What Price Freedom

By Galina Eangelista

What price Freedom is a poignant, bittersweet novel/documentary, based on a true story of searing passion and haunting practicality as one woman is forced to abandon her beloved Leningrad to protect her half-Jewish son. She must come to grips with the pain and suffering that their departure to freedom brings the family they left behind. The author, Galina Evangelista, seeks an understanding of postmodern landscapes while chronicling the past fifty years of Russian history.

In a place and time where typewriters weren’t allowed and there was only one radio station that the government controlled, few had the courage to speak of it. Now, Galina Evangelista shares the truth of Cold War Russia and how fear lives in people’s minds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Galina Eangelista
• Release date: Oct 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370351855

Galina Eangelista

Galina Evangelista was born and raised in Russia. She studied art through her school years and graduated from Art Academy in the Estonia Republic of Soviet Russia. In 1977, she left St. Petersburg and immigrated to the United States. In New York, she attended Parsons School of Design and moved to Los Angeles to pursue her art career. In Los Angeles, she worked as an art director for more than 17 years, at which time she opened her own art school in Hermosa Beach. She taught children and adults for more than seven years until she moved to Las Vegas, Nevada. With a passion for portrait art, she specialized in oil painting but is also accomplished in pastels, acrylics, and watercolors. Her latest focus is on her murals and mosaic. Her style is realistic and evidenced in her academic renaissance approach. She favors 16th to 19th-century fine art, which includes styles from artists such as Leonardo Da Vinci, Botticelli, Rembrandt, David, Leighton, and Bouguereau. She has belonged to art societies and has many awards to her credit. Galina has expanded into the realm of literature and has authored four books.

Book preview

PREFACE

During my first ten years in America, I was very popular. As a Russian immigrant speaking with a European accent, many people considered me to be exotic, especially when attending parties.

Not many Americans knew much about Russia. They believed that all of Russia was like Siberia, a land with bears living in the wild. They thought that all Russian people were tough and grew layers of fat to fight the cold. They were surprised to see that I was a tall and slender, well-dressed, intelligent young woman. They thought I was from Scandinavia.

To my surprise, I met some people who had never heard of Leningrad and did not know whether Russia is a part of Europe or Asia when Russia is in both and spans 11 time zones.

Everybody asked me the same question: How did I emigrate? Every time I finished telling my story, they asked me why I didn’t write a book about it.

One day, after one of my friends listened to my saga, said, If you don't write about it, I will. So, I began writing my first pages, but my English wasn’t fluent enough, so I wrote by hand in Russian.

I found that I couldn’t complete my story because I hadn’t lived in America long enough to be able to write about my experiences in the country. I put the book aside and forgot about it.

Almost 20 years later, I re-read the pages and decided that it was the right time to share my story. It didn’t take me long to translate and complete the book.

This book is the true story of a little Russian girl, from an ordinary family, surrounded by ordinary people. It is about her life behind the Iron Curtain, her thirst for knowledge, her fantasy and wish to fly, her struggle for freedom, and her journey to survive in an unknown world.

This writing is not an autobiography. The names, dates and some sequence of events have been changed. It is a saga based on a real-life story.

~ Galina Evangelista

BOOK I

Life Before

CHAPTER 1

I stepped on rounded stones the size of my foot, and fast running water came up to my waist. We were vacationing that summer among nature, crossing a small stream in the woods. I could easily have been swept away by the force of the river if Mama and Grandma hadn’t been holding my hands. The water was only up to their ankles, but I was just two years old.

I also recall when I was four, walking in the park alley. I jumped very high, flying in the air when Mama and Papa’s hands pulled me up. I remember the names of two children, Iaya Savina and Maya Matcovskaya, in my kindergarten group, the dresses I wore: a dark green wool dress and a red flannel dress with square buttons. At seven, I marched a battalion of boys and girls who were older than me in our backyard, counting, "One, two, three, four; left, left. One, two and three…

Papa, can you fix it? The arms of my doll fell off.

Let me see. You must have been twisting her arm in one direction too many times and the elastic broke down. It’s easy; I’ll fix it for you, my little trouble maker.

Papa, what is textile?

Textile is different types of fabrics. On my job we build big machines to make fabric. Is that what you want to know?

Is Mama going to work again? She is wearing her hospital robe.

Adik, the food is cooked; all you need is to warm it up. Don’t wait for me, eat and feed the children.

