Babushka

Sasha, Cindie, Babushka, Niece, Dima


Olya


The thin old woman sits across the room from me. Her hands folded peacefully in her lap, fingers gnarled and swollen with age. She sits with no curve in her spine, barely leaning against the hard back of the chair, feet clad in heavy black wool socks, firmly planted side by side on the floor, head held high and faded blue eyes brightly watching all that is happening around us. I wonder, “Who is this woman? Why is she sitting alone in the midst of so many people? Why does no one talk to her? Why do they ignore her as if she does not exist?”

Babushka had entered the room with Victor’s mother, Sasha. Sasha was dressed in a bright red floor length dress, with her blonde hair beautifully cut and styled. Babushka was dressed in an equally stylish mid-calf length dress, dark blue with tiny white polka dots, topped with a matching solid dark full length vest, her thin gray hair tightly pulled back from her face and held with combs. Nothing seemed to escape her sight and it was plain to me as I watched her off and on that she held strong opinions about each thing that happened. Her face changed from pleasure to annoyance, from apprehension to disappointment, to pleasure once again as events unfolded around us. Still, my heart went out to her and I wondered if this woman was partially deaf and that was why no one spoke to her, or maybe she was senile. Yet when I took out photos of my grandchild and passed them around she watched eagerly for them to come to her. I was shocked when the woman sitting next to her passed them on to someone else. Babushka could plainly see, she was not blind, and she had very much wanted to see them.

I was also alone in the group. As the only American woman there, as someone who only understood parts of the conversations around me, and understood only parts of the social interaction between people, I too, was mostly an onlooker at the party. As the women came into the room and then left again to unknown parts of the house for unknown purposes, Babushka and I sat quietly across the room from one another and observed. Often when I took my eyes away from the little ones playing on the floor or lying on the bed I would catch her looking at me. Never a smile was sent my way, but a certain twinkle in the eyes let me know that she was aware of me and of our situation, that she was interested in me as a person, as an American, as someone new, that she wanted to talk with me as much as I wanted to talk with her.

I actually enjoy being an onlooker at events like this. I am not really required to do anything other than to be present. I once offered to help in the kitchen, but was told by my translator in no uncertain terms that as a guest I must stay out of the kitchen. So, from that time on, unless specifically asked by the hostess or another woman, I do not offer. I just sit and wait and eventually someone will come over, someone who is brave enough to try to talk to me. One day I will be invited.

All of the women disappeared with their children. Most of the men wandered out of the room. But Babushka and I sat quietly, glancing often at each other. Olya returned and I motioned her to come over. I quietly asked her if it would be ok to show Babushka my photos of Stirling, my grandson. Eyes widened in surprise, she answered, “Of course!” I opened my purse, withdrew the photo envelope, stood up carefully on creaky sore knees and hips and walked over toward Babushka. Immediately her eyes lit up and she smiled a big toothless grin at me. Well, almost toothless – I know she had two or three and at least one looked to be covered in gold. She pointed to the chair at her right side and commanded me to sit down. Olya pulled another chair up in front of Babushka and we began to talk.

I showed her my photos and with shaking hands she took hold of them. Her fingers were bent and swollen and separating the photos one from another was difficult. Olya also has arthritis and her fingers are mostly frozen, but she gently reached out and helped Babushka view them one by one. As she held them, Babushkas hands began to shake even harder and very quickly she motioned for me to take them once again. I slid them back into the envelope, laid them on my lap and reached for her hand with both of mine. Gently I applied a bit of pressure, just enough to let her know I was loving her, that I was glad to be able to meet her and communicate with her, and she smiled a smile a mile wide.

She started talking about their garden and how many trees were in it, how many fruit bushes, and how many different kinds of vegetable they plant each year. Because her words were simple, spoken in Russian with little Ukrainian mixed in (I think!) I understood a lot of what she was saying. But Olya’s translation was an incredible help. (I still have so many problems with Russian verbs!) She explained that she used her money she received from the German governments’ restitution to help her family buy the house and land they now owned. There was still so much to do in the house. It needed a lot of repair, new pipes, running water, and heat. They had worked on the heat before winter set in, but as I understood, there was only heat in one room during the whole winter. And this winter has been one of the coldest in written history. Life is very difficult, she told me. Not just the work or the repairs needed – but life itself. She was too old to work out in the garden now, but she could add her pension money to help with all the costs involved.

