“The hot summer of 1918 was a sweltering affair with clouds of dust rolling through the streets with every renewed gust of dry hot wind. Hardly anybody enjoyed the implacable weather that drove just about everybody inside under shade except for ever boisterous and active children. The kids of Ekaterinoslav seemed oblivious to the ominous present and uncertain future in the country beset by war, Civil War.
Two revolutions of the previous year had unleashed a series of events that nobody could have reasonably expected. While the principle cities of the latest power takeover, Moscow and St. Petersburg, were firmly in the hands of Bolsheviks, the periphery was laid waste to constantly changing fortunes of opposing parties. Whites, Bolsheviks, hordes of Antanta and of course old fashioned bandits vied for space all throughout the old empire. The wide steppes of Ukraine were not strangers to their changing fortunes. One of the key parties getting a heavy slice of action and influence were the Anarchists under the command of the fateful commander Makhno. Among other things they distinguished themselves by opportunism, anti-Semitism and plain acts of sheer banditry. Their allegiance hardly rested on a single piece of dogma; rather it was based on exigencies of the moment. This time they felt like doing a little freelance work by occupying our large industrial centre just to prove the point and pad their pockets with some fresh loot. Lawlessness reigned and most of the sensible citizenry preferred to stay out of sight – nobody wanted to get gratuitously slashed, punched or mugged.
Sarah and her husband Abram were not taking their chances in their small apartment in the middle of town. But no precaution could prepare them for the loud thud that shook their front door one day. Asking who was knocking was useless as in this time of lawlessness loud authoritative thuds meant one thing, “open as fast as you can or else” Sure enough, this time was no different as a pair of self-confident, ruddy and slightly inebriated warriors of the commander Makhno stumbled into the apartment demanding food and lodging. With no viable alternatives, the compliant pair, a quiet housewife and a friendly barber, offered the best they had that day – fresh milk, bread, eggs and a nicely made bed in the only bedroom in this four-room apartment with outdoor plumbing and common kitchen shared with three other neighbours.
This time, the brave bandits happened to be reasonable, non-violent and Jew-tolerant guests who appreciated momentary rest and care provided by their gracious hosts. After a couple of days, the time came for the hordes to leave town on the next plundering expedition but not before the grateful guests decided to pay back for the hospitality. One of them pulled out a huge gold chain of nearly priestly Orthodox fame. It looked to be still warm with the breath of its last legitimate owner, the sensation so palpable and abhorrent that Sarah could not but take the only course of action. “No thank you”, was her firm reply.
Unaccustomed to too many refusals as of late, our wandering warrior was left with a single “legitimate” option. The pent-up rage rushed blood to his face, his neck sort of twitched and strained; the chest heaved releasing his hand in a wild swing that caught the thick glass of the china cabinet door, smashing it to pieces with the fateful chain. The shattered glass sprayed the living room with chunks of highly prized Viennese crystal leaving some scratches on Sarah’s hands and arms, as she covered her face in utter terror. The terror froze all her facilities in a stultified and lone figure coiling for the next onslaught of fury and gratuitous violence. Surprisingly, the next sounds she was able make out were not those of battered furniture or bodily violence, there were the sounds of the brigand turning 180 in his squeaky clean high military boots and heading for the door. He slammed it shut. It was quiet. The surrounding calm was nearly surreal as Abram and Sarah counted their blessings and wondered what would happen next to their plundered, frightened and cowering town...
Few more weeks fraught with fear and uncertainty passed before it became clear that the Bolsheviks held an upper hand in the monumental struggle, establishing some momentary sense of law and security. The infamous band of commander Makhno eventually plunged to their demise after their commander was executed by the Reds for crossing them one too many times in the bloody and treacherous mess of the War. His followers scattered melting into the general populace. Slowly the things returned to some semblance of normalcy - Abram went back to work on his by now rather dishevelled customers, Sarah kept running the house with frequent cleanings, savoury daily dinners and hopes of a child to come. The china cabinet served as a bleak reminder of the days past with one permanently gaping hole in one of its doors.”
I was in awe sitting on the couch in the grandma’s living room and listening to the stories of her life. The stories I thirsted to hear. I would trade any of my play time just to hear my grandma recounting her life. This one was no different, as I was sitting there mesmerised by the blue cigarette smoke circling around my Emma sitting in a threadbare old chair next to the warmest place in the house, the fireplace. She made her accounts enchanting and real, the ones you could nearly touch. This one was one of my favourites, since the famed hundred year old china cabinet still graced the living room, now with one of its doors bristling with a fake and rather modern limb that still managed to serve as a passable replacement for the Viennese glass lost in the battles of time and politics.
First Steps
The cabinet was absolutely magnificent and has graced this living room since before the World War I, when Sarah and Abram Eisman got first married, both coming out of a small Jewish town somewhere in the proximity of Gomel, Byelorussia. Blank on Abram’s background, I know that Sarah came out of a large family that eventually abandoned their small town for better pastures mostly settling in the capital city of ST. Petersburg. Sarah and Abram bucked the trend and moved in the opposite direction to the industrial heart of Ukraine – Ekaterinoslav. Hardly in the position to compete with leading world metropolises this polluted, busy and prosperous town proved to be a nice base for the young family. Its remoteness from the western borders of the Empire ensured some distance from rabid anti-Semitic sentiments of the western Ukraine. Abram was free to pry his craft as a hairdresser with reasonable success as he permanently featured in the one of the most known salons installed in the hotel “Continental”, right in the center of the city. By all accounts he was a very friendly man who counted many a friend and always stood by to provide support and cheer for his loved ones. Sarah was the backbone of the family and ran it like a military enterprise with generous sprinkling of love and care.
The devastating World War I was upon them. Rather snug and conveniently located in their apartment behind its nearly medieval walls seemed safe. The appearance was short lived as within a short time it became clear that these walls were hardly a defence against the tumult outside. Abram was called into the reserves awaiting a probable future in the murderous foxholes. Fortunately, the deployment never came and shortly upon the February revolution of 1917, his diminutive frame and agile fingers were doing what they were designed for – cutting hair and shaving chins. The events of the Bolshevik revolution later that year promptly drove the country into the civil war that inexorably touched everyone and everything as proved by the fateful wedding present – old Viennese china cabinet.
Once things returned to normal, time had come to think of starting a family. Their joy after a couple of years of waiting was complete when young Emma made her presence known by her first high-pitched shrill on January 28, 1921. The healthy rosy child brought so much celebration and joy that Abram right away ran into the nearest kosher establishment to order all what was and was not necessary to celebrate and share their blessings with family and friends. Although not terribly religious folk, appearing in the local synagogue around the corner only on major calendar occasions, the Aismans could not wait to share with the local Rabbi the great news. The joy shared in more than one quarter with dedication taking place eight days later in the presence of proud parents and their friends before God.
Growing up
Emma was growing up as a precocious child of the doting parents who failed to produce any other heirs. Gregarious Emma, although longing for a brother or a sister, would not be deterred. She enjoyed schooling and friends, she loved reading, playing and arguing – the latter was just a typical trait of any reasonable Jewish person who treated a good and loud argument as a sport. In the earlier years, Emma went to the nearby Jewish school in town. This persisted no further than late 20s when secular education became the only option due to the school’s closure on the grounds of the official dogmas of materialism and atheism.
Young Emma did not mind the change. The school instructions were in Russian that was her main and the most convenient language. She also retained some generous sprinklings of family Yiddish that she carried for the rest of her life, giving even more glitter to her shiny personality. The family life at home continued to be largely secular affair with occasional visits to the local synagogue until its final closure sometime in the late 30s. No formal closure of anything could extinguish the true Jewish spirit as the family persevered in their cooking and holiday traditions with Sarah always savouring a good helping of anything Yiddish just to make a point. She was the only one in the family who could read the Aramaic script and was very proud of it trying to pass it on to her daughter. Being a compliant girl in many respects, optimistic and playful Emma much preferred adventure and discovery of unknown lurking just outside rather than studying the ancient alphabet.
The adventure could not wait and Emma had to discover it wherever it lay – on the street play ground, in the park or on the river bank. She was very inquisitive, endowed with great memory and observation capacity. Some of these memories remained vivid in her imagination to her last days.