Wait, Mira, where is Robert’s medicine?

There, next to the teapot. He is 11; give Robert a full teaspoon and Vica too, she is still coughing.

But Vica is only seven; for her a full spoon too?

No, for her fill it halfway.

Mama, Mama. Give me a kiss; I love you.

The April sun melted the thin layer of overcast sky, the first sign of the spring. Papa took our black and white cat, Marquez, outside to play. It was Papa’s cat, because he fed him, cleaned his litter and taught him to make Pobris, to jump very high over his stretched arms; Papa made up this word, it doesn’t exist in the Russian language.

This time, Papa took Marquez to the backyard; Marquez got dirty jumping over the puddles of water left after yesterday’s melted snow, and I watched when Papa washed him in a basin of warm water and put him on the windowsill in the sun to dry. He was so funny when he was wet.

But I am in school now and have left kindergarten. Two days ago I came home with wet feet and got sick. Overnight my fever broke, and I didn’t need to be in bed any longer, so I went to the window to see if the ice on the river Fontanka had broken. From our apartment windows, I could see Anichkov Bridge with four bronze statues of men in different positions holding their horses, which were ready to break into a run. Papa said that there are some 800 bridges in Leningrad and the suburbs. The bridges across Neva rise at night to allow large ships to pass. On my right across the Nevsky Prospect, I could see an enormous two-story building with rounded columns between the windows. The Detsky Dvorec (palace for children), is where all age kids could take classes like music, dancing, building different models and acting. I took my first art classes there.

While Mama was working, cooking and doing laundry at home, Papa often took Robert and me to see many places in the city, to show us beautiful sculptures, fountains, and palaces. He said that Leningrad was the most beautiful city in the world, even better than Moscow.

Vica, do you want to come with me to bring Grandma some dinner?

You don’t need to ask me, Papa. She is my favorite person in the world, my Babushka Irena, and I always want to see her. She will give me something sweet. I’m ready, let’s go.

Vica, button your coat, it is still cold outside; it’s just the beginning of April. Tomorrow is Pasha; Mama will bake pies.

What is Pasha, Papa?

It’s a religious holiday. It’s not an official holiday in our country, but by old tradition, people dye eggs in different colors and bake pies. Tomorrow you can bring the pies, together with her dinner, to Grandma, by yourself.

It’s warmer today than yesterday, I thought, breaking an icicle from the ledge of a building and putting it in my mouth; the icicle was cold and crunchy.

Babushka, look what Mama baked today! This pie with meat is one that you like, with fried cabbage, boiled eggs, and fried onions; and this one is my favorite: lemon-pie; it makes my mouth water.

Isn’t it good, Babushka that you live so close, and I can see you often? You are not old to me at all, and you have more love in your heart than any ten people could have.

Children, I’m going to shop for food; what would you like me to buy for you today?

For me Red Hat and Belochka, it’s my favorite chocolate candies.

Instead of chocolates, I prefer to take money, Robert said, then later:

Vica, let’s see how many chocolate candies you have collected in your drawer. We won’t eat them; we’ll just look at them.

This one is for you, this one for me, for you, for me. I always saved the best ones for my brother.

We grew up free of troubles or worries. Our parents only instructed us to study diligently.

Again Papa wrote my name on my dusty mirror, with his finger.

Mira, Papa said to Mama, why you don’t teach Victoria anything to do in the house; she doesn’t even make her bed.

Mama says, Let her play. The time will come when she will grow up and learn everything she needs to know.

I loved spending time with Grandma. She always told me interesting stories and always had a delicious treat for me. She loved being with us, too. She would let me and Robert turn chairs upside down and cover them with tablecloths, pretending that it was our military quarters.

Robert and I had only one obligation: Every day we had to bring the dinner that Mama cooked to Grandma. When I was a teenager, my grandmother was already about 80 years old, but her mind was clear. Papa said that when she was young, she had an adamant character. So, when I demonstrated my character, he would say that I was acting just like my Grandma. Maybe it was so. I think I got my slim and tall figure from her too.

Before the Revolution of 1917, Grandma owned a farm and a lot of land with livestock. After the Revolution, the new government took everything from her family, and she started to work for pennies, on a Kolkhoz. She loved the land and didn’t want to leave it, even for a better life in the city. But after the Second World War, she moved to the city to be closer to our family. By that time she was old enough to collect a pension. On a collective farm, the government paid a minuscule salary and the pension was calculated and settled from it.

