Category Archives: True Story

Every year on April the 12th

April 15, 2014Memories, Portraits, True Storyvica

I love languages. I think they are like various sides of a diamond, all letting very special light and glitter to shine through them. But I always wondered what my favorite was. My father was in love with French. My mother is devoted to our mother tongue, Romanian. My sister, my niece and I grew up with Romanian and Russian. Nowadays, I poke my nose in about thirteen languages, of which in five I can understand and be understood.

A few weeks ago, I finally admitted to myself: English is my favorite. My wish to write in it makes it pretty obvious. And I guess, one of the reasons for the love of it was my English teacher. Valentin Ignatievich Jeleapov was my all times favorite teacher. He was a good friend of my father and after my father died, he became a father figure to me.

He used to give me his salami sandwiches. He engaged me into the work on our school museum. I gave guided tours in this museum. It was my first school of speech. I spent a lot of afternoons at school after the lessons and remember fondly those days.

The teachers in Soviet schools didn’t have much possibility to improvise, because the school program and material were prescribed. The text books were not very exciting. Foreign languages were not an exception. Most of us thought we wouldn’t have a chance to use them.

Only after finishing school and after Perestroika years, I learned how much passion Valentin Ignatievich had for English. I started teaching English to adult beginners, and upon advice from my mother, I brought him all the material I gathered and received at the University and from English friends I was lucky to make in Moldova during my years of study.

But there was one special “English” lesson we had with Valentin Ignatievich, and which I will never forget. It happened every year on April 12. It was done in Russian. We were not asked to read our assignments during those 45 minutes, although we were always told to prepare diligently, also for April 12.

On that day, Valentin Ignatievich told us how he and his fellow students experienced the day when Yuri Gagarin went to space as the first human being. He told us how his professors called off all of the courses and seminars, and how hundreds of students were extremely quiet listening to the report on the radio of the Gagarin’s flight and his landing. He shared with us the emotions he and his friends were living through on that historic day.

I loved those English lessons on April 12. I asked my sister, who is eight years elder than me and who learned her English with Valentin Ignatievich, too. She reported of the same experience. My friends from other classes said the same. This was an unofficial tradition at our school. And it was way out of program and rules.

In the seven years of learning English with Valentin Ignatievich, two times a week, I had several occasions, on which an English lesson for me and my school friends fell on April 12. And I was always glad to experience it again and again.

Valentin Ignatievich told us the same story every time, but the way he told it to us was always new. New sparkle, new detail came every time. I will never forget those special lessons. Every year, on April 12, I remember them with a smile. That is why I write this post. And that is why I created a scene in the novel I write about my father, inspired by my teacher’s story.

I was also glad to learn and experience two other things, occasions, connected to April 12. My mother told me that my father, if he would ever have a son, wanted to name him Yuri, after Yuri Gagarin. And my PhD exam was on April 12, 1999. When I learned that my exam was put on this particular day, I knew that everything would be all right. I was still nervous. But the memory of my father, of my English teacher, and the fact that I defended it in English, made this day very special, festive and unforgettable.

Picture: my father at his PhD defense in 1971. One year before I was born.

A letter to a long lost friend

March 25, 2014Books I read, Memories, True Storyvica

Dear Misha,

I met you almost thirty years ago. And it is almost thirty years since I last saw you. How long have we spent together? One week?

The evening before we parted I promised never to forget you.

That summer was special for me. My memories of many events during that summer vacation are very vivid. And every time I recall this time, when I for example talk to my Mother or my sister about then, I think about you.

I am finishing reading a deeply touching, a deeply human, both heart-breaking and heart-warming book: “The Kite Runner” by Khaled Hosseini. Maybe you read it? The main characters are boys who grew up in 1970s and 1980s in Afganistan. It is a novel. But it might have been your story. Although, I hope it wasn’t.

Did you know, that we were prepared for your arrival? It was summer 1985. I was twelve, not quite thirteen, years old then.

