GRAN&GRAN

My grandmother was born in 1917. Her grandfather was a nobleman from Georgia, her grandmother was a wealthy landowner and one of her uncles was a high-ranking officer in the Tsarist Army. He was killed in Port Arthur in 1904 during the Russian – Japanese war. My grandmother had a French nanny. She studied etiquette, literature, history, fine arts and piano. Somewhere in our family archive we have a very old Soviet newspaper. On the front page, there’s an article about the meeting between the first Bolshevik Educational Commissar and members of the Communist Party. There’s a photo of the Commissar and a tiny little girl in a frilly white dress, sitting on his shoulder. Lunacharsky (Commissar), was giving a speech. He said – ’Comrades! Look at this little girl! She is going to be a Soviet musician.’ Then he took her in his hands, held her up, and shouted to the crowd – ‘This is our future!!!’. This girl was my grandmother. She was five years old. She didn’t look impressed.

It was quite difficult to impress my grandmother. She had a rock solid code of ethics, always followed her own moral principles, and only did what she thought was right. She never said a word which wasn’t true. It’s a mystery how she survived Stalin’s era, but she did. She survived Revolution, Red Terror, purges, arrests, Great Patriotic War, ‘Social Realism’, KGB, Perestroika, Soviet food, brainwashing and propaganda. At her 50th birthday speech she said – ‘I am going to die when I am 100. No questions.’. She passed away when she was 99. She survived Hell and Purgatory. Now she is in Heaven.

My granny started to work as a ‘Tapper’ when she was 8 years old. She played piano in the ‘Kino’ (Cinema), providing background music for black and white propaganda films. She was supposed to play something appropriate and patriotic. Even at her age granny wouldn’t be told what to do, so she played Chopin ‘Etudes’ instead.

Our country was still recovering from the Civil War. There wasn’t enough food. Granny wasn’t earning any money. She was getting paid by ‘Paek’- a small brick of wet black bread and ‘Vobla’ – salted dried fish. It was a life-saver for the whole family.

Every evening they had a ‘tea’. Vobla and bread were put on the antique French table and they would drink plain hot water from the priceless bone china, while being surrounded by bookshelves filled with works of French, German and Greek philosophers, ancient Roman studies and books of Tolstoy, Chekhov and Dostoevsky. On Sundays they had a proper ‘tea’ (hot water with burned sugar to make it look like a real tea). They also had a gramophone and a classical  collection of vinyl records. My grandmother’s favourite composer was Frederick Chopin.

My granddad was a different story altogether. He was a proper Gypsy and a force of nature.  He was born in a caravan. He had six brothers, four sisters and at least ten uncles and aunts. He was wild. He was fearless. He looked like a lion. He went through the world like a hurricane. He thought the world belonged to him, and he was right. He thought he was untouchable. He was arrested countless times, but never convicted. His interrogators become his friends. Everyone loved him, his students adored him, his teachers in the Moscow Conservatoire thought he was a raising star, even though it was my Grandmother who pulled and pushed him through exams and made him practice for four or five hours every day. She wrote her and his ‘Kursovaja’ every year (Kursovaya is music theory/composition/harmony etc study papers, which were required to be written in order to get a diploma). They both got their diplomas and their golden medals, but in was my grandmother who earned it all. After getting her degree she became a head of the piano and theory section of the Khabarovsk Musical ‘Philarmonia’. She received a golden ‘Order of Lenin’ as a sign of recognition for her work and dedication. She also was a brilliant ‘Concertmeister’ (an accompanist). She accompanied every violin player in our family, she guided us through exams, she taught us music history, theory and harmony, she made us practice and she did it all while working with other forty or fifty students. She accompanied me at my first public performance. I was four years old. I was scared, I didn’t want to go on the stage, I wanted to run away. I started to cry, but granny looked at me and raised her eyebrow. That was it. That’s all she had to do. Ever. So I went and I played. Now when someone asks – ‘When did you start playing violin?’, I say like it’s not a big deal – ‘I played my first concert when I was four….’. What I don’t say is that I nearly soiled myself from a sheer terror and if it wasn’t for my grandmother’s raised brow, I’d never be a violin player.

My granddad has a box full of military medals and orders. He was an infantry man. In 1941 he left his violin at home and went to fight the war. He never told me what he did there. Not a single story, not a single word. 

There is one wartime story in our family though, and it was told by my granny.

