Olga Prilutskaya
Short story
Translated by Tatiana and Ilya Varfolomeev
Last night I dreamt of my father. For a quarter of a century now, we have sometimes seen each other in my dreams. How the time flies! Every year is shorter than the last.Tomorrow, I turn fifty. My God, I’ve lived so many years! It’s so scary! Yet it seems that I’m still the same as I was when I was 20 and 30. But my father passed away just as the second half of this century rolled over.
I look like my father, and I’ve always been told, “You are Voroshilina!” But in reality, I had a different surname because my grandfather, Voroshilin Alexei Alekseevich, went missing in the war. Fearing that this may ruin his son’s adult life, my grandmother gave him her maiden name, leaving her youngest daughters Voroshilins. She had two. The last one was born in June of 1941, seven days after war broke out. Having left for the front, it’s unlikely that her father ever got to see her. She knows him from the only pre-war photograph left, from which a colour portrait was made much later, and put up on the wall. But my father remembered his father all his life.
I rarely paid attention to this portrait. It just hangs there. A round-faced man, with a good-natured look, grown up, like my father, but unfamiliar, to be honest. Later, visiting my grandmother every couple of years, I met the blue eyes of the young man from the portrait.
With time, he became younger than my father, then younger than me.
Once, during my childhood, I got mad at my grandmother. I don’t remember why. My father, having recognised my mood, decided to talk to me.
— You know, daughter, don’t get upset with your grandmother Polya*. She is kind. She just isn’t always affectionate. That’s because she had a tough life. Many difficulties have fallen upon her. During the war she was left alone with us three. She had to work in the mine, hauling coal-loaded trucks. She struggled because she could not feed us till we were full, and so my sisters and I either shot at sparrows with a slingshot, or secretly begged from her for food. Your grandmother, daughter, has rough hands but her soul is soft and kind. It is with those hands that she built this house…
The house really was no worse than anybody else’s in their street in a small mining town. Actually the Voroshilins were originally from the Kursk region. They say that my great-grandfather had a very large apple orchard and a sturdy house in a village on the river Psyol. But everything was taken during the collectivisation. My grandmother was as poor as a church mouse, so the dispossession didn’t affect her. In her village, she was considered a beauty. But her groom Alyoshka**, the only son of a wealthy family respected for their honesty, was just a very kind and loving man. With this he won her heart. Having married, they left for Donbass.
Perhaps my grandfather took his Polyushka away from familiar places, because her love was still there. They say before they were married, whenever she would go on a date with another, Alyoshka would run into the rye and cry. Having married his firebird, he jealously guarded his family! They lived happily together. Their first child was a son, and a daughter followed soon after. But the war, the despicable war, ruined everything! My grandmother was thirty-one years old when, during the occupation, she was left alone with her three children, each smaller than the next. Her husband went missing. After the war, a fellow countryman who served with Alexei visited her. He said that he saw with his own eyes how Alexei was killed during the battle for Smolensk. He proposed to her. She rejected him, although she was once in love with him. But she had a husband now. She didn’t believe him to be dead. And if he wasn’t dead, he would certainly come back. He was faithful.
But he never came back... So my grandmother had to live alone with the three children. She made sure each of them got Higher education. She herself learned to read as an adult, from Pushkin’s book «The Mistress Maid». This little book, which grew yellow with time, lay behind an icon. The icon hung in the summer kitchen, which was rarely visited by strangers. One day, I was left there alone. Having put a stool on top of a chair, I managed to get to the icon, grabbed the book and got lost reading. I wasn’t even seven yet, but I had already been able to read for two years. This was the first adult book in my life! When my grandmother saw me reading it, she patted me on the head, as though remembering something. Her calloused labourer fingers caught onto my hair, which made me flinch away.
— Keep reading, granddaughter! Alyoshka grew up in a wealthy family, but was illiterate. He couldn’t
even write a letter to me from the war. I somehow learned to read straight after I got married.
She never called him grandfather. For her, he remained Alyoshka for the rest of her life.
Later on, my grandmother built another house made of brick. Once again, she had designed it herself and did almost everything with her own hands. But she demolished the old house...