The Russian people got accustomed to being patient. Grandma never complained about anything. Our parents invited her to live with us, but she said that she didn’t want to bother anyone.

She had that unique talent to heal people. I witnessed all different kind of folk who were coming to her house to ask for help. Some people had physical pain, some emotional. I was very curious and watched her perform the ritual.

Grandma would wear a clean white robe and would wash her hands before the procedure. The person would sit in the middle of the room, on a stool with closed eyes. Grandma would place her hands on different major psychic centers, like the top of the head, forehead, throat and heart, and other centers of his or her body. Then she would ask them to visualize the white light filling their body, imagining that the pain they have is traveling down through their body to their feet and leaving the body. At the same time, she was moving her lips in a silent whisper. Then she would make the movements with her hands like she was brushing the invisible, unwanted particles from the back of the patient, and make gestures like she was throwing the particles away. There were more procedures like this to follow until she would finish. Then she would again wash her hands.

She never invited anyone to get healed; they were coming by themselves, and she would never refuse them. Word of mouth brought a lot of people to her doorstep because the result was that good. People gave her not only money but food products as well. She never named a price but accepted what they would give her. As a result, she always had fresh honey, preserves, dried and pickled mushrooms and homemade goodies.

I was fascinated with this mystery and one day I asked her, Can you teach me to heal people, Grandma?

I would give anything to you, my precious, but this; you have to be born with. I asked Papa Is it true that Babushka can heal people?

He said, She has done this all her life and people have been following her everywhere. She healed your Mama, when after giving birth to you; she had a problem with her legs and couldn’t walk. Judge it for yourself.

After school, I often sat with my Grandma next to the window. She was full of stories and spoke slowly like she was living through an event from another time.

Many years ago, I had a beautiful daughter with long brown hair down to her waist and sparkling blue eyes. Boys from the village were competing for her attention, but that special one had already been chosen. My Aculina was 19 years old and a bride-to-be.

Grandma stopped, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. One summer day, she went rowing on a lake, with her friends. It was not far from our village, Omoshie. All around the edge of the lake grew tall grass, and with time that lake would be a swamp. Their boat must have gotten caught in this thick grass, turned over, and everyone survived except Aculina. She didn’t know how to swim and therefore drowned.

Grandma stopped, looked down and put her hands together. I stretched my hands and wrapped them around hers.

Oh Babushka, you had only one daughter, and you lost her.

Later, Grandma continued, when I would walk to the lake, I would see her as a swimming mermaid. Aculina swam to the coast and turned into a beautiful young girl. She walked by the shoreline, collected flowers, braiding them in a wreath, and sang a song about her dreams that would never come true. The village people said that they also saw her in the village near the house of her fiancé. Grandma looked somewhere in the distance behind me; I took her hands in mine and kissed her pumped-up blue veins one by one.



One summer, my Grandma was going to visit the same village of Omoshie, where she was born and lived with her family. My Grandpa Ivan died in his late forties and Grandma raised their four sons and daughter in Omoshie, before moving to the city. My Papa was the youngest child in the family. All the stories about village life were so mysterious to me that I wanted to see it for myself. We were not going to stay in Omoshie because there were no living relatives or friends left there. We would stay two kilometers away in the village of Grishutino, with Grandma’s younger friend Masha, the only one who remembered Grandma from years ago. The village was 200 kilometers south of Leningrad.

By that time I was ten years old and had completed the third grade. I had a three-month summer holiday, so I asked Grandma to take me with her. Preparing myself for the trip, I filled up a big black suitcase with my clothes and toys. Then, Grandma and I left on a small and crowded bus. The bus was not supposed to be occupied by more than 20 people, but there were perhaps 30 passengers on it. We were tormented for five hours in the back seat of the bus, enduring the heat coming from the engine behind us.

The last stop on the bus was in a big village, Gradovo. From there, to get to our destination another twelve kilometers away, we hitchhiked and walked on a wide sandy road surrounded by a thick and tall forest. A big truck carrying long lumber, held tight by chains, stopped and gave us a lift. It was already dark outside when we were dropped off by the truck driver, but that wasn’t the end of our journey. We had to walk another two kilometers. It was nearly soundless and the only sound I heard was bells jingling on the left and right sides of the road. I was puzzled, Grandma, what is this strange sound in the forest? It’s horses behind the wooden fence, eating grass.