Stalin’s Famine
When around ten, she witnessed first hand the indescribable horrors wrought by the Stalin’s collectivisation plan on the people of Ukraine and other regions in the vast USSR. As a curious school girl Emma felt that not all was well in the nascent socialist state. While the milk man still came around early each morning in his horse drawn buggy dispersing freshly made creamy products to clamouring housewives. While the butcher still showed up in the afternoon with appetising chunks of beef resting on huge cubes of ice to pander to the dinner habits of the neighbourhood. While the bread stores and vegetable stands around still had necessary supplies of buns, cucumbers and cabbage. Emma started noticing strange unknown people in rags who looked more like walking skeletons than people she knew and met on daily basis.
The misguided and ultimately murderous effort of the central government in Moscow had turned most of the agricultural sector upside down. Up to that point, the predominant mode of agriculture was a tiny private farm that typically produced just enough to satisfy some external demand on the top of basic family necessities. Stalin and his lieutenants, drunk on the successes of industrialization, were ready to replicate their effort in the country side. However, unlike urban proletariat that had nearly accepted the message in its entirety, only the poorest of farmers saw any benefit of the new policy. The rest opposed the categorical and virulent collectivisation campaign with strident determination. This nearly resulted in something resembling rural revolt or more appropriately another “civil war”. The absolute power of Kremlin was not about to tolerate the situation. Dispatched troops and police fought a devastating campaign, sending millions into exile to Siberia and other less than welcoming vacation spots, subduing the rest by excessive and deliberate expropriation of food stuffs, seeds and livestock. The latter coupled with two years of bad harvest resulted in massive starvation, especially in Ukraine. Fleeing to the better supplied cities was the only option that was soon cut off by a policy of class-based segregation that saw the rural population deprived of a right to have an internal passport imperative for travelling even for short distances within the country. The peasants were tied to the land and shackled to the concept of collective farming just like poor wretches who lived through feudal Dark Ages.
The policy of hunger that killed millions saw only a few most desperate who managed to avoid army controlled road closures and escaped into nearby cities. By the time they showed up there, hopeless and haggard, the pity of common city folk was their last straw of hope.
At first surprised and puzzled young Emma could not really get any answers from her kind and compassionate parents who preferred to keep their mouths shut. This was the best strategy to avoid much of perilous NKVD (KGB of 1930s) scrutiny. With time curious and boisterous Emma did learn more, especially after surreptitiously visiting the local railway station with some of your closest friends. Normally busy with travellers going to and fro in their daily beat the station turned into a holding tank for dying and desperate. Emma, despite many a parental interdiction, kept coming, observing and learning – it was first time in her life she cried in sheer desperation. Alas, it was not the last.
WWII
The approaching World War II found Emma a successful, outgoing and engaging medical student. While grey clouds overhead were closing their ominous ranks in portentous omen of things to come, Emma was felicitously looking forward to yet another hot and eventful summer of 1941. Her festive mood was perennially darkened on June 22 when German hordes invaded the Soviet Union.
Although still hundreds and hundreds kilometres away, the war made its presence known immediately, as all summer plans were put on hold and the whole family was pondering their future move, as arrival of German troops seemed all but inevitable. The signs of the war were fast arriving as the industrial centre now re-christened Dnepropetrovsk was a target of many air strikes. No more frivolous play, as endless halcyon summer days were replaced by short but ever dangerous nights that bore first scars of the battle. Nobody was enjoying the warmth of these treacherous nights, instead frequent bomb alarms made good sleep a luxury for just about anyone.
The relentless advances of the frontline coerced hasty evacuations of many an important industrial enterprise and factory. Among them was a railway car repair factory that was packed and moved to the central Siberia in a matter of just a couple of weeks. An amazing feat, accomplished with participation of one of its young and up and coming engineers – Anatoly Posoukh – my future maternal grandfather.
While grandpa Anatoly was blessed profusely with a lack of options, Emma and family were still very much in the throes of major decisions – “evacuate or not to evacuate” – was the central question. Material well-being and professional success did not really matter when their very lives were in question. Some, among Emma’s Jewish friends, were slightly better informed amidst nearly complete news black-out under the shadows of Moscow propaganda machine, others failed to notice a thing among sparse and bland morsels spun-out by the official line. The former tended to favour a speedy evacuation. They believed in anti-Jewish policies of the Nazi Germany that were frequently highlighted in the central press. The latter, disregarding some basic truths, still perceived Nazis through the lenses of enlightenment that put Germany at the vanguard of civilization in the XIX century. Germans were thought of as harbingers of culture, sophistication and commerce.
The pessimists mostly prevailed and lived; some optimists stayed on and died. Luckily for Emma, Sarah made a fateful decision to leave just few weeks before the German hordes breached the last defences afforded by the mighty Dnepr. Any hardships of evacuation were worth the prize of one allowed to keep living, most of the time…
The ones left behind experienced a dreadful fate so eloquently described in many Holocaust art works. Unlike the long and drawn out process of extinction that befell western Jews, the eastern lot was dispatched quickly, in matter of weeks, and hardly with any ceremony by SS commandoes that followed in the Wehrmacht wake. Once in town, these wilful, vicious and merciless underlings of the evil himself did not lose much time in rounding up the remaining Jewish population. Being the meticulous and pragmatic creatures the last thing they wanted to do was to cause panic and lose a grip on the situation. Instead, they made all Jews register and wear stars of David to start. Then they slowly closed the loop by a series of barbaric edicts thus turning their victims into ever more miserable creatures. But not many expected the actual end to be so abrupt and brutal, as finally Jews were dispatched in thousands just beyond the central railway station in a large local park with a steep escarpment that served as natural echafaud.
Emma often remembered the horror through second-hand accounts of a childhood friend going to her final destination. This friend, Zina, got separated from most of her friends due to her parents’ decision to stay and try their commercial luck under refined German sensibilities. Alas, instead of profit and success they quickly savoured the bitter taste of their own demise. When led to her execution, Zina was said to be wailing so hysterically as to nearly disrupt meticulously moribund procession past the railway station. Finally she was dispatched even before the obedient marching column hit the fateful park. The account was so chilling that I can still feel the dread of emotions that swept over Emma whenever she mentioned it.
Evacuation
Being evacuated to the capital of Uzbekistan, Tashkent, Emma and family probably fared better than many in similar circumstances. Although still cold and blustery in the winter, the place offered beautifully fragrant springs followed by hot summers and smooth balmy autumns. Perpetually constrained war-time food rations were well supplemented by local bounty of fertile mountain slopes and fecund valleys that spread eastward to no eye’s end. After a short hiatus, Emma resumed her medical studies in the local university where she secured a bed in the dormitory, just not to lose time and be always close to her friends and books. Here she learned first hand the importance of close friendships whose warm feelings of belonging would stay in her heart for years and decades to come. Here she also got into practising some of her newly acquired medical knowledge and skills. At times it was not enough as relying on miracles rather than well-proven methods was the only alternative.
On one occasion, her friend Leva fell pray to a very virulent stomach flue that threatened to kill his already emaciated body. His friends had tried just about anything of value they could get their hands on, but the ravaging decease continued its ruthless course. In that last gesture of desperation, Emma took Leva’s coat to the local black market where she swapped it for a small jar of fresh sour cream. The jar that did not last long, as Leva swallowed the worth of his beloved coat in few short gulps chased by a peaceful nap that drowned his overjoyed body. The next thing everybody knew was that Leva was getting better by the minute and almost fully recovered in just few short days. The magic sour cream jar did the trick where no medical savvy could help. Ever since Emma became one of the strongest proponents of the dairy lobby, shame she did not live near the Capitol Hill. Instead I became a grateful recipient of her perpetual magic – a jar of sour cream, a glass of butter milk or any other product of milk fermentation became my daily routine.
Apart from early exercises in medical art – young, flourishing and assertive Emma was due for her first true romance. I am sure that runner-ups might have been a number, but the winner was one – Misha from the western republic of Moldova. A number of years her senior, this technical expert in something was definitely a hit with weaker sex. His fiery looks, southern temper and aquiline Jewish nose made one of the prime targets in the male depleted environment of the WWII. He avoided active military duty due to some medical albeit not so apparent reason. Emma and Misha hit it off quickly, falling in love and getting married in a short order. The fruits of their romance did not have to wait long as the delighted parents were blessed with the birth of a healthy baby boy, Little Misha, on the warm and sunny day of November 4, 1944. The smell of imminent victory was in the air and they could not possibly expect a better gift that ushered their way into bright future of the post-war Soviet Union.