After my father died in 1983, I was diagnosed with anemia, and my worried mother and sister made everything to put me back on my feet. The trip to this sanatorium was expensive, as well as the black caviar my mother was buying specifically for me because it was known to promote production of the red blood cells. The caviar was like medicine for me at the time. Today, I like the taste of it. It is close to a miracle that my mother could arrange me going to this sanatorium, which was known as one of the best for children in Soviet Union.

And it was the best for me. It was good for my physical health. But it was also good for me in any possible sense. For the first time in my life I learned that I could be taken in any other way than as a crying softie. I was astonished to find out that the girls with whom I shared a room in the sanatorium thought of me as of a rebel, close to a “hooligan”. In the Soviet school times then, the word “hooligan” was secretly considered with admiration and awe. A “hooligan” was an ultimate rebel and leader in the never ending “children-adult” conflict. I was very much surprised and endlessly pleased to be seen as a rebel. Agreeable with the adults at the sanatorium. But a rebel nonetheless. At the end of the stay, after you have already left, I demonstrated my strength to myself. I stood up openly against harassment by some silly boys from our otriad and could look directly into the eyes of the one who thought he was allowed to do anything. Before this encounter, I thought what many of my schoolmates in Moldova thought of me. That I couldn’t stand up for myself. That I ran away, hid and cry. But this summer was different. In every sense of it. It was also a summer what I met a person for a very short time, but who would always be one of my dearest friends.

What were you told before you came to the sanatorium in Crimea that summer? Our group, the pioneer division, otriad, as it was called then, consisted of about twenty children before you and other children from Afghanistan came to join us for a part of our stay. I don’t remember our teacher’s name. But I remember her face. I remember her telling us that she lived in a small town nearby where she worked as a teacher during school time. During summer months she worked with children at sanatorium, and took the role of a class teacher, with exception that instead of lessons we had various medical, health strengthening procedures, sports and leisure activities. And I remember what she said in the evening before your arrival.

She said that there were twenty or thirty of children, originating from Afghanistan, coming to stay with us for a week. She said that most of you were orphans. That most of your childhood in Afganistan consisted of hiding away from bombs, of fear and hunger. That you were now brought up in an orphanage in Tadzhikistan. She asked us not to inquire you on your past, but just let you enjoy the summer and think, even if for a short while, that you had a happy childhood.

The group of children you came with was divided into smaller groups of eight to ten children and assigned to various otriads, which differed by the age of children in them. The teachers guessed that all of you were older than of guessed age, meaning older than us.

The following day we met you. We had the usual gathering in the hall, where we were all seated in a circle or rather rectangular around the walls of the hall. All of you were speaking very good Russian with a very pleasant, as I thought, accent. The softness of your accent sounded familiar reminding me of the accent I heard at home in Moldova. We were told that every one of you has chosen a Russian name, so that we, on the other side, wouldn’t struggle with names unfamiliar to us. Then, you and your friends introduced yourselves, first by telling your original name and then the one you have chosen in Russian.

We all listened with curiosity to names unknown to us and then tried to remember the names you have chosen. As the last from your group has presented himself, we all erupted with laughter. His real name was very long. I thought it contained more than ten words. And then he told us his name in Russian: “Vásea”.

You have chosen the name “Misha”. The name so important to me. The name of my father.

But there was something else that draw my attention to you. I thought I saw you before. I knew this was impossible. But I still had this feeling.

And then I had it. You looked so like my father on a very old picture taken many years before at an orphanage. Like him, you were one of the smallest in the group. Like him, with short shaven hair. With tanned skin darker than of the others around, and with the same serious look.

And like him, you grew up in an orphanage. I was so excited with this similarity and this “connection” that I hurried to share it with you. You seemed to be as excited as I was. You asked me about my father and what he has done in and with his life. I didn’t realize then, what this might have meant for you. Today I see that my father’s story might have given you hope. Hope that an orphan like you could have a bright future.

I remember us being inseparable during your stay at the sanatorium and how we went for sports and common activities together. Was it really only five or six days? With the vividness of the emotions and wonderful experience of our friendship, I have a feeling it was much longer. You were a brother I never had but always wished for.

