THE FINAL YEAR OF LIFE IN THE HOUSE AT THE STEPNOY STATE FARM AND AT THE APARTMENT IN STEPNAYA STATION, 1945-46 (Part 2). Galina Petriakova.
Following the concert at the club on November 7th, where I performed a new song, the next morning I was at Stepnaya railway station. Many glanced at me, whispering in recognition. A girl, roughly ten years old, upon seeing me, exclaimed loudly, "Mom, mom, it's the girl who sang best yesterday!" Her mother, upon hearing this, smiled and approached me: "Hello, are you Galya? Pardon me, they say you live on a state farm, but I find it hard to believe. Who in your family is an artist? Typically, artists reside in cities, don't they?" "We have no artists in our family," I replied. "Truly? Why so modest?" she retorted. "If not artists, then surely you're from a Jewish family." "You amuse me; there are no Jews in our lineage," I countered. My response left her astounded; evidently, she hadn't expected it. Persisting, she said, "I find it hard to believe. Only artists or Jews sing like that." Just then, the train arrived, and as we boarded, the woman continued to argue with her daughter. Through the open window, I overheard their conversation: "Why won't she admit it? Perhaps she dislikes boasting. Likely so." Regrettably, I didn't mention that although my parents weren't artists, they both possessed remarkable singing talents. My stepfather, especially, with his poignant melodies, nurtured within me a fervent love for singing.
Before I could dwell on this, the seven kilometers from Stepnoy Station to the 67th siding swiftly passed. I immediately noticed the smiles directed at me by those boarding the train, puzzling over their cause. I soared home on wings of anticipation. It turned out the entire state farm had heard of my performance. The three individuals who boarded the train as I disembarked were present at yesterday's concert. News had spread through Stepnoy, and many in the audience knew of my residence on the state farm, my mother's occupation as a milkmaid, and my dwelling in an apartment while studying at Stepnaya Station. It was evident. The Rodins, Mahotas, and Grishins greeted me near the house, while a group of children observed with curiosity. Initially, my neighbors embraced me warmly, and my mother and sister Lena awaited my release. Lena rushed to kiss me, and my mother ushered everyone into the room persistently: "Come in, sit down at the table, we shall celebrate."
The women and their children seated themselves. My neighbor, aunt Galya, urged me to eat heartily, while they recounted everything about my performance. My mother praised Lena for finding such a splendid song for me. Everyone anticipated my rendition of it that day, eager for me to sing after our meal. But first, I asked my mother to sing our beloved "Oh, you are a garden, you are my garden." As she began, we joined in. The sensation was sublime; I soared with singing, carried aloft by joy. Later, I sang "There are three girls in the spring," a lively tune that delighted the audience. Yet, whether from excitement or sentiment, some shed tears. I felt a peculiar blend of amusement and happiness. That evening, I confided in Lena about Fedor (Ivanovich) Opryshko. Lena speculated that my song had enchanted him and warned me to be cautious since he was already twenty and had another year of military service ahead (at that time, three years of service were mandatory). She cautioned me that circumstances could change.