1936
What childhood and love looked like in the 1930s Ukraine - remembering dad's stories.
1936
Outside, it was beginning to drizzle. Yet another neighbor thoroughly wiped his shoes on a rag by the door and stepped into the room. Girshl stared in fascination. He had never seen so many people in their house. The neighbor went through the same motion as the others before him: awkwardly hugged dad, murmured something about “strong,” and “for the kids,” and “what can you do,” squeezed 12-year old Ada’s shoulder, then turned to Girshl and patted him on the cheek. Girshl beamed in anticipation, trying to guess what he’d get this time. A sugar cube? A ten-kopeeks coin? A pencil?
The neighbor’s hand lingered on Girshl’s face. That felt nice. “Girshele, tell me, what’s nineteen plus nineteen plus nineteen?” That was easy: three twenties, take away three. “One hundred eleven!” The words came out a little slurred, like they did when he was overexcited. Two women and a man talking in hushed voices by the kitchen stopped their conversation and were now looking at him. “Is that correct?” asked the neighbor of the man. The man frowned, his lips moving. “Correct!” The neighbor put a small coin in Girshl’s palm. “You are a smart boy, Girshele!” One of the women, Rivka, shook her head and said, “The Lord works in mysterious ways.” Ada gave Rivka a sharp glance, and Rivka looked away.
Girshl tugged his sister’s arm. “Ada, what’s a ‘retard’?”
“Who said that to you?”
“No one.”
Girshl heard the word from Rivka about a year ago, when Ada was pushing his cart past the fence of Rivka’s yard. Rivka stood there listlessly, dressed in the same black as today, her face red and swollen. She was surrounded by several women. When she saw Ada and Girshl, her head suddenly jerked with force. “How can this be fair? Someone like this gets to live and my Shoshannocka is gone?” As Rivka’s words carried down the street, Ada’s body tensed and she quickened her pace. That night, helping mom make the bed for him and his brothers, Ada whispered to Girshl, “You’ll be walking soon, promise. Boruch also took a while and look at him.” Girshl thought, this would be nice. Then he could go to the river with his brothers.
Ada held his shoulders. “Let’s go get you some food in the kitchen. Uncle Demian brought potatoes.”
To get to the kitchen, they had to walk past mom. She was lying in the center of the room, covered with a white blanket. Her face was visible, but her eyes were closed. Girshl tried not to look.
In the kitchen, more neighbors, talking.
“At least Motl came back. No one would’ve taken in the kids.”
“Shhh.”
The women smiled at Ada and Girshl.
Girshl started feeling drowsy, when the energy in the room suddenly changed. Everyone stood up. His uncle and two cousins went to where mom was lying, lifting her, carrying her out, others following. Girshl felt frightened. He looked around the room searching for Ada, but she was nowhere to be seen. Maneuvering his way through the procession of neighbors, Girshl ran outside and saw dad by a horse-drawn wagon, giving some instructions to the bearers.
Dad looked at Girshl.
“Go inside.”
“Why? Where are you going?”
“To the cemetery.”
Girshl knew the word, which, when mentioned, threw a long cool shadow over the conversation.
“I want to go with you!”
Dad thought for a few seconds.
“All right. But you can’t go like this, you need your cap. Go put it on.”
Girshl rushed back inside the house. It was summer, so his cap had to be in the trunk in which mom kept their autumn and winter clothes. The trunk was heavy, and it took Girshl a while to pull it from under the parents’ bed. Twice, he had to stop to let his arms rest. He scraped his elbow on the bed’s metal frame, but that was ok: his shirt sleeve wasn’t torn. Finally, he managed to get out the trunk and open the lid. Rummaging through the content, Girshl found the cap. Last year it used to be Joseph’s, and before then Boruch’s, but Girshl remembered mom saying that he’d be wearing it this fall. Squeezing the brim, he ran outside and stood there, looking in both directions. The street was empty.
*****
2026
Dad was an amazing storyteller. He talked about his childhood in a terse style that was striking in what it highlighted and what it kept out. Highlighted: details that stay with me decades later - the ten-kopeeks coin, the white blanket, the cap. Kept out: any editorializing or character judgement. He’d do Hemingway proud.
Lack of editorializing made me slow to grasp the context. Dad was born in 1931, the youngest of four children of a cobbler and a homemaker, in a very poor Jewish family in a small Ukrainian district town. It took me a while to connect his childhood developmental delays with the Holodomor.
Amazingly, dad never turned tragedies of his childhood, which were many, into dramas of adult score-setting. As an adult, he maintained that his dad (and, later, stepmom) raised their kids the best they could, or knew how, and remained a respectful, dutiful son. Dad’s math aptitude became his life’s fuel. The only of the siblings to graduate from school, he went on to become a math professor. Ultimately, his life unfolded in a David-Copperfield-style narrative arc: a devastating childhood followed by stability. At least, as much stability as the time and place permitted. A fulfilling career, a loving marriage.
Ada died of cancer several years before I was born. My older sister Inna once told me that she saw dad cry twice in his life. The second was when saying goodbye to Inna as she was leaving for the US. The first was at Ada’s funeral. Real-life Ada’s name was Asya - a difficult pronunciation in English. I am named after her.
*****
Published previously in my personal Substack blog, The Receding Tram
Thank you for sharing this poignant story.