In the evening before we parted, we watched the closing of Spartakiada, a socialistic alternative to the Olympics. I don’t remember exactly why, but there were only the two of us in the open hall of our otriad, where the TV-set was standing. I think, many went to the bonfire made in frames of a farewell party for you and your friends. Some went to watch the closing of Spartakiada with the elder children from the neighboring otriad. And there we were, sitting side by side and watching the show. I told you how I watched live, at an edge of a highway in Moldova, together with my father, a runner carrying the Olympic fire on its way from Greece to Moscow in summer of 1980. At some point we held each other and cried. We didn’t want to part. There and then we promised never to forget each other.

You left early next morning and I never saw you again.

I don’t know whether you went back to Afghanistan or grew up in the Soviet Union. Or where you might be now. I even don’t know your real name. But I dearly hope that you are happy. Maybe you have a family and children of your own. And if you do, then I am sure that like my father, you do everything to make their childhood as best as it could be, because you want to save them from the fate given to you.

My heart squeezed with pain when I read “The Kite Runner”. With pain and fear that such fate as described in the book could happen to anyone.

I have now a boy of my own. He is three years old. With dark hair, dark eyes, tanned skin, and furrowed eyebrows so similar to my father’s. So much reminding me of you. My heart of a mother wishes that he never endures pain of a war. The pain, which had hit you and my father so hard.

I am aware that you may never read this. And even if you do, you might not be able to recognize yourself in this story. But if you do, then here are two pictures. One of which I told you about so many years ago. The one with my father. Taken on June 10, 1953 in Moldova. And another is of our otriad in summer 1985 in Crimea. It was taken at a morning lineika, translated “ruler”, morning gatherings, where we lined up in pairs, listened to some standard socialistic music, call-outs and propaganda, and then were informed of the events planned for the day. I am sure that in this picture I am turning to check up on you, to see whether you noticed that we have been photographed.

Thank you for crossing my path, Misha! And thank you from all my heart for those memorable and unforgettable days!

With love and affection,

the sister you found during one summer in Crimea,

Vica

My father is the second from the left.

Vasea is the first from the left. You are the second. Another parallel. I am the fifth or sixth from the right, who looks back at you.

Born in a forest

December 23, 2013About this blog, Memories, True Storyvica

“Born in a forest, in a forest she grew,
in winter and summer beautiful and green she was.”
(Translated from a Russian children’s song about Christmas tree)

Somehow I cannot say “it” to a Christmas tree. When translating word by word, in Romanian and German it’s him and in Russian it’s her. And somehow “she” seems to suit a Christmas tree best. With all the glitter and decoration appearing as a magnificent dress.

We didn’t celebrate Christmas in Soviet Union. We had New Year’s Eve instead. And as for Christmas, there were certain mandatory attributes to these wonderful family gatherings: presents, tasty meal, and music. And a decorated fir tree with a figurines of Father Frost and his granddaughter Snegurochka underneath.

New Year’s parties at schools and kindergartens didn’t have angels. There were many snowflakes dancing happily around the festively decorated trees.

Over the years I attended many Christmas celebrations and learned various traditions about winter holidays and about Christmas trees. I learned that some decorate them on the day before Christmas, whereas in Soviet Union we decorated them somewhere in the beginning of December and kept them until the so-called Old New Year’s Eve, January thirtheen. Today, I have friends in Denmark, who are so much in love with her and Christmas tradition, that they decorate her in the beginning of November.

But whatever the tradition, whatever the song sung about her, for me she will always remain a symbol for warmth and love, a symbol for the best in a family.

For all my family members and friends, old, good, new, just met, yet to meet, and your friends and families: Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and Many Happy Moments witnessed by a glittering, magical beauty of a Christmas tree!

Picture 1: a two-year-old Santa Claus with braids in front of a Christmas tree he decorated last year with his father and me. The first he decorated in his life.

Picture 2: my days as a snowflake.