Back Home
While last conflagrations of the most murderous war in history were still put out on the plains of Central Europe, live was starting to return to normal in western parts of the country. In early 1945 Emma and family returned back to the bombed out, devastated and yet still welcoming banks of Dnepr. Much to their relieve they managed to get back into their old apartment. Although it did not seem all that spacious any more due to the addition of two new members, Misha and Little Misha, nobody appeared all that inconvenienced with much hope and optimism that were the hallmarks of the general mood then.
Shortly after the return, Emma finally completed her medical studies and was ready to climb new heights as a fully qualified forensic pathologist. She was entering a very demanding, macabre and yet exciting world of law enforcement. This was probably the most memorable time of Emma’s life when she managed to juggle crazy work schedule, family life and numerous friends.
Reality
After incredibly trying and uncertain 40s, the next decade turned out, contrary to expectations, just as difficult due to a number of dramatic societal and personal events that left a lasting impression on Emma’s heart.
Work was her passion as it not only managed to satisfy her perpetual sense of curiosity but also put on her the vanguard of all things unusual. The local crime lab was her office as she spent most of her days helping to resolve many a bloody crime. Her work required much in a way of analytics that required a strong sense of observation, memorisation and dissection. Since most of it had to do with dead people, she even had to adjust her senses of smell and touch next to her very much alive philosophies.
“Remember one thing – the last people you want to fear are dead people, they can do no harm” – was her typical remonstration to me whenever I attempted to casually leaf through her gruesome pathology text books.
On many occasions her work at the lab and crime scenes proved crucial to police investigations. Much of it of course was long passed when she was telling me her stories and yet some were still clear in her mind as they had happened just yesterday.
Once upon a time, a disappearance of a young woman in her twenties was reported by her mother. The detectives following on some immediate leads ended up in the apartment of one of daughter’s friends who was married to a well-known university professor. The friend confirmed that the young disappeared woman was at the apartment last night. She left at around 10PM and that was the last of her she saw. The detectives did not feel particularly confident that it was truth what they had just heard. Maybe it was something to do with the pale looks of the friend or almost pristine gloss of a freshly scrubbed apartment. Was there anything worth extra attention?
They called Emma to help them to examine the place. Arriving shortly after the phone call, Emma started looking around for slightest traces of inconsistencies. Alas, all was in vain as the recent clean-up seemed to have extirpated the very last bit of dust. Almost resigned in futility, Emma glanced over a grand piano that occupied the middle of the room. It too appeared to have freshly scrubbed like the rest of the place - but why with such diligence? And what about those shiny piano keys? And why not look in between? Few minutes and screws later, the keys were pulled apart to reveal streaks of brown crust on their sides and bottoms – blood! It turned out that the friend jealous of an apparent love affair between the victim and her professor husband decided to take matters into her own hands by slaughtering her friend with an axe from behind while the young lady was playing her piano. Nothing could work better than inducing the victim to play some classical piece with her back turned toward the kitchen. After all she was petite, the professor husband was away and her assassin was strong enough to drag her body into a neighbourhood garbage dumpster in the middle of the night. Voila – a perfect crime of passion with Emma untying the knots.
Unfortunately, untying knots in her personal life proved to be much more difficult affair. First there was her father’s death in the late fifties of a sudden stroke. She dearly loved her parents and this untimely departure saddened her immeasurably. While close to both of them Emma had always felt some much particular kinship for her dear and humble father. His wit and temper she inherited, his gregariousness was written in the glint of her eyes and his optimism left a deep imprint on her spirit.
Then there were constant squabbles with her husband Misha. Being an older man, his gruff and at times unconsidered manners were not fitting in with the rest of the family cramped in their four-room apartment. Partially due to age, partially to his character and upbringing, he had hard time sharing in Emma’s outgoing extroverted nature. Her many friends, social engagements and demanding work schedule were not helping the matters seeding many a kern of discontent that frequently led to feuds and wrangles. This not only managed to drive a rift between two of them but also affected Little Misha who now was turning into a handsome, fiery and pugnacious teenager who had a strong personality of his own.
Sarah, always a quite strong character, preferring reconciliation to protracted and open hostilities, did her best to keep the situation afloat. But her years, failing health and subdued disposition were no match for heightened emotions and loud voices. She could barely keep her composure at times, hiding in the corner of the common kitchen lest neighbours saw her cry among her pans and pots.
This was probably the time when Emma realised that she did not have old feelings of love and respect for her husband any longer. The times had changed and she no longer cared for his company. In fact, more and more she preferred numerous excuses to spend less and less time at home. Little Misha was very dismayed. Despite his fatherly looks and his thick mane of crow-black hair, inside, true to himself, he vastly preferred his mother to his distant and colder father. He forever loved her optimism, her sharp wit and resolute nature. He always found her warmth and love whenever he reached out. She was the best mother. His father on the other hand did not leave much in a way of a stir in his heart. Physical resemblance was about the only common trait. There were two different people divided by generational sensibilities and outright lack of understanding.
Finally, Old Misha decided to go back to his home town of Kishinev in Moldova. Much of his family was still there and he wanted a fresh new start after years of family tumult. He left, un-divorced, but unencumbered by family claims. In his wake he left little to remind anyone of his existence other than more breathing room in the apartment. This was clearly a fresh beginning for anyone. Little Misha even had a sensation that this was the last time he saw his dad.
River of Life
Freed, although still officially married, Emma felt new winds in her back. Not only her personal situation acquired a new sense of unattached adventure but also everyone around seemed to be a bit cheerier. After all, the awful cold days of Stalinism were over with their constant threat of wonton persecution, institutional anti-Semitism and general sense of hopelessness. Now, after the XX Party Congress of 1956, new freedoms were re-entering the society. At the very least people could have their anecdotes back and Emma loved anecdotes, sarcasm and company to boot. Sensing inspiration and thin inebriating air of change, she plunged into new series of romances. One of them happened to be with a very high ranking and very married police chief, Victor. Now the notion of life outside of work took on a new meaning. Clandestine dates and not so clandestine trips to Moscow and Kiev were filling Emma’s life to the brim. Everything was allowed and everything was exciting. After all she was closing on her forties and had hardly tasted the very life she was supposed to have.
Hardly anyone around was in the position to impose any constraints on her conscience. Religion in the Soviet Union was all but dead creating a vast vacuum of permissible morals. Sarah had tried to intervene but all was in vain. Her old-fashioned sense of propriety was certainly no match for modern sensibilities. Emma loved it she was so engrossed in her new exciting life that she even forwent the company of Little Misha who seemed to suffer in silence. He adored his mother and felt a great need for her continuous company. The need that frequently went unrealized driving him to the street. There he could practise his strong and decisive traits in many a prank pulled off all over the neighbourhood in a company of his followers and friends. Little Misha was turning into a little menace. He was never cruel or intolerable, but he loved his youthful freedom and friendships.
While Little Misha’s band of ruffians terrorised senior citizens and stay-at home moms by playing pranks stealing their fresh cookies left in the open windowsills to cool off and cutting laundry lines thus letting freshly cleaned trousers and underpants helplessly sag into backyard dirt. He went unchecked and being so engrossed with his friends was hardly capable of noting that his wife was about to take a very unpleasant turn.
Emma continued along her live path until one very fateful day in the mid 60s. On that day Emma learned something rather chilling – she was under a criminal investigation. Was a crime really committed or somebody was just trying to get back at her for whatever reason? I have never learned exactly. The subject was hardly ever mentioned in the family circles and I only found out about it through some tangent references when other episodes were discussed. The only thing is clear is that in her early forties Emma was no longer as commanding figure in her professional circles and personal connections. Her lover Victor had been promoted to a higher post in another city. No attachment was enough to keep them together anyway when a crucial promotion was on the line. Ultimately Victor became a general and served as a deputy minister of internal affairs of Ukraine. But for now in his posting elsewhere, he seemed unable or unwilling to help Emma to beat the rap.
