(Memoirs of Petriakova Galina Aleksandrovna, born 1929)
After my marriage to Yakub in January 1953, there were no notable events until March 5, 1953, when Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin passed away. I cannot recall the exact number of days during which details of his health were broadcast on the radio, but I vividly remember the tense atmosphere that permeated those days.
Before his demise, within the district committee and the district executive committee, non-believing party members incessantly echoed the sentiment: "God forbid he dies, what will we do, for there will be no leaders like him." Yet, Stalin's death came to pass. Across all settlements, gatherings convened to commemorate the occasion. At the district committee building where a podium stood, quickly assembled.
One by one, party leaders ascended the podium. We scarcely had a chance to hear any of them in full. Each speaker commenced with the phrase: "Dear comrades, today our great leader and teacher, dear and beloved by all the Soviet people, Generalissimo Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin, has passed..." and none completed their orations entirely. Either they were carried away in a sickly state or fainted, requiring the attention of ambulance services. One secretary from a party organization barely reached the podium, murmuring: "Dear comrades, what a great loss..." before collapsing upon it. Swiftly, she was lifted by men and escorted away from the throng. Subsequently, the floor was yielded to an instructor from our district committee, a fervent communist. Hastening to the podium, she faltered as she uttered: "There are no words to express the magnitude of the grief that has befallen us..." and then succumbed to unconsciousness. Like her predecessors, she was ushered to where medical assistance awaited. No fatalities occurred, yet four individuals were barely resuscitated.
We, the youthful Komsomol members, stood apart from the party adherents. Among us were Komsomol schoolchildren aged 14 and above, as well as workers like myself, ranging from 23 to 29 years old. As individuals age out of the Komsomol, some transition into the party fold. However, individuals like myself harbored no inclination to join the party.
I held steadfast to my convictions. I harbored skepticism that communism would ever materialize, thus I waited until the age of twenty-nine to sever ties with the Komsomol, eschewing subsequent entry into the Communist Party, which appeared to me as a trough for the Communists. However, even broaching such sentiments was perilous. When I reached the age of twenty-nine and left the Komsomol, recommendations were extended for me to join the Communist Party, which I adamantly declined. Many queried my reluctance, particularly given the esteemed endorsements from figures such as the head of the Regional Council, the Department Head of the State Labor Savings Bank, the Chief of the district financial department, and the Chief Auditor of the Regional Management. I foresaw the workplace ramifications if I were to voice my dissent: "I do not wish to join the party!" Hence, I contrived a tactful excuse, asserting, "I am unworthy of such an honor." It was a cunning pretext, but one cannot be coerced against their will. Moreover, burdened by familial obligations, I refrained from relinquishing my job, a decision reinforced by the birth of Tomochka in 1958.
In the interim, Yasha endeavored to fulfill his duties as a husband. One day, a truck arrived at our abode, with Yasha at the wheel. He swiftly unloaded four bread crates into the room, a sight that left me and my mother stunned. "Yasha, why bring them inside? Whose bread is this, and who is its rightful owner?" I inquired. Yasha, undeterred, explained: "Galya, you know my army friend Kurmanbaev, who oversees bread delivery and distribution in our unit. By some error, he received four surplus crates of bread. Word came from higher up that an inspector would scrutinize our unit's food stock. My captain, favoring Kurmanbaev, tasked me with discreetly relocating these surplus crates. It seemed a waste to discard such fresh and delectable bread, so I thought to bring it here for your discretion." Alarmed by the implications, I expressed my disapproval. "This is deceitful, Yasha. If we are implicated, how should we respond?" I countered. Yasha reassured me, asserting, "Fear not, Galya, no one is aware. If need be, we'll claim it as ours bought to make breadcrumbs and crackers." With that, he departed for the unit.
My mother and I exchanged knowing glances, cognizant of the dishonesty inherent in Yasha's actions. Each crate contained fifteen loaves, totaling sixty loaves altogether. Given our modest consumption rate of one loaf every two days, sixty loaves would suffice for one hundred and twenty days or four months. However, bread loses its freshness after three days, necessitating its conversion into breadcrumbs.
Armed with sharpened knives, we positioned ourselves on opposite ends of the table and commenced cutting. To avoid arousing suspicion among our neighbors, I secured the door with a latch. Fortunately, it was after work hours. We toiled late into the night, yet half of the bread remained untouched. We scattered the slices to dry on every available surface: windowsills, shelves, and atop the stove. The following day, my mother bartered some of the bread at the pharmacy, while I distributed four loaves among acquaintances. She concocted a story, asserting that Yasha, she, and I each obtained each two loaves independently, by accident. Skeptical, our acquaintances voiced no objections, content to accept the windfall. I found myself unable to sell the surplus bread, nor could I disclose the truth. "Very well," remarked Lida, "Let's not dwell on this. Time is precious, it's nice not to waste it in the line for bread. We'll ow you."
Mom distributed three loaves and fibbed about our surplus bread, refraining from accepting payment. However, Asya Iosifovna, the pharmacy manager, saw through the ruse. "Don't be so shy, Nastya," she remarked, "you bought these loaves, I appreciate it." With that, she offered the change for the three loaves. The cost of bread was trivial then, at 20 kopecks per loaf, totaling 12 rubles for 60 loaves. Yet, the issue wasn't the money. Thankfully, both my mother and I relished soup and milk with crackers, a rare commodity.
Soon after, Yasha's army friend Kurmanbaev underwent surgery to have his appendix removed. Doctors prescribed honey to aid in his recovery. Yasha, being solicitous of his friend, tasked me with delivering honey cakes to the station, where tanks were being loaded onto wagons in preparation for the May 1st parade. I couldn't refuse the request, not after benefiting from free crackers for two months. The station wasn't far, and from a distance, I heard the commands of their captain echoing: "Umarbekov! Where's Umarbekov?" Yasha answered, pointing towards Kurmanbaev who sat pallid in the bushes. I inquired why he wasn't released, to which Kurmanbaev replied, "The doctor cleared me for duty, but the captain hasn't assigned any tasks. Yakub is bearing an entire load of prepping transportation for the parade. He's practically the commander of the tank division. He'll be here soon."
I laid out cakes and honey, and soon Yasha joined us, urging me to partake in their provisions. I was not hungry so I declined their offer, already sated with borscht and porridge. As they finished their tea, the captain's call for Umarbekov disrupted our respite. Yasha swiftly attended to the tanks. He assured me not to fret, promising that he'd be home whenever feasible amidst the demanding preparations for the parade.
Throughout the week, Yasha showed up at home a couple of times. Soon enough my son Slava and I enjoyed watching the May 9 parade in Samarkand...