Lilly

December 10, 2013A mother's diary, Portraits, True Storyvica

Lilly is a princess. She is not a child because she is a princess. Lilly lives in a castle.

Once there were many Lillis and many castles, but usually there is only one Lilly living in one castle.

She is very kind to dogs. She loves dogs and she feeds the dogs.

Lilly always allows things that mommy and daddy forbid. She always manages the things mommy and daddy don’t manage.

And she is the one for whom my three-years-old son threatens to leave when he and I argue.

Here is the story of how Lilly was ‘born’. It happened this summer in the picturesque town of Briançon, in French Alps.

On the first day of our summer vacation, and as my husband was fetching the stroller from our car, Niklas and I witnessed a gorgeous British bride and her bridesmaids heading to the church accompanied by some friends and family. Just a few minutes before, we’ve seen many guests of this wedding near the church as we passed by. All the guests seemed to have travelled here all the way from Great Britain. I was carrying Niklas in my arms when we saw the bride and her friends.

The young women were singing loudly and very well, I must say. They looked like having sprang straight out of a romantic movie into the streets of Briançon. The street we saw them walking was steep and shadowy. They were going down the hill towards us. The descending blond beauty in white was shining and both my son and I were mesmerized by the wonder and the merriness of it all.

I said to Niklas: “Look, what a beautiful bride!”

I saw confusion in his eyes and said: “She is marrying today. And that is why she is dressed like a beautiful princess.”

In the following few days, Niklas was playing and trying to dress as both a bride and a groom and leading me several times to an imaginary altar.

The second part of the story started when my mother-in-law bought him a book about the builder Manny, a French equivalent for Bob the Builder. While translating the book into German she did call Manny Bob. Manny-Bob had a beautiful Kelly to help him with his work. And Manny-Bob had a construction company and his own car with his name on it.

Several days past. We were in our car on the way to the next walk in the mountains. And this is when it happened.

As we passed several sweet looking small town houses, Niklas said: “Here lives my beautiful Lilly.”

I was intrigued. “Who is Lilly?”

“She is my mother and I am married with her.”

“But if you and Lilly are married, then she is probably your wife, isn’t she?”

“No, – , yes.”

“Sweetheart, do you mean Kelly, Manny’s, sorry, Bob’s Kelly?”

“No, Lilly!” And after a pause, “And I have a construction company and my car!”

A few more days later, Niklas went with his father and his grandparents to a castle, situated at the top of the city. I stayed at our vacation home to do some writing.

When they came back, Niklas told me about the castle and that Lilly lived there. They all heard many dogs behind the gates leading to the castle. The gates were locked but Niklas and his entourage could hear that there were several if not many dogs and they all claimed hearing someone giving food to the dogs. Niklas said it was Lilly. That she was kind and loved her dogs.

It is already more than three months since then and Lilly is always there when my son needs her.

When we, his parents, say: “Niklas, you must not do this!” the answer often is: “But Lilly allows this! She is nice!”

She always does what we fail to do. For example, she already managed to get a movie on DVD, which we recently watched in the cinema and which is not on sale yet. Anywhere. Even Nikolaus, one of the German equivalents of Santa Claus, who brings sweets and small gifts on December 6, couldn’t find one, according to mommy. But Lilly could, and she and Niklas watched the movie together.

Lilly never disappoints my son. And she is the source for many stories. Now, when mommy and daddy tell about their colleagues and friends at the dinner table, Niklas can contribute as well. And he tells us about someone who we know nothing about, just like he doesn’t know about some of our colleagues or friends. He tells us about Lilly.

In September, my son had something close to a crush on a girl of four. This is another cute story, but here it is relevant to be mentioned because this crush came and went. Lilly is still here.

Lilly reminds me of my own escapes when I was a child. When I started learning English, I imagined having a friend, or rather an admirer and a husband-to-be, with whom I spoke English. He was English and could not speak any other language than English and he had no name. This most handsome young man, whom I was never able to describe except him being extremely handsome and very kind, was the one with whom I shared all my most secret of secrets.