I think that basic accusations against her were something to do with her robbing dead victims of crimes when in her lab. I do not know how much of it was really proven, or whether Emma was just overcome by tragic circumstances dictated by powerful in charge. In the end, she had to spend a couple of years in prison, Soviet prison…
Grandmother
Anybody familiar with the Soviet prison system of post-Stalin years knows that surviving few years behind bars was doable but very taxing. Every year inside counted as easy five even in the heavily polluted centres like Dnepropetrovsk. Spending close to two years there was definitely no fun. And by the time I arrived on the scene in the late sixties, the grandma I knew no longer had previous energy, style and aplomb. She was just a grandmother I loved. Slightly on the heavy side with thoroughly grey hair and heavy asthmatic breath, heaving almost any time she took a step.
One could really get depressed but not my grandma, at least not visibly so. Dealing with the turbulent current in addition to the difficult past was now on her plate. Her dear and rickety mother Sarah was past her seventieth year with deteriorating health, meagre pension and almost non-existent eye-sight. Sarah was brave and energetic woman to her last breath, but had it been not for faithful Emma her last days would have been surely deprived of love and care.
Little Misha gave up some of his questionable inclinations and after successful medical school graduation was now experiencing many unexpected difficulties of his own. Some of it was of his doing due to his newly found addiction to powerful drugs; the other share of post-graduation misfortunes was due to his very Jewish roots and appearance that withheld many job opportunities in the home town.
He, as a perpetual optimist, decided to re-start his life by enlisting into the Red Army as a medical officer with most of his two years spent in the scorching heat of Uzbekistan. Upon return he and his young family moved to a neighbouring city trying his luck at things presumably more civil and stable. Unlike the army, he had harder time fitting in here with Emma suffering all the more. Unable to help her only son, her role in life was confined to sighs and worries. In addition, she also took care of her elderly aunt, Zina - Sarah’s sister, who had just moved from St. Petersburg. Her plate was full and over-flowing. Now a doctor with an emergency ambulance station, she was pulling incredible shifts and hours in between caring for her mother and aunt, and worrying about her son. At times she would work up to three 24-hour shifts per week. And this was an asthmatic fifty year old fighting with bouts of high blood pressure! My grandmother was a true timeless working machine that fuelled itself with hardly much more than quick fatty snacks and a two-pack daily diet of heavy Russian cigarettes. I cannot even imagine what she existed on during all these years, as she also took care of me for one full year while my parents spent their second year in Uzbekistan. It was truly astounding!
And yet despite this unbelievably heavy load she always retained her utmost love and patience. As a kid I took it as due without truly appreciating all those countless meals, stories and games. I could still relish the unforgettable smell of her fruit pies made with quickness and skill unsurpassed in my annals.
I can hardly remember Emma being downcast and repressed. And yet her lot was heavy. She must have cried a lot, of that I am sure and yet she never blamed any of her charges treating them with ever-abounding love. This was also around the time when her husband Misha decided to re-unite with his old family. He moved to Dnepropetrovsk to stay with us during the year when I, a four-year old, was taking my leave of the Uzbekistan Red Army experience. He was nice and warm to me, taking me on long walks along the river. Some of these walks culminated in the joy of all joys – rides. My favourite ride was electric cars that raced one another in a screeching frenzy with occasional bumps and crashes. Grandpa Misha did not mind my taking few extra laps although he did not have an easy time fitting his hulking frame into one of those.
Back from our walks things did not progress as smoothly when Misha with his old dominant personality frequently clashed with Emma who by then had got used to full independence of decisions, finances and life in general. When squabbling they were not particularly loud or rambunctious and yet one could easily sense tension. As any four-year old, I was well attuned to voices and their meaning without fully grasping the consequences. Alas, the ensuing succession of events did not cascade all that fluidly on the surface of life and Misha left for his beloved Moldova once more. This time he was not to be heard from again.
Ten Years Later
“Ren-sen-brink, grandma, Ren-sen-brink” – I slowly repeated this mumbo-jumbo of a name only to almost kill-over in a raucous laughter attack. Emma could not contain herself either bursting into sporadic gurgles of laughter mixed with heaving chain-smoking cough of an asthma patient. This was the name of a famous Dutch footballer of the 70s who was a sublime master of his booming long-distance shots and had superbly bad luck at the Argentina Final 78 when he failed to break a late draw by hitting a post. Ever since those dramatic minutes just before Argentina took the Cup in overtime my grandma for the life of her could not pronounce the blasted Dutch name. And every time she tried, she would burst laughing engulfing whoever happened to be in audience at a time. I was of course the real culprit, egging grandma on whenever in need of a comedic moment.
In those years we needed those moments more than ever before. Especially, since only two of us occupied the old smoky apartment with walls thicker than those of Bastille and windows rivalling in age those of Uffizi. Sarah and her sister had long succumbed to their years and no longer graced out company. Little Misha, freshly out of yet another stint behind bars for drug offences, was now tolerably married to a lady few years his senior with two independent daughters of her own. They lived thousands of kilometres away in the depth of Siberia and were not very frequently heard from. My father had recently suffered a massive heart attack and hence was not all that disposed to coming to see us any time soon. It was quiet and sad in our camp.
Only three years before it was way more tumultuous. Little Misha was then on the crossroads of life once again. Whenever he was in such a place, he frequently turned into an unruly teenager armed with alcohol and drugs to boot. And since he spent most of his life on cross-roads instead of nice tree-lined boulevards, such occurrences were not all that infrequent. Once coming home through the murk of the windowless common kitchen I heard soft sobbing in the grandma’s corner. Through the haze and fumes I saw Emma crying over her empty pot of borsch – “he, he” she stuttered “just brought in his drunkard friends and they emptied the whole pot!” No big deal to some, I knew that this meant no real dinner today and maybe even tomorrow as we were frequently short on money. Now, it did not mean outright hunger but it did mean a complete lack of respect for my grandma that overwhelmed me with exceeding sadness. Even now the thought of that moment brings me into the land of irresolvable sadness – this old tattered asthmatic lady spent a better part of the day cooking the bleeding borsch only to throw it to the proverbial pigs…
Alas, such moments of sadness and helplessness were not unique and they did not have everything to do with Little Misha. To my shame my high-strung teenage years did not land softly on Emma either. Friends, late nights and lack of obedience brought us through many an unnecessary wrangle. While these bounced off reasonably well of my youthful chest, they got stuck like old splinters in hers. And yet she was always ready to forgive and move on – amazing. Now, I know for a fact that I did not appreciate my grandmother enough. I manipulated and used her to make my life easier and yet she hardly complained cooking, cleaning and giving me showers. The latter were a particular feat as her communal flat lacked anything resembling a shower or a bath. We did have water, cold water. So in order to indulge in my daily self-preening routine, Emma had to shuffle into the cantankerous environment of the common kitchen, to heat up a couple of water pots. Carrying them back mixing, splashing on yours truly and cleaning was her ungrateful task. I was not a complete selfish pig however since I did clean, vacuumed and dusted around the place to make it look like a 20th century dwelling and not a medieval stable. In this undertaking my successes were muted at best.
The most cherished family moments were those when we would chat about life – past, present and future with me reclining on a couch with a piece of Emma’s pie and Emma hulking in her old rickety chair with an umpteenth cigarette of the day. “You know” she would say. “This china cabinet has a remarkable story…” After recounting her latest edition of the gold chain episode she would sign, light up another one and smile through her half-eaten teeth – “this china cabinet is a true antic and must be worth some money. May be one day we will sell it for a really princely some and have a nice holiday “- she would dreamily rolled her eyes. “Or maybe after I am gone you could use the money…” her voice would trail off her moist eyes with a pitiful tremble. This always made me downcast. I knew that one day I would have to live without my dear grandmother.
Little prescience did she have as this historic china cabinet and the apartment itself would slip through my badly documented fingers after her and my father’s passing. But mortar and stones do not reside in our souls; memories do…
Epitaph
Emma, your life might not have turned out as the stars had predicted but you will always have a warm resting spot in my heart. Your last few years were not the happiest of your life and yet you were blessed to spend most of them in the company of Little Misha who came home to die. You did not know that and God made sure you never found out as he called your soul before his time came. At least you shared the last stretch of your lives together in a loving embrace and let me share in some small joys that came along. The thing I regret the most is too tiny of a place that God took up in our lives then. I know he desired all of us – you, father and I. I have found hope and maybe have you…I only wish another glimpse of you to say one more good-bye.
