by Lucy Lipiner
Some of our teachers, notwithstanding their high educational achievements, were lacking in the empathy we needed in those most difficult circumstances. Some of them believed that suffering quietly was noble. Discussing feelings and physical or emotional problems was frowned upon. Some of them believed that pride built character and that one had to face suffering with dignity.
Many of us shared two dreadful afflictions—we were hungry, and we were infested with lice. Yet people rarely referred to either of these conditions with any degree of sympathy. The issue of lice infestation was raised in private, however. We were threatened in no uncertain terms with having our hair shaved off unless the plague of lice was resolved. I was in constant fear of having my thick hair cut off.
Mother poured naphtha all over our heads. It left our hair greasy and awful smelling, even after washing with soap containing lye. This awful treatment worked for a few days, maybe even a week or two; then we got infested all over again from other kids in school.
Being hungry was perhaps the worst affliction of all. Some teachers showed very little empathy for those kids who came to school without breakfast and unprepared for rigorous studies.
Leninabad class photo, Lusia front-row, first on the left, Frydzia middle-row third on the right
I vividly recall the time a friend was humiliated before the entire class by a teacher who rebuked her for not getting her homework done. “Maybe because you were hungry is why you came to school unprepared?” he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. The implication was that discomfort was no excuse for not doing one’s work. But, truth be told, hunger was more than a discomfort.
Our immune systems were seriously compromised. We suffered from vitamin deficiency. We developed pustules and sores on our bodies, painful cracks in our lips and corners of our mouths, and watery eyes. We suffered all types of infection, from bacterial to fungal and even parasitic. And hunger did interfere with normal brain function. Besides, how do you work on mathematics or language when you’re thinking about bread all day long?
When slices of bread were being portioned out and some students got bigger slices than others, we all knew not to say anything, to act as if it didn’t matter. In fact, it did matter. It was an important piece of bread.
There were funny moments in school as well. Our English teacher, a young man educated at Oxford University in the United Kingdom, introduced us to a concept entirely new to anyone whose native tongue was Polish or Russian—the definite or indefinite article preceding a noun. The whole idea of “a” or “an” and “the” was unclear to us. Also, any word starting with th was unpronounceable. He tried hard to help us pronounce it correctly. “Place your tongue between your teeth and push air out your mouth. One, two, three: ‘the.’” It was not pronounced correctly but resulted in a huge release of spit and a roar of hysterical laughter.
Another time, our zoology teacher came to class with a wet tomato in the pocket of his trousers. The poor man did not know why we were laughing until he reached into his pocket and withdrew a squashed tomato. It was rather sad, really, but we children found it awfully funny.
29
The Water Hole
I liked funny situations that lifted our spirits. Studying— learning new things—was important. Still, I did not like school very much. I loved to slip out of class, pretending a need to go to the bathroom, and then escaping to a stone ledge in the shade of an old fruit tree, where I liked to sit and enjoy the sounds and sights of nature. The serenity in nature was the world I loved best. It gave me joy and offset some of the chaos in our lives.
Playing hooky was not without peril. I knew I would pay a price. Still, being outdoors all alone was worth it. Some of the teachers got wise to my deceptions, however, and on reentering the classroom, I was frequently stopped before I got to my seat. Pointing to the blackboard, Pan (meaning Mister or Sir) Schreiber said, “Lusia, please illustrate the positive and negative charges in lightning.” What did I care about positive and negative charges? I was embarrassed but gave a correct answer, although at other times, I did not. I had enough to worry about outside of school.
My mother was my constant worry. It was easy to crush her spirit. She was not strong enough, not like my father who seemed to overcome any obstacle. Mama was depressed at times. I worried about her health. I was terror stricken at the thought of her drowning in the water hole—the only source of our drinking water.