Yes, it is this very house of which I dreamt two years after the death of my father. It was as though the entire family got together; tables were put out across two rooms. Everyone was busy mingling. Suddenly, in the doorway from the street, my dad appeared with a young man from the Red Army wearing a forage cap from the Great Patriotic War. My father looked just like I remembered him in his last years. I was the only one who noticed them through the commotion of the feast. In the darkened room, they stood pierced by the rays of sunlight. My father said something to the soldier, pointing in my direction.
— Look, dad, — my daughter and my wife.
I wanted to ask him:«What dad? What are you talking about?» But I became dumb, as so often happens in a dream. With that, I woke up.
I went to my grandmother and said:
— Listen, my grandfather probably died today. That’s what I dreamt of.
I described my dream.
— I don’t know... I have long believed that he was still alive. Sometimes I’d get mad at him: “Why did you leave me, Alyoshka! It’s so hard for me with three kids...” — Grandmother sorrowfully pursed her lips, probably thinking back on all the insults and humiliations she had had in her lonely life.
— Yes, he may have happily lived all these years somewhere abroad, — I scoffed.
But unwittingly, mentally, as though a film, I replayed my dream. And then it was almost as though I was enlightened — the forage cap, and hisyouth. I don’t believe in God or the devil, or an afterlife, but I suddenly blurted out:
— Maybe they met there today, on the other side? Grandmother, for some reason, silently crossed herself with two fingers and went off to the vegetable patch. I remembered that she was once part of the Old Faith*, but later became just like everyone else. I couldn’t stop thinking about that dream. It was a strange one... A year ago when I went on the
Internet, the first thing I saw was the ‘Search’ box. As an example, just below the box, it said ‘A. S. Pushkin.’ I typed in my name. The search returned everything under the sun! I typed in “Voroshilin”. The computer’s output was “The historical record of the Kursk nobility,” “Record book” with an old fashioned letter at the end. In the record dated 1688, I saw the name of my ancestors from my father’s side. They were written next to my grandmother’s. Is it fate? Interesting!
Since then, I began looking for Voroshiilin A. A. on all the sites associated with the Great Patriotic War, even among the Vlasov soldiers. But the answer was always the same: The query cannot be found in the database. Too little information. That’s right! My grandmother has been dead for around ten years. My dad and his middle sister had died earlier. There was only the youngest sister left, born in 1941. She probably doesn’t know anything...
I got out of bed, did a couple of my regular morning exercises — I don’t want to look 50. It’s spring! The Don can be seen from my window. From there comes the sound of horns — the sailing season has begun. The soil in the garden is strewn with leafless cherry coloured petals. The apple tree looks like a bride in the foam of her wedding veil. Life is beautiful!
After a shower, I sit at the computer, and get on the Internet. I browse a few sites. I come across “Memorial”. I have been on it a hundred times. “Archives, genealogy”...
We have been in touch! “United Bank of Data: Memorial. The data of the Central Archive of the Russian Ministry of Defence.” Have I tried this one? I don’t remember! Should I try it? I entered. As usual, I type in “Voroshilin A. A.” I await the usual answer: “No Record.” But suddenly, a sketch of a soldier comes up, with the words: “Voroshilin A. A. 02. 1912–16. 03. 1942 — Russian Borchnaya.”
No, missed again! Not my Voroshilin. Nothing in common with mine, except for his full name. If he was born in 1912, then my grandmother would be from 1910. He couldn’t possibly be younger than her, could he? Why not? Something holds me back. Again, I go back to the table. Russian Borchnaya, what is it?
In 1688, my ancestors lived in a village called Porechnoye. Much later, it was divided into Cherkassy Porechnoye, and Russian Porechnoye, where my dad was born. So could it be? Oh no! This one is two years younger than my grandmother.
I got a little nervous, and I didn’t immediately realise that there was more. I turn to another table. There, again 02. 1912, but this time it says Russian Porchnaya. Of course, just another namesake, without a doubt!
“Military rank — soldier (infantry)”. It became clear! “Fate — died in captivity 16. 03. 1942.” Well, let this suffering stranger’s soul rest in peace.