We left the city at noon. It was midnight when we reached the house where Grandma’s friend lived. We awakened Aunt Masha—I called her my aunt—but she was happy to greet us. She made our beds on the wooden benches next to the wall. I didn’t notice any other furniture except a wooden table with stools and a big chest. On the wall, I saw two horizontally attached wooden sticks, with some spoons and forks behind them. I never saw that in the city. I assumed it must have been a village method of taking care of silver. In the corner close to the ceiling, was an icon of a god in a delicate metal frame with the towel hung over it and a candle under the icon. I have seen these images in the museums before. I didn’t know the purpose of them but still, I respected Aunt Masha’s taste.

The morning was sunny. A wooden floor without lacquer was washed immaculate and covered with homemade rugs. It felt nice to step on it with my bare feet. From the city, we brought some sugar, candies, and pastries and sat at the table to have breakfast: warm, cooked cereal and milk with tasty black bread made of whole grain.

The village where we were staying had only one street. In the entire village, there were only 12 single-story houses, some distance from each other. Each house had two windows in front and one door, with stairs on the side. All of them were made from logs and had a slanted wooden roof and chimney. Both windows in every house were all open and the heads of curious people were sticking out of them to see who had arrived.

My Grandma and I were dusty from the road, and aunt Masha said that she would prepare a sauna for us. We went to get water from the well across the street. There were long, straight, wooden sticks attached to a tall post. I realized that the well was very deep. I tried to move the sticks, but it started to shake in my hands: it was too heavy, only adults could handle it. I stepped aside and looked in the well, and then my head started to spin.

I remembered my Grandma telling me a story that if you look down in the well for a long time, you can see your future, like in the mirror. The water is so far from me; I saw nothing, except for a small surface of still water. I stretched my neck, but still couldn’t see anything. Supporting myself with my arms on both sides of the opening, I pulled myself from the ground. The cover, with my hand on it, moved to the right and, in a second, I was diving head first into the dark well.

Aah! I heard my voice screaming, amplified by echoing in the narrow well pit. My legs spread instinctively to hold onto something, but they slid on the slippery logs of the walls. In an instant, I was under freezing water. My survival instincts took over immediately, and I turned so that my head emerged from the water. My eyes were closed, and the water was just freezing. I had never had my head under water before. I didn’t know how to swim or keep myself on the surface. Slapping the surface of the water with my arms stretched and my eyes closed, I was coughing to clear my lungs and having difficulty inhaling air.

The water was so cold that my body was becoming numb. I couldn’t feel my legs. Between coughs, I heard voices: Grab the bucket! I opened my eyes, and a bucket was right at my chest. I grabbed the sides of it and, in a moment, was hanging in the air. The water was dripping, making a loud noise as it returned to the pit.

I was still clinging to the sides of the bucket, shivering from the cold, when strong hands removed me from it. Those same hands were soon carrying me to the house. It was Aunt Masha. In the house, they changed my wet clothes, wrapped me in a blanket and placed me on the bench next to the window in the sun.

Everything happened so fast that I didn’t have a chance to realize how close I came to drowning.

Despite nearly being killed by bouncing against the walls of the pit, I didn’t have any serious injuries. My grandma was sitting next to me and thanked God that He let me live. She said she didn’t know how she would face my parents if something so serious had happened. Thank you, God, she said again and again. She was praying and praying.

Now, the sauna was necessary to warm me up. I looked across the street and saw Aunt Masha collect water in two buckets, hang them on a yoke, place it on her shoulders, and carry them to the backyard, where there was a little house with a sauna.

Inside was very dark. There was a small window and in the corner was a pile of big rounded stones. Under the stones, Aunt Masha started a fire. A metal pipe, which was placed between the stones, led to the roof to take the smoke out, but some of it stayed inside and bothered my eyes. When the stones became red-hot, Aunt Masha poured water over them to make steam. It was sweltering, and I couldn’t wait to get out. When Aunt Masha made a sauna the following week, I was worried that I would not tolerate the heat and smoke.

From the beginning, I liked life in the village. I was running on the grass, collecting flowers and chasing butterflies. Our neighbor, who was a distant relative of Aunt Masha, took me to her job in Kolkhoz for the day.