Our town had no piped-in water, no water wells, and no water pumps. The water flowed down the Pamir Mountains, the tallest mountain range on the border of Afghanistan to the south. From there, the water ran straight into Syr Darya, the river on the edge of town. The water somehow found its way into arrik, narrow ditches along the side of the wider alleyways. By the time the water reached the town and the arrik, it was usually polluted with debris. But as it was also used for irrigation, people fought for this water. In the middle of the night, neighbors redirected the water from each other’s gardens. Next morning, huge brawls erupted everywhere. These fights often went beyond fistfights, often turning into armed conflicts with pitchforks or shovels used as weapons.
Eventually, the water reached the spot from which drinking water could be drawn. The access to this water hole was a slippery, wet bank without stairs or railing to hold on to. The surface of the water was covered in dead leaves, dead flies, and mosquitoes.
And sometimes, especially in the summer, Tajik teenage boys swam naked in the water hole. Often, when girls were seen near the water hole, naked teenagers would jump up above the surface, exposing themselves and laughing hysterically. In spite of these conditions, the water in the water hole remained our only water source. Its impurities and billions of organisms caused many infectious diseases. For that reason, this water had to be boiled.
Mama did not swim, and I believed that if I accompanied her to the water hole, I would save her from drowning. I also did not swim. I only felt secure when Papa brought the water home. He was a strong and skillful swimmer. But my mother’s water expeditions remained my worst and never-ending fear. The water hole was my nemesis. It rarely gave me peace.
30
Tovarish Stalin—Russia Earth
Although we went to a Polish-speaking school, we were indoctrinated in Soviet thinking and steeped in Soviet patriotism. For the Soviets, the most important agenda was spreading propaganda. The truth had nothing to do with it. So we were constantly reminded of the highest authority of the land—Tovarish Stalin. We sang a popular song, thanking Tovarish Stalin for our schaslivoye dyetstvo (happy childhood). We were told to be thankful that all the food, clothing, and medicines went to the fighting men on the war’s eastern front. It did not matter that we went without.
Posters on walls depicted brave Soviet soldiers slaying the evil dragons that represented Hitler and his Nazi troops. Over time, we grew to love—or pretended to love—Comrade Stalin and especially Mother Russia, our glorious land.
Papa was not political at all, and he was not very fond of Comrade Stalin or Communism. Given the circumstances in which he found himself, he grew suspicious, not trusting— especially of people he didn’t know. He cared for his own family deeply. And although he loved Judaism, he exhibited signs of losing faith in God. He rarely said that “God will provide” anymore. He trusted his own instincts instead. Our survival and providing what meager bits of food he could gather amounted to his daily struggle.
Papa refused to accept the Soviet citizenship that was offered to us. He believed that if we were to become Soviet citizens, we would never be able to leave that country, not even after the war. He distrusted Soviet politics and Soviet politicians. Whenever anyone mentioned the NKVD, Papa put his finger to his mouth, signaling that we should speak in whispers. “You never know who may be listening,” he would say.
But he did greatly admire Marshal Gregory Zhukov, the chief of the armed forces. The Russian people in general considered Zhukov the greatest war hero—and for good reason. He had defended Leningrad durin
g the long siege from the beginning in 1941 throughout the entire year of 1942. In 1942, Zhukov also commanded the battle for Stalingrad that would prove the turning point of the war.
“Those Nazis, you just wait and see,” my father would say. “Zhukov will clobber them to kingdom come and chase them all the way back to Berlin.” He tried to keep track of the progress of war. Every so often, we listened to the latest news, Poslednyi Chas, on the loudspeaker in the center of town. No one knew for certain if the war reports we listened to were accurate or not. We did not have a choice of stations or our own radio to listen to.
There was a map of Europe hanging on the wall of our hut. Each time the Nazis retreated, Papa joyfully moved his little pins to the new positions. When things were not going well, he hardly glanced at his map. But, oh, how he cheered when the Nazis were defeated in battles on the eastern or western fronts. It was during the bloody battle for Stalingrad that Papa predicted Hitler’s defeat.