Indeed, it is fate. I wouldn’t be able to find my grandfather this time! Just in case, I print out the information. But why? My hand, as though of its own will, clicks the ‘Print’ icon. The printer starts, and a sheet of paper slowly crawls out of the core of the machine. It slides out, but what I can see on it, is not what I had seen on the monitor and wanted to print. On the paper is a photo of a large sheet with holes along the edge from a hole-punch, ripped from some old storehouse book. What is this? It is written with a pen in a German Gothic script. I don’t understand! What did I get into? I need to take it easy. Why am I so nervous? I click “Print” again. My god, again the same piece of paper crawls out, but this time so much more is written on it. It seems there’s even something in Russian on it. Impatiently, I pull out the sheet of paper from the teeth of the printer. It is impossible to take everything in at a glance. But what immediately catches my eye, is the swastika in the top right corner and below, towards the left, a fingerprint in a frame. Underneath it, in Russian, it says “Died 3. 16. 42” Just like in the movies! Easy, don’t get nervous! I am reading a document of an unknown age. Why doesn’t it come up on the monitor? So, WOROSCHILIN ALEKSEJ Ruskaja Portschnaja. It’s obviously all about the same man! A look to the right. Next column: a Russian translation made by someone says “Red Army AR 410 soldier”*. I don’t understand what the printed font says (I learnt English), but with the same handwriting was written: Smolensk (oh Lord, Smolensk! Mine?), 20. VIII. 41.
I was drenched in sweat. Could this be mine? But then why do I shake, why am I so nervous? So what, he could be mine. Now what? No, he isn’t mine! He was born in 1912, and my grandmother was born in 1910! There was never any talk about her husband being younger than her. When has there ever been a talk of anything? Have I ever talked to my grandmother about her life? Sometimes, in bits and pieces. Why cry about something that happened long ago? No one is crying. Read on! «PelagejaWoroschilina». Oh, I don’t feel so good! My grandmother — Pelagia Alekseevna! It couldn’t be! Go on!
My eyes see nothing, my hands are shaking! My God, what awful handwriting this damned German has! Or am I in such a state that I can’t distinguish the Latin letters? Yes, here below in Russian this name is written and a little further down — ”Rumyanstev Mine, 46”.
Mine!!! My grandfather... I found him! It’s like I’ve met him alive! But he’s dead! What a pity! Where did he die? In captivity. So clear! But where? My hands shake even more, and the paper shakes with them. Here, in the upper right corner: Stalag VI/B Mauthausen. Mauthausen? Horrible! My poor, my dear! Tears stream down my face. Why did this happen to you? How much did you suffer, oh Old Believer? You, whose faith prohibited the use of other’s dishes, to smoke, to drink, to swear and, of course, to kill! Maybe you were captured, because you couldn’t shoot a man? They say, you were very kind! My dear grandfather! I don’t even remember your face from that old restored portrait. Forgive me! I’m sorry! But I found you, I found you! Only now I can tell neither my grandmother nor my father! My grandfather was no traitor, like everyone thought of those who went missing! He wasn’t lost! He died a martyr’s death. In the spring of nineteen forty-two, at Mauthausen, they first tested the gas chambers on inmates. I read about that recently! My dad also died in March ...Fate!
I’m crying, but every second a new thought comes to my mind, each more absurd than the last. Vitka* Buhgammer’s face flashes past, a handsome blue-eyed German, who was in love with me when we were students. He was of Volga German descent. Most of his people fell victims to the war because of their nationality. Nice man, but something didn’t work out between us. It wasn’t meant to be! I remember the nice Germans who welcomed my husband and me in Berlin. They also survived the war.A nice old Austrian woman invited us to her home. After the war she was forced to go to live in the Krasnoyarsk Region. We drank vodka with her, and she could recall the Russian words “potato, thanks, good”, the Siberian cold and spirits. I laughed and called her ‘fellow countrywoman’, because she studied at the University in the area where I was born. There was an old German, who said that during the war he worked in an ambulance, but my husband and I joked between each other, was it not the gas chambers? Here you go! My grandfather died a prisoner of these adorable Germans! No, the Nazis! Each nation has its bastards. But this doesn’t make me feel any better! My poor, poor grandfather! You and I were the only ones from our family to have travelled abroad. I came back with fond memories, and you remained there forever. But now you’re alive to me! I found you! I will definitely come to you! You are reborn anew for your grandchildren and great-grandchildren! Now, you are not just a portrait on the wall! You are my dear, my dear, who died for our future. I just love you! Thank you! Forgive us!