In 1943, she and her two small kids (my mother and my uncle), were ‘relocated’ to one of the nondescript Russian towns. There was no food, no work, no electricity, no shops, nothing. They lived in a tiny shed with no windows and no furniture. One day, a local ‘Party secretary’ was driving through the town and saw my granny in the ‘Bazaar’ (a Town market). She was trying to exchange some jewellery for food. My granny was always a beautiful woman, but when she was young, she was simply stunning. She always had entourage of men following her around, and she learned well how to get rid of unwanted advances. All she had to do is to raise her brow. It worked all the time. The Secretary stopped, got out of the car, walked up to my granny and started a conversation. Granny wouldn’t have anyone talking to her on the street, so she raised her eyebrow. It worked with everyone else, but the Secretary wasn’t used to anyone saying ‘no’. He had a total authority in this town, he could have you arrested and he could have you shot. He could let you live and he could make you suffer. So he got a bit more insistent. He found out where my granny lived and sent a chauffeur to her ‘house’. He sent flowers, a bottle of wine and food hamper. He also sent a card inviting her to visit him at his residence. My granny nearly fainted when she saw food. She sent it back. She said to the chauffeur – ‘How dare you!!’. She slammed the door in his face and spent the rest of the evening crying, because her kids were hungry and there was nothing she could do about it. The Secretary wasn’t giving up. He tried everything from promises to threats, he followed her around, and at one point he directly told her – ’Dearest Irene, it’s all pointless. Your resistance is futile. It’s a destiny….You will be mine.’ A bit of a poet he was, our Secretary. At around the same time, on the frontline, my granddad got presented with his third or fourth medal. It was one of the most respected WW2 medals, ‘Za Otvagu’ (For exceptional bravery). He also got a ten days leave. Imagine my grandma’s face when her door burst open and she heard – ‘Irena, moya malenjkaja!!’ (My little one!). He brought presents too: suchary, salo, tushenka and sgushenka (No need for translation or description. It meant…..life!) So, after the happy reunion, at some point during the conversation, granny mentioned the romantically inclined Secretary and his advances. Deda (another name for my granddad) made a thoughtful face and said – ‘Tak’. ‘Tak’ means ‘So’ in Russian, and it was one the very few words Deda would use. He didn’t like to talk much, he said it gives him a headache. He was more kind of the ‘Thought and Action’ person. ‘Tak’ usually meant that his thought process has been completed and he is going to proceed. So! Deda put his coat on and without a single word went out. Granny run after him. She got scared. She kept saying – ‘Mitja!!!’ (another name for my granddad), -‘tebja rasstreljaut’ (You’ll be shot!!!). Deda didn’t stop and didn’t reply. He had Germans shooting at him every day for nearly two years, so he wasn’t worried about getting shot. He tried to decide on the appropriate course of action. It was more important. Deda liked to make things right. He was walking and he was thinking. Granny gave up. Deda walked up to the Secretary’s front door. The armed sentry looked away and stepped aside. (You shouldn’t try to stop someone who just came from a frontline, and you shouldn’t stop someone who has ’Otvaga’ on his coat). Deda went in, walked up the stairs, opened the door and entered the Secretary’s ‘cabinet’. Granny followed. She told me it wasn’t possible to stop Deda after he said ‘Tak’, so all she could do is to follow and pray. Deda walked up to the heavy wooden oak table. He looked at the Secretary, said – ‘Tak’ and brought his fist down. 

I forgot to tell you. Deda was one of the strongest men alive. His strength was legendary. He once flipped someone’s car over with his bare hands. So, he broke the table in two. That’s how it ended. He didn’t have to do anything else. There were no words exchanged. Secretary never did anything which could result in another meeting with Deda. He’d touch his cup and say – ’How are you, Comrade!’. Deda had a way with people. Indeed he had.

He was always a dedicated believer in Socialism. He would say – ‘Alik!’(that’s one of my names). ‘Look at what Soviet Rule gave us. I am a Gypsy from the caravan, and I play concerts in the biggest Soviet concert halls for thousands of people. I have work, I have students, I have a house. I have a great family, I have a great life.’

Soon after I left USSR, my mother brought her tape recorder to Deda. She said – ’Dad, I want you to record something for Alik. He is far away from us. His life is not easy, and he can do with some of your support. Speak. I’m going to send him this tape’. 

I still have this recording. He spoke for ten minutes, then he paused, asked my Mom to leave and finally said – ’Alik, I’m getting old, I don’t feel well, it’s difficult for me to talk, my head is not right, I am tired. But there’s something important I want you to know. I always knew, but I was afraid to speak up. I was afraid for all of you. Don’t believe the Bolsheviks. They lied to us. They are evil. They are ‘Svolotchi’…I’m so glad you are far away. Don’t come back….’

He died two years later. During his last hour he lost consciousness, but he kept whispering one phrase, over and over – ’Rasstrelaite ikh vseh, rasstreljaite…’ (Shoot them all, shoot!).