People of the Soviet Union loved America and its people. Even before the United States entered the war, America regularly shipped battle tanks, rifles and other weapons, food, medicines, clothes, and more to support the Soviet war effort. It was all part of the Lend-Lease program initiated by President Franklin Delano Roosevelt as a way to help the Allied forces without actually entering the war. But the Russian people understood that with the help of the United States, the war against the Nazis could be won.
Most of us children understood the reasons for the deprivations we suffered. We were constantly reminded that each and every one of us needed to make sacrifices for the sake of the fighting men on the eastern front, for Mother Russia and the Russian Revolution of 1917.
It was 1944, and I was nearly eleven when our school was notified of the urgency of children making a contribution to the war effort. As soon as the school let out for the summer vacation, we were all conscripted for cotton picking.
Every morning, we were driven in trucks to the cotton fields. We picked cotton all day long, just so the fighting soldiers on the eastern front could stay warm all winter long in their padded cotton jackets. We worked hard. “Give 200 percent,” we were told. We sang “Za Rodinu, Za Stalina”—200 percent for our nation and for Stalin. Sore and bloody fingers seemed like a small sacrifice for the war effort. Now, as I think back, it seems sad to have lost the lazy days of summer for the drudgery of cotton picking.
My least favorite summer job for Tovarish Stalin, Mother Russia, and the Russian Revolution was tending to the silkworms in their smelly cages. I remember it as if it were yesterday. Silkworms weave silk by nature, creating small cocoons the size of a tiny pinkie finger or half a pinkie. But they do it all—including mating and dirtying the cages.
As little as I was, I had a hard time bending down to reach the cages. It was tight in there, smelly, and so difficult to clean the cages and do whatever else needed to be done for the silkworms. The light was dim. There were no windows in the entire compound. The air was thick enough to cut with a knife. I hated the silkworms.
Sometimes, I gave myself permission for a good cry. It filled my heart with plenty of self-pity—an emotion frowned upon by some groups of people. I didn’t care. Self-pity felt good. It was like being cleansed by the waves of an ocean. Most likely, it was really a cry of frustration, anger, maybe even defiance. Maybe I needed a shoulder to cry on. Mama didn’t seem to understand—not because she didn’t care about me but because she seemed to have lost hope for the future. I craved a smile or a sparkle in her eyes. It wasn’t there.
At times like that, I remained near her, neither of us speaking. Speaking was pointless. I knew she loved me. She expressed it in a million different ways.
Love was different in the Soviet Union in those days of war. You hardly ever heard people verbally expressing love. The words alone didn’t mean much and didn’t help much. What was important and vital for survival was having people who cared deeply.
Throughout the war, six long years, we heard nothing from our family back home in Nazi-occupied Poland. The information on Soviet newscasts was selectively filtered. Nothing pertaining to the destruction of the European Jews reached the general population.
We spoke with longing of returning home to Poland and being reunited with our entire family. We spoke of the events we would recall, how we would celebrate our reunion after the war.
31
“I’m Not Hungry at All”
“I’m not hungry at all,” Mama often said.
Mama made a practice of visiting the local bazaar walkways late in the afternoons, when the peddlers were getting ready to close shop. Sometimes, she picked up discarded, half-rotten fruit and vegetables. With the bad parts cut away, the fruit and vegetables tasted good. She checked for small, perfect, round holes in the fruit where the worms entered on their way to the core. We learned to eat a fruit, even if a worm lived inside. You simply bit off a piece and checked carefully. And if the rest of the fruit looked good, you took another bite. If not, you spit it out.
Lusia, Leninabad, Tajikistan
Mama worried about malnutrition; she believed it would stunt our growth. One time, she cooked soup from discarded radish leaves. The soup tasted so good. I asked for seconds. But the pot was empty, and Mama, so distraught, sat down and began to cry. I couldn’t understand why she cried over an empty pot.