Outside the window, five apple trees bloom violently in my little garden, as they once did in a huge apple orchard of my ancestors in the province of Kursk. Tomorrow is Victory Day and my fiftieth birthday. My father named me in honour of that victory. I cry with joy and pain for my grandfather, grandmother, father
... For all those who lived through that damned war, which still long echoes... Indeed, a holiday with tears in my eyes. Only now these aren’t just lyrics from a song.* Lord, let there be no wars ever again! People, keep the peace! Otherwise, why would we need family memoirs?
May 2008
Translated by Tatiana and Ilya Varfolomeev 2013
AUTHOR:
Olga Prilutskaya (Rostov-the-Don, Russia) is a writer, Ukrainian and Chech languages lyrics translator, member of the European Congress of Writers, a Correspondent Member of the Crimea Literary Academy, a winner of the International Literary Prize named after Yuri Kaplan, editor of the publishing house “DOLYA” and private Ethnographic and Literary/Arts Journal “Dolya”, the author of two plays (‘Sirius’ and ‘Boomerang’), artistic and documentary novel ‘May the time never reverse...’, the novel ‘Hostel’ and other stories.
She was born in Yakutsk (Russia), where she spent her first seven years. She went to school in the city of Gorlovka (Ukraine). She graduated from the Technical University in the city of Krasnoyarsk (Russia).
In this very city Olga first met Tatiana Vasilieva, who went to public school N35 at the time.
TRANSLATOR:
Tatiana Vasilieva (Varfolomeeva) was born and grew in Siberia, Krasnoyarsk, Russia. In 1987 she graduated from the State University of Foreign Languages in Irkutsk, Russia. Later, she got married and became Tatiana Varfolomeeva.
In 2006, Tatiana Varfolomeeva graduated from Monash University in Melbourne, Australia with a Masters degree. Currently she is working on her PhD “Professional identity in the global context’ as a research candidate at Deakin University, Melbourne, Australia. She teaches English and Russian, and does translations from those languages. She has translated ‘Sleepy Head’, an autobiography written by a famous Ukrainian writer Valery Basyrov, ‘At the time of the fifties’, some other stories and novels. The book ‘Family Memoirs’ is a new work done by Tatiana Varfolomeeva and her son Ilya Varfolomeev in collaboration with Olga Prilutskaya, a writer from Russia.
TRANSLATOR:
Ilya Varfolomeev was born in Russia in 1991. His family migrated to Australia when he was 9 years old. He finished Melbourne High School in Australia in 2007. In 2011, he graduated from Melbourne University with a degree in Biomedical Science. Currently Ilya is doing his Masters degree in Medicine at Melbourne University Medical School. He has worked as an assistant researcher. Recently he has been working as a tutor, and since 2012 he has been doing literary translations for the Publishing House ‘Dolya” (Simferopol, Crimea, Ukraine), in collaboration with Tatiana Varfolomeeva.
*Polya, Polyushka — a female name, used in spoken language, derived from the full name Pelageja.
**Alyoshka — a male name, used in spoken language, derived from the full name Alexey/Alexei. Other uses: Alyosha, Alyoshenka
*The Old Faith: here the Old Believers.
Old Believers practices emerged during the second half of the XVII century as a result of separation (Russian-speakers refer to the “schism” itself as raskol) from the official Russian Orthodox Church, when the clergy and laity rejected the church reforms introduced by Patriarch Nikon between 1652 and 1666 and supported by Tsar Alexei Mikhailovich (1645-1676). The reforms introduced a number of changes and emendations of liturgical texts and rituals with the aim of achieving uniformity between Russian and Greek Orthodox practices. For example, as a result of the reformstwo fingers, while making the Sign of the Cross, were substituted with three, two times chant of the alleluia was replaced with three, the sunwise direction of procession around the baptismal font was changed to counter sunwise, and the spelling of Jesus changed from «Iñóñú» to «Ièñóñú».
*«Red Army AR 410 soldier» here: abbreviation of «Red Army Artillery Regiment 410 soldier».
*Vitka — a male name, used in spoken language, derived from the full name Victor.
*Here: the song «Victory Day», composer David Tukhmanov, poet Vladimir Kharitonov.