I watched Babushka’s face as she spoke to me, and once again her eyes revealed so much of what she was thinking. Excitement, joy, amazement, sorrow – just to name of few of the emotions that slipped across her face. Soon another woman joined us and I realized that she, too, was Babushka’s relative – a niece I think. This woman asked me how old I am and I responded that in a few days I will be 52. She smiled and told me that she is 45. Sasha popped into the room for a moment, spoke a few words to me in broken English, and then told her mother, “Tell her about Germany!”

Babushka was 19 years old when Germans invaded the Soviet Union in 1940. Once they had some kind of control over this part of Ukraine, the soldiers began rounding up women and sending them back to Germany to work as slave labor. I had seen the movie, Schindler’s List, and most people think that the people who used as slave labor were only Jews. But hundreds, if not thousands, of Soviet citizens were hauled off by force as well and worked until they died of exhaustion or starvation, or were finally confined to a concentration camp and executed. Babushka was starving when she arrived at the farm to which she had been assigned. She told me that the people there had been very kind to her, giving her only tiny bites of food to eat each time, until she could hold a full meal down once again. She was put to work as a milk maid. In the family was a 15 year old son, and she beamed with pride when she told me that he had told his family several times that “Babushka has the most beautiful hair, it shines so!” She said that in German first and then in Russian. And then she explained that she never learned to speak German, living there four whole years, she did not learn. After saying that, she promptly repeated something in German – a poem maybe, or a long saying. I wasn’t sure it was German at first, due to the heavy Russian accent, but some of the words just had to be German from their sound!

The niece broke in and said that both of her parents had also been in Germany. I am not sure I followed her story completely, but the gist of it was that her mother’s family hid her from the Germans for as long as they were able. Somehow the soldiers knew she existed, so they threatened the family and told them that unless they gave their daughter to them, they would take their son instead. Because the son had already started a family, they gave up their daughter. After the soldiers took her away – they took the son as well. The daughter worked in a factory which produced war machines of some sort. I’m not sure what happened to the son, but someone in the family ended up in a concentration camp in Germany. Both this niece and Babushka beamed with joy when they told me, “And then the Americans came and liberated us!” The niece told me the American soldiers gave everyone chocolate, cigarettes and chewing gum and I laughed out loud. I’ve heard that story before – American soldiers are known all over the world for handing out those particular items to children and to people they liberate. The niece’s mother and father, both Ukrainians, met each other while working as slave labor in Germany, came back to Ukraine, married and had a family.

I remembered a story that Vitya told us last year, a story about his Babushka. And I realized that this was her! He had explained that everyone in Ukraine had thought she was dead. Because Stalin was killing those who returned from Germany, she had to return very carefully, sneaking back into the country and being careful that the authorities did not notice her. Vitya told us that day, when Babushka returned to her village, she was afraid to go home, so she sat down on some steps to rest. One of her relatives found her there, barely recognizing her, but joyful that she was still alive. Stalin was insane with paranoia and had thousands of returning slave workers, released concentration camp prisoners and soldiers returning from the German front killed because he was afraid that they were really spies. After all, they could not have survived unless they had collaborated with the Germans in some way!

And then I realized that the “German restitution money” she had referred to earlier was the money the German government paid to Ukraine not long ago. I was so glad to hear that she had received her money! It could not ever repay the years she had lost, the starvation and only she knows what other things happened to her. But that money had helped her help her family now, and she was proud of that.

We did not stay much longer as it was getting dark. As we prepared to leave, Babushka invited me to come to her village and visit this spring or summer. I am sure that Vitya, or possibly his wife Lyuda, will pass along an invitation to me later this year. And I hope that I am able to go. I would love to see her home, to see her in context, to see the things she loves, the people in her life.

I am blessed to have met this woman!