Two revolutions of the previous year had unleashed a series of events that nobody could have reasonably expected. While the principle cities of the latest power takeover, Moscow and St. Petersburg, were firmly in the hands of Bolsheviks, the periphery was laid waste to constantly changing fortunes of opposing parties. Whites, Bolsheviks, hordes of Antanta and of course old fashioned bandits vied for space all throughout the old empire. The wide steppes of Ukraine were not strangers to their changing fortunes. One of the key parties getting a heavy slice of action and influence were the Anarchists under the command of the fateful commander Makhno. Among other things they distinguished themselves by opportunism, anti-Semitism and plain acts of sheer banditry. Their allegiance hardly rested on a single piece of dogma; rather it was based on exigencies of the moment. This time they felt like doing a little freelance work by occupying our large industrial centre just to prove the point and pad their pockets with some fresh loot. Lawlessness reigned and most of the sensible citizenry preferred to stay out of sight – nobody wanted to get gratuitously slashed, punched or mugged.
Sarah and her husband Abram were not taking their chances in their small apartment in the middle of town. But no precaution could prepare them for the loud thud that shook their front door one day. Asking who was knocking was useless as in this time of lawlessness loud authoritative thuds meant one thing, “open as fast as you can or else” Sure enough, this time was no different as a pair of self-confident, ruddy and slightly inebriated warriors of the commander Makhno stumbled into the apartment demanding food and lodging. With no viable alternatives, the compliant pair, a quiet housewife and a friendly barber, offered the best they had that day – fresh milk, bread, eggs and a nicely made bed in the only bedroom in this four-room apartment with outdoor plumbing and common kitchen shared with three other neighbours.
This time, the brave bandits happened to be reasonable, non-violent and Jew-tolerant guests who appreciated momentary rest and care provided by their gracious hosts. After a couple of days, the time came for the hordes to leave town on the next plundering expedition but not before the grateful guests decided to pay back for the hospitality. One of them pulled out a huge gold chain of nearly priestly Orthodox fame. It looked to be still warm with the breath of its last legitimate owner, the sensation so palpable and abhorrent that Sarah could not but take the only course of action. “No thank you”, was her firm reply.
Unaccustomed to too many refusals as of late, our wandering warrior was left with a single “legitimate” option. The pent-up rage rushed blood to his face, his neck sort of twitched and strained; the chest heaved releasing his hand in a wild swing that caught the thick glass of the china cabinet door, smashing it to pieces with the fateful chain. The shattered glass sprayed the living room with chunks of highly prized Viennese crystal leaving some scratches on Sarah’s hands and arms, as she covered her face in utter terror. The terror froze all her facilities in a stultified and lone figure coiling for the next onslaught of fury and gratuitous violence. Surprisingly, the next sounds she was able make out were not those of battered furniture or bodily violence, there were the sounds of the brigand turning 180 in his squeaky clean high military boots and heading for the door. He slammed it shut. It was quiet. The surrounding calm was nearly surreal as Abram and Sarah counted their blessings and wondered what would happen next to their plundered, frightened and cowering town...
Few more weeks fraught with fear and uncertainty passed before it became clear that the Bolsheviks held an upper hand in the monumental struggle, establishing some momentary sense of law and security. The infamous band of commander Makhno eventually plunged to their demise after their commander was executed by the Reds for crossing them one too many times in the bloody and treacherous mess of the War. His followers scattered melting into the general populace. Slowly the things returned to some semblance of normalcy - Abram went back to work on his by now rather dishevelled customers, Sarah kept running the house with frequent cleanings, savoury daily dinners and hopes of a child to come. The china cabinet served as a bleak reminder of the days past with one permanently gaping hole in one of its doors.”
I was in awe sitting on the couch in the grandma’s living room and listening to the stories of her life. The stories I thirsted to hear. I would trade any of my play time just to hear my grandma recounting her life. This one was no different, as I was sitting there mesmerised by the blue cigarette smoke circling around my Emma sitting in a threadbare old chair next to the warmest place in the house, the fireplace. She made her accounts enchanting and real, the ones you could nearly touch. This one was one of my favourites, since the famed hundred year old china cabinet still graced the living room, now with one of its doors bristling with a fake and rather modern limb that still managed to serve as a passable replacement for the Viennese glass lost in the battles of time and politics.
First Steps
The cabinet was absolutely magnificent and has graced this living room since before the World War I, when Sarah and Abram Eisman got first married, both coming out of a small Jewish town somewhere in the proximity of Gomel, Byelorussia. Blank on Abram’s background, I know that Sarah came out of a large family that eventually abandoned their small town for better pastures mostly settling in the capital city of ST. Petersburg. Sarah and Abram bucked the trend and moved in the opposite direction to the industrial heart of Ukraine – Ekaterinoslav. Hardly in the position to compete with leading world metropolises this polluted, busy and prosperous town proved to be a nice base for the young family. Its remoteness from the western borders of the Empire ensured some distance from rabid anti-Semitic sentiments of the western Ukraine. Abram was free to pry his craft as a hairdresser with reasonable success as he permanently featured in the one of the most known salons installed in the hotel “Continental”, right in the center of the city. By all accounts he was a very friendly man who counted many a friend and always stood by to provide support and cheer for his loved ones. Sarah was the backbone of the family and ran it like a military enterprise with generous sprinkling of love and care.
The devastating World War I was upon them. Rather snug and conveniently located in their apartment behind its nearly medieval walls seemed safe. The appearance was short lived as within a short time it became clear that these walls were hardly a defence against the tumult outside. Abram was called into the reserves awaiting a probable future in the murderous foxholes. Fortunately, the deployment never came and shortly upon the February revolution of 1917, his diminutive frame and agile fingers were doing what they were designed for – cutting hair and shaving chins. The events of the Bolshevik revolution later that year promptly drove the country into the civil war that inexorably touched everyone and everything as proved by the fateful wedding present – old Viennese china cabinet.
Once things returned to normal, time had come to think of starting a family. Their joy after a couple of years of waiting was complete when young Emma made her presence known by her first high-pitched shrill on January 28, 1921. The healthy rosy child brought so much celebration and joy that Abram right away ran into the nearest kosher establishment to order all what was and was not necessary to celebrate and share their blessings with family and friends. Although not terribly religious folk, appearing in the local synagogue around the corner only on major calendar occasions, the Aismans could not wait to share with the local Rabbi the great news. The joy shared in more than one quarter with dedication taking place eight days later in the presence of proud parents and their friends before God.
Growing up
Emma was growing up as a precocious child of the doting parents who failed to produce any other heirs. Gregarious Emma, although longing for a brother or a sister, would not be deterred. She enjoyed schooling and friends, she loved reading, playing and arguing – the latter was just a typical trait of any reasonable Jewish person who treated a good and loud argument as a sport. In the earlier years, Emma went to the nearby Jewish school in town. This persisted no further than late 20s when secular education became the only option due to the school’s closure on the grounds of the official dogmas of materialism and atheism.
Young Emma did not mind the change. The school instructions were in Russian that was her main and the most convenient language. She also retained some generous sprinklings of family Yiddish that she carried for the rest of her life, giving even more glitter to her shiny personality. The family life at home continued to be largely secular affair with occasional visits to the local synagogue until its final closure sometime in the late 30s. No formal closure of anything could extinguish the true Jewish spirit as the family persevered in their cooking and holiday traditions with Sarah always savouring a good helping of anything Yiddish just to make a point. She was the only one in the family who could read the Aramaic script and was very proud of it trying to pass it on to her daughter. Being a compliant girl in many respects, optimistic and playful Emma much preferred adventure and discovery of unknown lurking just outside rather than studying the ancient alphabet.
The adventure could not wait and Emma had to discover it wherever it lay – on the street play ground, in the park or on the river bank. She was very inquisitive, endowed with great memory and observation capacity. Some of these memories remained vivid in her imagination to her last days.
