have service there and there’s just one out house for everyone”.

I recoiled inwardly at the thought. But, a few days might not be as bad as it seems, I hoped.