I don’t recall having had eggs or meat throughout the entire war. We rarely had milk. They did sell horse meat in the bazaar—probably from horses that had died from hard labor or disease. Good thing we didn’t have the rubles to buy it with. If we did, we would have eaten horse meat.
On very good days when Papa began earning some rubles by working with Abram, we ate soup cooked with lamb or beef bones. In addition to meat bones, the vendors sold kefir, the fermented milk drink of the region. On good days, we had kefir, our ration of bread, and tea for breakfast. Making tea was a process in itself. Some days, especially early in the morning when our stove remained unlit, Mama placed bits of dry tea into our old, chipped, enamel teapot, and one of us, either Frydzia or I, walked several streets over to the local chayhanna, the teahouse. For several kopecks, they poured kepiatok, boiled water, from a huge samovar into our teapot. And by the time we reached home, the tea was ready to be served.
Sometimes, Mama offered us her own ration of bread, always saying, “I’m not hungry at all.” I believed it to be true because, most of the time, I accepted her bread. I wanted it to be true. How else could I eat her bread?
There was a baking oven in our courtyard as well. It was strange looking, round on the inside and out. On those rare occasions when our neighbor Rachel and her older daughter, Sara, baked the flat round bread, I made sure to hang around.
Not only was it interesting to watch the process as they slapped the round, flat dough against the inside walls of the hot oven, but best of all, I knew that I would surely receive a piece of the heavenly, hot, steaming, aroma-filled lepioshka—the dream of all dreams.
Like most children living in dire need of most necessities and all luxuries, I knew how to manipulate others for my own gain.
Early in the war, I learned how to scrounge around for food. I knew that if I hung around the busy market walkways and looked into the peddlers’ eyes long enough, I would be rewarded with some almonds and some kind of dried fruit. Having blue eyes helped. Blue eyes were rare in central Asia. I am not sure if they liked my eyes, but they seemed fascinated, and it worked in my favor.
On hot summer nights, we slept in our courtyard—most of the time under special netting borrowed from our neighbors. The gentle breezes made the outdoor sleeping heavenly. The effect of the bright stars and the moon in the dark sky seemed too beautiful to be real. The sky seemed flooded with millions of stars, suspended in a silver net midway between earth and heaven. And during the full moon, everything seemed illuminated in bright light.
It was then that I learned about the constellations. I learned that these bright stars shone on the entire world. It wa
s a wonder to me that the same stars cast their brilliant light on my home in faraway Poland. Home in Poland was never far from my thoughts.
The courtyard was securely bolted at night, so we felt safe from intruders. Still, we needed to protect ourselves from the inner courtyard intruders—strange flying or crawling creatures. Getting stung by a scorpion was no fun; I know because it happened to me.
It happened in daylight on a bright, sunny day. My screams brought out all our neighbors. Abram chased the scorpion, by then without its stinger. He caught the scorpion and placed it in a jar filled with some awful solution. It turned into a vile-smelling concoction that he applied to my foot. I have no idea why it worked, but my red and swollen foot felt better almost immediately.
I have no idea how we would have survived without our neighbors. Still, in spite of their help, our lives were in almost constant peril.
32
Purple Dye
Papa began dealing in an illegal business, buying and selling dye in its purest form. The dye came in the form of colored crystals. The process of packing this stuff was fascinating. Papa sat quietly at the table, preparing individual brown paper packages of dye. We were not allowed to speak or make unnecessary movements near the table.
The colored crystals were so potent that, during the process of wrapping the packages, even while breathing normally, Papa’s face, especially around the nose and mouth, quickly became stained purple, red, green, or whatever color he was working with. He looked funny, but we were not allowed to laugh for fear of the dye staining him even more. Covering our mouths with our hands, we tried hard to conceal and silence our laughter.
To this day, I don’t know where the dye originated from, but I suspect that Papa purchased this potent stuff from people who had stolen it from a government source. My father knew the risks involved. He carried the brown paper packages to the silk weavers, at some secret location, usually at night.