Stalin’s Famine
When around ten, she witnessed first hand the indescribable horrors wrought by the Stalin’s collectivisation plan on the people of Ukraine and other regions in the vast USSR. As a curious school girl Emma felt that not all was well in the nascent socialist state. While the milk man still came around early each morning in his horse drawn buggy dispersing freshly made creamy products to clamouring housewives. While the butcher still showed up in the afternoon with appetising chunks of beef resting on huge cubes of ice to pander to the dinner habits of the neighbourhood. While the bread stores and vegetable stands around still had necessary supplies of buns, cucumbers and cabbage. Emma started noticing strange unknown people in rags who looked more like walking skeletons than people she knew and met on daily basis.
The misguided and ultimately murderous effort of the central government in Moscow had turned most of the agricultural sector upside down. Up to that point, the predominant mode of agriculture was a tiny private farm that typically produced just enough to satisfy some external demand on the top of basic family necessities. Stalin and his lieutenants, drunk on the successes of industrialization, were ready to replicate their effort in the country side. However, unlike urban proletariat that had nearly accepted the message in its entirety, only the poorest of farmers saw any benefit of the new policy. The rest opposed the categorical and virulent collectivisation campaign with strident determination. This nearly resulted in something resembling rural revolt or more appropriately another “civil war”. The absolute power of Kremlin was not about to tolerate the situation. Dispatched troops and police fought a devastating campaign, sending millions into exile to Siberia and other less than welcoming vacation spots, subduing the rest by excessive and deliberate expropriation of food stuffs, seeds and livestock. The latter coupled with two years of bad harvest resulted in massive starvation, especially in Ukraine. Fleeing to the better supplied cities was the only option that was soon cut off by a policy of class-based segregation that saw the rural population deprived of a right to have an internal passport imperative for travelling even for short distances within the country. The peasants were tied to the land and shackled to the concept of collective farming just like poor wretches who lived through feudal Dark Ages.
The policy of hunger that killed millions saw only a few most desperate who managed to avoid army controlled road closures and escaped into nearby cities. By the time they showed up there, hopeless and haggard, the pity of common city folk was their last straw of hope.
At first surprised and puzzled young Emma could not really get any answers from her kind and compassionate parents who preferred to keep their mouths shut. This was the best strategy to avoid much of perilous NKVD (KGB of 1930s) scrutiny. With time curious and boisterous Emma did learn more, especially after surreptitiously visiting the local railway station with some of your closest friends. Normally busy with travellers going to and fro in their daily beat the station turned into a holding tank for dying and desperate. Emma, despite many a parental interdiction, kept coming, observing and learning – it was first time in her life she cried in sheer desperation. Alas, it was not the last.
WWII
The approaching World War II found Emma a successful, outgoing and engaging medical student. While grey clouds overhead were closing their ominous ranks in portentous omen of things to come, Emma was felicitously looking forward to yet another hot and eventful summer of 1941. Her festive mood was perennially darkened on June 22 when German hordes invaded the Soviet Union.
Although still hundreds and hundreds kilometres away, the war made its presence known immediately, as all summer plans were put on hold and the whole family was pondering their future move, as arrival of German troops seemed all but inevitable. The signs of the war were fast arriving as the industrial centre now re-christened Dnepropetrovsk was a target of many air strikes. No more frivolous play, as endless halcyon summer days were replaced by short but ever dangerous nights that bore first scars of the battle. Nobody was enjoying the warmth of these treacherous nights, instead frequent bomb alarms made good sleep a luxury for just about anyone.
The relentless advances of the frontline coerced hasty evacuations of many an important industrial enterprise and factory. Among them was a railway car repair factory that was packed and moved to the central Siberia in a matter of just a couple of weeks. An amazing feat, accomplished with participation of one of its young and up and coming engineers – Anatoly Posoukh – my future maternal grandfather.
While grandpa Anatoly was blessed profusely with a lack of options, Emma and family were still very much in the throes of major decisions – “evacuate or not to evacuate” – was the central question. Material well-being and professional success did not really matter when their very lives were in question. Some, among Emma’s Jewish friends, were slightly better informed amidst nearly complete news black-out under the shadows of Moscow propaganda machine, others failed to notice a thing among sparse and bland morsels spun-out by the official line. The former tended to favour a speedy evacuation. They believed in anti-Jewish policies of the Nazi Germany that were frequently highlighted in the central press. The latter, disregarding some basic truths, still perceived Nazis through the lenses of enlightenment that put Germany at the vanguard of civilization in the XIX century. Germans were thought of as harbingers of culture, sophistication and commerce.
The pessimists mostly prevailed and lived; some optimists stayed on and died. Luckily for Emma, Sarah made a fateful decision to leave just few weeks before the German hordes breached the last defences afforded by the mighty Dnepr. Any hardships of evacuation were worth the prize of one allowed to keep living, most of the time…
The ones left behind experienced a dreadful fate so eloquently described in many Holocaust art works. Unlike the long and drawn out process of extinction that befell western Jews, the eastern lot was dispatched quickly, in matter of weeks, and hardly with any ceremony by SS commandoes that followed in the Wehrmacht wake. Once in town, these wilful, vicious and merciless underlings of the evil himself did not lose much time in rounding up the remaining Jewish population. Being the meticulous and pragmatic creatures the last thing they wanted to do was to cause panic and lose a grip on the situation. Instead, they made all Jews register and wear stars of David to start. Then they slowly closed the loop by a series of barbaric edicts thus turning their victims into ever more miserable creatures. But not many expected the actual end to be so abrupt and brutal, as finally Jews were dispatched in thousands just beyond the central railway station in a large local park with a steep escarpment that served as natural echafaud.
Emma often remembered the horror through second-hand accounts of a childhood friend going to her final destination. This friend, Zina, got separated from most of her friends due to her parents’ decision to stay and try their commercial luck under refined German sensibilities. Alas, instead of profit and success they quickly savoured the bitter taste of their own demise. When led to her execution, Zina was said to be wailing so hysterically as to nearly disrupt meticulously moribund procession past the railway station. Finally she was dispatched even before the obedient marching column hit the fateful park. The account was so chilling that I can still feel the dread of emotions that swept over Emma whenever she mentioned it.
Evacuation
Being evacuated to the capital of Uzbekistan, Tashkent, Emma and family probably fared better than many in similar circumstances. Although still cold and blustery in the winter, the place offered beautifully fragrant springs followed by hot summers and smooth balmy autumns. Perpetually constrained war-time food rations were well supplemented by local bounty of fertile mountain slopes and fecund valleys that spread eastward to no eye’s end. After a short hiatus, Emma resumed her medical studies in the local university where she secured a bed in the dormitory, just not to lose time and be always close to her friends and books. Here she learned first hand the importance of close friendships whose warm feelings of belonging would stay in her heart for years and decades to come. Here she also got into practising some of her newly acquired medical knowledge and skills. At times it was not enough as relying on miracles rather than well-proven methods was the only alternative.
On one occasion, her friend Leva fell pray to a very virulent stomach flue that threatened to kill his already emaciated body. His friends had tried just about anything of value they could get their hands on, but the ravaging decease continued its ruthless course. In that last gesture of desperation, Emma took Leva’s coat to the local black market where she swapped it for a small jar of fresh sour cream. The jar that did not last long, as Leva swallowed the worth of his beloved coat in few short gulps chased by a peaceful nap that drowned his overjoyed body. The next thing everybody knew was that Leva was getting better by the minute and almost fully recovered in just few short days. The magic sour cream jar did the trick where no medical savvy could help. Ever since Emma became one of the strongest proponents of the dairy lobby, shame she did not live near the Capitol Hill. Instead I became a grateful recipient of her perpetual magic – a jar of sour cream, a glass of butter milk or any other product of milk fermentation became my daily routine.
Apart from early exercises in medical art – young, flourishing and assertive Emma was due for her first true romance. I am sure that runner-ups might have been a number, but the winner was one – Misha from the western republic of Moldova. A number of years her senior, this technical expert in something was definitely a hit with weaker sex. His fiery looks, southern temper and aquiline Jewish nose made one of the prime targets in the male depleted environment of the WWII. He avoided active military duty due to some medical albeit not so apparent reason. Emma and Misha hit it off quickly, falling in love and getting married in a short order. The fruits of their romance did not have to wait long as the delighted parents were blessed with the birth of a healthy baby boy, Little Misha, on the warm and sunny day of November 4, 1944. The smell of imminent victory was in the air and they could not possibly expect a better gift that ushered their way into bright future of the post-war Soviet Union.