We traveled on a horse and cart that rattled from wooden wheels framed in metal rings. It jolted at every bump. Then, we came to a field where both women and a few men were mowing grass. On our way, Aunt Tonia was swearing. She wasn’t angry; it was just regular village slang. Her hands were burned and rough, with pumped veins, and her face was weather-beaten; she looked old, though she was only 40. Big machines were used to cut the grass; women collected it in stacks and threw it onto carts. Then, horses carried it to be buried in huge holes. I jumped and tumbled on the soft grass that smelled so delicious. After that bumpy and slow trip, I had worked up a healthy appetite.

To buy groceries we went to a store in a neighboring village, Omoshie, two kilometers from Grishutino. That was the village where my Grandma and my Papa were born and lived before they moved to the city. This village also had one street, which was a little bit longer than the one in Grishutino. The store was built the same way as the houses. There, one could buy everything, including groceries, kerosene, soaps, and bread, baked and delivered from another larger village.

On Sundays, we would go the Kolkhozes club in a village five kilometers away and watch a movie. Before the movie, young people danced to records amplified by speakers.

After a while, my brother came to the village. He was 14 years old, and our parents let him travel by himself. He was curious to know where I had disappeared to for the whole summer. On the first day, he discovered that there were no children in the entire village to socialize with.

Aunt Masha, how are you living here and where are all the young people? I didn’t meet one child in the whole village.

You see for yourself that our life is different from city life. Young people born and raised in villages often tried to get away from that painful, miserable and boring life. But, in the Soviet Union, people can’t just move from a village to a city without permission from the authorities. If they could, all of the villages would be empty. Also, two years in the Army is mandatory and after getting out of the Army, many boys tried to marry girls from the city, so that they could legally live there. Girls are doing the same thing. That is why only old people are left in the villages. It is a privilege to be born in a city like it is to be born rich.

Victoria, we are rich; let’s go and find the lake where our Aunt drowned. Grandma gave us the directions to find the lake. Robert was holding the branches for me to pass through the heavy forest. Watch your step, there are snakes all over, he said protectively and scared me to death. I was jumping over every twig. It was so humid that I felt a stream of water running over my spine and the dress was wet on my back. I hate these mosquitoes, they are sucking my blood, and it’s so itchy.

I was scratching myself all the way there, and Robert was slapping himself here and there. Vica, let’s get out of here; besides, the lake must be a swamp by now. I had enough of my adventure, and we went back to the village. For hours we were both in agony, scratching and licking our wounds.

One week was enough for Robert to be in that village. There were no young people to play with, and there was nothing for him to do.

That day, when Robert decided to go home, I suddenly became homesick. I begged him to take me with him, but he refused because we couldn’t leave Grandma alone.

But, if I wanted something very badly, I would usually get it. I asked Grandma for money to buy a bus ticket, and she gave it to me. I packed my suitcase and marched energetically behind Robert. He was always disappearing behind the bushes. After two kilometers, when I reached the 12-kilometer road, I lost sight of him. Did a passing truck pick him up or was he walking too fast? I continued to walk alone. Soon, my big suitcase became quite hefty and started to drag on me. I took off my cotton stockings, and pulled them through the handle; bending myself over in half I pulled the suitcase onto my back. The farther I walked, the heavier the suitcase became. I didn’t see a single truck during the entire walk. At the end of the journey to the village Gradovo, where the bus station was, I could barely drag myself anymore, let alone the suitcase.

I found the bus stop, bought a ticket and after a two-hour wait, got on the bus. The return trip was no easier in that crowded little box than the voyage there. When I reached the city, people watched me with interest, as I was a dusty, exhausted little creature. I was ashamed of my appearance and cried as I dragged my suitcase along the asphalt. It was dark already, and I was glad that nobody saw my tears.

Mama dropped her hands when she saw me. My God, Vica, how did you get home alone? It’s such a long, difficult trip. Mama and Papa didn’t scold me since I had a very pitiful look. It was a magnificent experience for me. I demonstrated my courage and my character, and I succeeded.

My Grandma died at the age of 97. She had been my favorite person in the world. I sat next to her coffin covered with brown silk satin, and held her cold, stone-like hands in mine, hoping to warm them up and bring her back to life. But she was just laying there, my Babushka, who lived through the Revolution and two wars and had lost her four children, three of them in the Second World War. She was always so proud and independent. Later, I often went to her grave, surrounded by an iron