I am grateful to my son and to Lilly to remind me of the works of my own imagination and what a powerful and wonderful force it is. Without it many things would appear two-dimensional and un-poetic.

I don’t know whether my son will remember Lilly and her story when he grows up. We both might forget this story as I forgot about mine until Lilly was ‘born’.

That is why I wanted to record it and to share it.

Let this story be a sweet reminder to Niklas and to all of us about all the wonderful ways our imagination leads us along.

We often blame our imagination for our fears, but it can also provide help, it can reassure us in our beginnings, make us look ahead with curiosity and excitement, and show us the ways out of the labyrinth of doubts and worries.

Did you have your own Lilly or an English friend when you grew up? What was she, he, they like?

P. S. At the walls of Lilly’s castle:

P. P. S. Niklas the Builder:

Privileged by a cat

December 3, 2013Memories, Portraits, True Storyvica

I woke up in the middle of the night because someone was shaking me. It was not a panicky shaking like in case of an earthquake or a fire. It was a rhythmic shaking as if someone was rocking me into sleep, but with rather abrupt and ungentle movements.

At first, I didn’t recognize where I was. I tried to support myself on my elbows to look at my feet and legs, where the shakes were coming from. But I had to stop because my head threatened to explode. And then, I started to recall what happened the evening before.

My colleagues and I had a wild and fun Christmas party. At the midnight we celebrated my birthday. Aha, this was the reason for my headache, or rather, I had to admit, a bad hangover. I immediately dreaded the morning.

Since I lived more than an hour away from our office at that time, my friend and colleague Klaudia has offered me to stay at her place overnight. I did it already several times until this encounter. And as at times before I slept on her guest bed.

I raised my head slowly, to avoid new headache punches. And that was when I saw him. Timmy! Klaudia’s big black cat. I could only see his silhouette in the moonlight, but it was him. And he was sitting on my ankles and washing himself. Thus, the short, rhythmic shakes.

I knew that Timmy started to accept me. He is not a cat who loves a cuddle or a rub. He shows you his appreciation by not minding you when you walk by his side while his majesty is taking his meal. You might think that he accidently touches you with his tail, but this is actually a gesture of acknowledgement toward only selected visitors. And the top honor is him sleeping on your feet. Only Klaudia and less than a handful friends received such a treatment, as Klaudia once told me.

So, this time he has chosen me. At first, I felt really privileged. I had always big respect for cats and their independency. But after several minutes of Timmy’s evening bath, which seemed not to come to any close end, I decided to place my feet on some ‘not so shaky’ ground, so to speak. I moved my legs carefully from under Timmy in order not to disturb him too much.

He stopped, but didn’t go away. As soon as I settled, he got up, searched my legs with his paw through the blanket and lied down. Again on my ankles. A second later he continued his evening bath.

Now, that was unacceptable! I had my wishes, too! He was a cat, for goodness sake! I was not going to let a cat dictate how I should sleep!

So, I moved my feet again away from Timmy. Even if they were slightly uncovered now and it was cold without a blanket, still I didn’t want to give in in this fight.

This time, Timmy didn’t stop his washing while I was moving away. He did it only when I stopped. Then he raised again, searched for my ankles and accommodated himself on them again.

We repeated the whole procedure several times. I was starting to get desperate, but I still didn’t want to chase him away. It might have ended worse for me, for starters. I never saw him in rage before and I didn’t want to try.

On the other hand, I liked this most elegant creature with his black slender body with hardly visible white spots on the ends of his front paws. You could only guess the small white spots at the top of his ears. But the most I liked about him was his character. He not only knew exactly what he wanted, but he also signaled it clearly. His slow considerate walks through Klaudia’s kitchen made any visitors slow down, interrupt whatever they were doing, turn and give him way.

While I was contemplating all the above, the shaking continued. I noticed that I was calming down and becoming sleepy.

Ok, I agreed. “I surrender, Timmy”, I said to him in my thoughts. “Now, rock me into sleep, please”.

And he did.