Back Home
While last conflagrations of the most murderous war in history were still put out on the plains of Central Europe, live was starting to return to normal in western parts of the country. In early 1945 Emma and family returned back to the bombed out, devastated and yet still welcoming banks of Dnepr. Much to their relieve they managed to get back into their old apartment. Although it did not seem all that spacious any more due to the addition of two new members, Misha and Little Misha, nobody appeared all that inconvenienced with much hope and optimism that were the hallmarks of the general mood then.
Shortly after the return, Emma finally completed her medical studies and was ready to climb new heights as a fully qualified forensic pathologist. She was entering a very demanding, macabre and yet exciting world of law enforcement. This was probably the most memorable time of Emma’s life when she managed to juggle crazy work schedule, family life and numerous friends.
Reality
After incredibly trying and uncertain 40s, the next decade turned out, contrary to expectations, just as difficult due to a number of dramatic societal and personal events that left a lasting impression on Emma’s heart.
Work was her passion as it not only managed to satisfy her perpetual sense of curiosity but also put on her the vanguard of all things unusual. The local crime lab was her office as she spent most of her days helping to resolve many a bloody crime. Her work required much in a way of analytics that required a strong sense of observation, memorisation and dissection. Since most of it had to do with dead people, she even had to adjust her senses of smell and touch next to her very much alive philosophies.
“Remember one thing – the last people you want to fear are dead people, they can do no harm” – was her typical remonstration to me whenever I attempted to casually leaf through her gruesome pathology text books.
On many occasions her work at the lab and crime scenes proved crucial to police investigations. Much of it of course was long passed when she was telling me her stories and yet some were still clear in her mind as they had happened just yesterday.
Once upon a time, a disappearance of a young woman in her twenties was reported by her mother. The detectives following on some immediate leads ended up in the apartment of one of daughter’s friends who was married to a well-known university professor. The friend confirmed that the young disappeared woman was at the apartment last night. She left at around 10PM and that was the last of her she saw. The detectives did not feel particularly confident that it was truth what they had just heard. Maybe it was something to do with the pale looks of the friend or almost pristine gloss of a freshly scrubbed apartment. Was there anything worth extra attention?
They called Emma to help them to examine the place. Arriving shortly after the phone call, Emma started looking around for slightest traces of inconsistencies. Alas, all was in vain as the recent clean-up seemed to have extirpated the very last bit of dust. Almost resigned in futility, Emma glanced over a grand piano that occupied the middle of the room. It too appeared to have freshly scrubbed like the rest of the place - but why with such diligence? And what about those shiny piano keys? And why not look in between? Few minutes and screws later, the keys were pulled apart to reveal streaks of brown crust on their sides and bottoms – blood! It turned out that the friend jealous of an apparent love affair between the victim and her professor husband decided to take matters into her own hands by slaughtering her friend with an axe from behind while the young lady was playing her piano. Nothing could work better than inducing the victim to play some classical piece with her back turned toward the kitchen. After all she was petite, the professor husband was away and her assassin was strong enough to drag her body into a neighbourhood garbage dumpster in the middle of the night. Voila – a perfect crime of passion with Emma untying the knots.
Unfortunately, untying knots in her personal life proved to be much more difficult affair. First there was her father’s death in the late fifties of a sudden stroke. She dearly loved her parents and this untimely departure saddened her immeasurably. While close to both of them Emma had always felt some much particular kinship for her dear and humble father. His wit and temper she inherited, his gregariousness was written in the glint of her eyes and his optimism left a deep imprint on her spirit.
Then there were constant squabbles with her husband Misha. Being an older man, his gruff and at times unconsidered manners were not fitting in with the rest of the family cramped in their four-room apartment. Partially due to age, partially to his character and upbringing, he had hard time sharing in Emma’s outgoing extroverted nature. Her many friends, social engagements and demanding work schedule were not helping the matters seeding many a kern of discontent that frequently led to feuds and wrangles. This not only managed to drive a rift between two of them but also affected Little Misha who now was turning into a handsome, fiery and pugnacious teenager who had a strong personality of his own.
Sarah, always a quite strong character, preferring reconciliation to protracted and open hostilities, did her best to keep the situation afloat. But her years, failing health and subdued disposition were no match for heightened emotions and loud voices. She could barely keep her composure at times, hiding in the corner of the common kitchen lest neighbours saw her cry among her pans and pots.
This was probably the time when Emma realised that she did not have old feelings of love and respect for her husband any longer. The times had changed and she no longer cared for his company. In fact, more and more she preferred numerous excuses to spend less and less time at home. Little Misha was very dismayed. Despite his fatherly looks and his thick mane of crow-black hair, inside, true to himself, he vastly preferred his mother to his distant and colder father. He forever loved her optimism, her sharp wit and resolute nature. He always found her warmth and love whenever he reached out. She was the best mother. His father on the other hand did not leave much in a way of a stir in his heart. Physical resemblance was about the only common trait. There were two different people divided by generational sensibilities and outright lack of understanding.
Finally, Old Misha decided to go back to his home town of Kishinev in Moldova. Much of his family was still there and he wanted a fresh new start after years of family tumult. He left, un-divorced, but unencumbered by family claims. In his wake he left little to remind anyone of his existence other than more breathing room in the apartment. This was clearly a fresh beginning for anyone. Little Misha even had a sensation that this was the last time he saw his dad.
River of Life
Freed, although still officially married, Emma felt new winds in her back. Not only her personal situation acquired a new sense of unattached adventure but also everyone around seemed to be a bit cheerier. After all, the awful cold days of Stalinism were over with their constant threat of wonton persecution, institutional anti-Semitism and general sense of hopelessness. Now, after the XX Party Congress of 1956, new freedoms were re-entering the society. At the very least people could have their anecdotes back and Emma loved anecdotes, sarcasm and company to boot. Sensing inspiration and thin inebriating air of change, she plunged into new series of romances. One of them happened to be with a very high ranking and very married police chief, Victor. Now the notion of life outside of work took on a new meaning. Clandestine dates and not so clandestine trips to Moscow and Kiev were filling Emma’s life to the brim. Everything was allowed and everything was exciting. After all she was closing on her forties and had hardly tasted the very life she was supposed to have.
Hardly anyone around was in the position to impose any constraints on her conscience. Religion in the Soviet Union was all but dead creating a vast vacuum of permissible morals. Sarah had tried to intervene but all was in vain. Her old-fashioned sense of propriety was certainly no match for modern sensibilities. Emma loved it she was so engrossed in her new exciting life that she even forwent the company of Little Misha who seemed to suffer in silence. He adored his mother and felt a great need for her continuous company. The need that frequently went unrealized driving him to the street. There he could practise his strong and decisive traits in many a prank pulled off all over the neighbourhood in a company of his followers and friends. Little Misha was turning into a little menace. He was never cruel or intolerable, but he loved his youthful freedom and friendships.
While Little Misha’s band of ruffians terrorised senior citizens and stay-at home moms by playing pranks stealing their fresh cookies left in the open windowsills to cool off and cutting laundry lines thus letting freshly cleaned trousers and underpants helplessly sag into backyard dirt. He went unchecked and being so engrossed with his friends was hardly capable of noting that his wife was about to take a very unpleasant turn.
Emma continued along her live path until one very fateful day in the mid 60s. On that day Emma learned something rather chilling – she was under a criminal investigation. Was a crime really committed or somebody was just trying to get back at her for whatever reason? I have never learned exactly. The subject was hardly ever mentioned in the family circles and I only found out about it through some tangent references when other episodes were discussed. The only thing is clear is that in her early forties Emma was no longer as commanding figure in her professional circles and personal connections. Her lover Victor had been promoted to a higher post in another city. No attachment was enough to keep them together anyway when a crucial promotion was on the line. Ultimately Victor became a general and served as a deputy minister of internal affairs of Ukraine. But for now in his posting elsewhere, he seemed unable or unwilling to help Emma to beat the rap.
I think that basic accusations against her were something to do with her robbing dead victims of crimes when in her lab. I do not know how much of it was really proven, or whether Emma was just overcome by tragic circumstances dictated by powerful in charge. In the end, she had to spend a couple of years in prison, Soviet prison…
Grandmother
Anybody familiar with the Soviet prison system of post-Stalin years knows that surviving few years behind bars was doable but very taxing. Every year inside counted as easy five even in the heavily polluted centres like Dnepropetrovsk. Spending close to two years there was definitely no fun. And by the time I arrived on the scene in the late sixties, the grandma I knew no longer had previous energy, style and aplomb. She was just a grandmother I loved. Slightly on the heavy side with thoroughly grey hair and heavy asthmatic breath, heaving almost any time she took a step.
One could really get depressed but not my grandma, at least not visibly so. Dealing with the turbulent current in addition to the difficult past was now on her plate. Her dear and rickety mother Sarah was past her seventieth year with deteriorating health, meagre pension and almost non-existent eye-sight. Sarah was brave and energetic woman to her last breath, but had it been not for faithful Emma her last days would have been surely deprived of love and care.
Little Misha gave up some of his questionable inclinations and after successful medical school graduation was now experiencing many unexpected difficulties of his own. Some of it was of his doing due to his newly found addiction to powerful drugs; the other share of post-graduation misfortunes was due to his very Jewish roots and appearance that withheld many job opportunities in the home town.
He, as a perpetual optimist, decided to re-start his life by enlisting into the Red Army as a medical officer with most of his two years spent in the scorching heat of Uzbekistan. Upon return he and his young family moved to a neighbouring city trying his luck at things presumably more civil and stable. Unlike the army, he had harder time fitting in here with Emma suffering all the more. Unable to help her only son, her role in life was confined to sighs and worries. In addition, she also took care of her elderly aunt, Zina - Sarah’s sister, who had just moved from St. Petersburg. Her plate was full and over-flowing. Now a doctor with an emergency ambulance station, she was pulling incredible shifts and hours in between caring for her mother and aunt, and worrying about her son. At times she would work up to three 24-hour shifts per week. And this was an asthmatic fifty year old fighting with bouts of high blood pressure! My grandmother was a true timeless working machine that fuelled itself with hardly much more than quick fatty snacks and a two-pack daily diet of heavy Russian cigarettes. I cannot even imagine what she existed on during all these years, as she also took care of me for one full year while my parents spent their second year in Uzbekistan. It was truly astounding!
And yet despite this unbelievably heavy load she always retained her utmost love and patience. As a kid I took it as due without truly appreciating all those countless meals, stories and games. I could still relish the unforgettable smell of her fruit pies made with quickness and skill unsurpassed in my annals.
I can hardly remember Emma being downcast and repressed. And yet her lot was heavy. She must have cried a lot, of that I am sure and yet she never blamed any of her charges treating them with ever-abounding love. This was also around the time when her husband Misha decided to re-unite with his old family. He moved to Dnepropetrovsk to stay with us during the year when I, a four-year old, was taking my leave of the Uzbekistan Red Army experience. He was nice and warm to me, taking me on long walks along the river. Some of these walks culminated in the joy of all joys – rides. My favourite ride was electric cars that raced one another in a screeching frenzy with occasional bumps and crashes. Grandpa Misha did not mind my taking few extra laps although he did not have an easy time fitting his hulking frame into one of those.
Back from our walks things did not progress as smoothly when Misha with his old dominant personality frequently clashed with Emma who by then had got used to full independence of decisions, finances and life in general. When squabbling they were not particularly loud or rambunctious and yet one could easily sense tension. As any four-year old, I was well attuned to voices and their meaning without fully grasping the consequences. Alas, the ensuing succession of events did not cascade all that fluidly on the surface of life and Misha left for his beloved Moldova once more. This time he was not to be heard from again.
Ten Years Later
“Ren-sen-brink, grandma, Ren-sen-brink” – I slowly repeated this mumbo-jumbo of a name only to almost kill-over in a raucous laughter attack. Emma could not contain herself either bursting into sporadic gurgles of laughter mixed with heaving chain-smoking cough of an asthma patient. This was the name of a famous Dutch footballer of the 70s who was a sublime master of his booming long-distance shots and had superbly bad luck at the Argentina Final 78 when he failed to break a late draw by hitting a post. Ever since those dramatic minutes just before Argentina took the Cup in overtime my grandma for the life of her could not pronounce the blasted Dutch name. And every time she tried, she would burst laughing engulfing whoever happened to be in audience at a time. I was of course the real culprit, egging grandma on whenever in need of a comedic moment.
In those years we needed those moments more than ever before. Especially, since only two of us occupied the old smoky apartment with walls thicker than those of Bastille and windows rivalling in age those of Uffizi. Sarah and her sister had long succumbed to their years and no longer graced out company. Little Misha, freshly out of yet another stint behind bars for drug offences, was now tolerably married to a lady few years his senior with two independent daughters of her own. They lived thousands of kilometres away in the depth of Siberia and were not very frequently heard from. My father had recently suffered a massive heart attack and hence was not all that disposed to coming to see us any time soon. It was quiet and sad in our camp.
Only three years before it was way more tumultuous. Little Misha was then on the crossroads of life once again. Whenever he was in such a place, he frequently turned into an unruly teenager armed with alcohol and drugs to boot. And since he spent most of his life on cross-roads instead of nice tree-lined boulevards, such occurrences were not all that infrequent. Once coming home through the murk of the windowless common kitchen I heard soft sobbing in the grandma’s corner. Through the haze and fumes I saw Emma crying over her empty pot of borsch – “he, he” she stuttered “just brought in his drunkard friends and they emptied the whole pot!” No big deal to some, I knew that this meant no real dinner today and maybe even tomorrow as we were frequently short on money. Now, it did not mean outright hunger but it did mean a complete lack of respect for my grandma that overwhelmed me with exceeding sadness. Even now the thought of that moment brings me into the land of irresolvable sadness – this old tattered asthmatic lady spent a better part of the day cooking the bleeding borsch only to throw it to the proverbial pigs…
Alas, such moments of sadness and helplessness were not unique and they did not have everything to do with Little Misha. To my shame my high-strung teenage years did not land softly on Emma either. Friends, late nights and lack of obedience brought us through many an unnecessary wrangle. While these bounced off reasonably well of my youthful chest, they got stuck like old splinters in hers. And yet she was always ready to forgive and move on – amazing. Now, I know for a fact that I did not appreciate my grandmother enough. I manipulated and used her to make my life easier and yet she hardly complained cooking, cleaning and giving me showers. The latter were a particular feat as her communal flat lacked anything resembling a shower or a bath. We did have water, cold water. So in order to indulge in my daily self-preening routine, Emma had to shuffle into the cantankerous environment of the common kitchen, to heat up a couple of water pots. Carrying them back mixing, splashing on yours truly and cleaning was her ungrateful task. I was not a complete selfish pig however since I did clean, vacuumed and dusted around the place to make it look like a 20th century dwelling and not a medieval stable. In this undertaking my successes were muted at best.
The most cherished family moments were those when we would chat about life – past, present and future with me reclining on a couch with a piece of Emma’s pie and Emma hulking in her old rickety chair with an umpteenth cigarette of the day. “You know” she would say. “This china cabinet has a remarkable story…” After recounting her latest edition of the gold chain episode she would sign, light up another one and smile through her half-eaten teeth – “this china cabinet is a true antic and must be worth some money. May be one day we will sell it for a really princely some and have a nice holiday “- she would dreamily rolled her eyes. “Or maybe after I am gone you could use the money…” her voice would trail off her moist eyes with a pitiful tremble. This always made me downcast. I knew that one day I would have to live without my dear grandmother.
Little prescience did she have as this historic china cabinet and the apartment itself would slip through my badly documented fingers after her and my father’s passing. But mortar and stones do not reside in our souls; memories do…
Epitaph
Emma, your life might not have turned out as the stars had predicted but you will always have a warm resting spot in my heart. Your last few years were not the happiest of your life and yet you were blessed to spend most of them in the company of Little Misha who came home to die. You did not know that and God made sure you never found out as he called your soul before his time came. At least you shared the last stretch of your lives together in a loving embrace and let me share in some small joys that came along. The thing I regret the most is too tiny of a place that God took up in our lives then. I know he desired all of us – you, father and I. I have found hope and maybe have you…I only wish another glimpse of you to say one more good-bye.
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