Memoirs

By Kadir I. Natho

This book vividly portrays the bitter trials of life in Soviet Russia
and Nazi Germany. It is a story of the authors recollections of abject
poverty and total intimidation in which his terrified parents and villagers
lived under the dictatorships of the Soviet Union from the forcible collectivization
to the advent of World War II, and of the Nazi Germany during the temporary
German occupation of the Caucasus. The author rebelled against the heartrending and
unforgettable mistreatment of the people by both dictatorships during the war. This
frequently endangered his life and forced him to flee, leaving behind everything dear to
himfriends, relatives, parents, native village, and country. Thus he wandered through
Russia, Poland, Czechoslovakia, Austria, and Italy, at times as a hunted fugitive. He
survived the war and two forcible repatriations back to the Soviet Unionfirst from
Austria, and then from Italy; then he moved to Jordan, lived there for eight years, and
finally immigrated to the United States of America in 1956. Mr. Natho found shelter
in the best and freest country in the world. The book is highly interesting, informative,
and easy to read. It is filled, not only with the cruelties and horrors of the war and
dictatorships, but also with human passion, kindness, heroism, and love. It will enrich
your soul and experience.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 23, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453588994

Kadir I. Natho

Kadir I. Natho was born in 1927 in Hatramtook, Anapa region, Caucasus. He became a refugee in 1943; survived World War II, escaped the First and Second Forced Repatriations to the Soviet Union in 1945 and 1947 from Austria and Italy, respectively; lived in various European countries; and moved to Jordan in 1948. He emigrated from Amman to the United States in 1956 and settled in New York City in 1959. He graduated from the School of American Journalism and Henry George School of Social Science (science of political economy), studied English literature, and took writing courses. His short stories were translated into Turkish and published in Kuzey Kafkasya, one of which was included in the Anthology of the Short Stories of the Caucasus in Turkey. He published a collection of his short stories, Old and New Tales of the Caucasus, in 1969, and a novel, Nicholas and Nadiusha, in 1978, which was translated and published in Russian and Circassian, in Maikop in 1992 and 1993 under the titles of Otchuzhdionyie and Tsif Lyiekher (Outcasts). A part of this novel was also translated in Kabardian and published in a series in the newspaper Adyghe Psale and in the literary magazine Oshhamakho (Elbrus) in 2007 and was included in the Selections of Literature for Reading for eleventh graders in 2013. He wrote a three-act play, Medea, in Circassian, for the State Theater of the Republic of Adyghe, the premiere of which was held in Maikop on April 28–29, 2009, which was well received even by the Russians. It was performed again and again in Maikop, Krasnodar, Nalchik, and Moscow and received first prize in the North Caucasian Drama Festival in Maikop. His Old and New Tales of the Caucasus was included in the student literature of the State University of Adyghey in 2007. He published Circassian History in 2009, which was translated in Turkish, Arabic, and Russian and published in Maikop, Republic of Adyghey; Ankara, Turkey; and in Amman, Jordan, and was translated in Kabardian, in Cherkessk in 2014. He published Memoirs in 2010, which was published in Turkish in Turkey in May 2014 and translated in Russian in Maikop. He translated and published Adighe Khabze, Custom and Traditions, by Professor Seraby Mafedzev and published Grand Abduction in 2017, based on the fact that Circassians had abducted the daughter of General Zass during the Russo-Caucassian War (1786–1864) and now has submitted for publishing the translation of the first volume of History of Adyghe Literature. He acquired G. A. Press in New York City, and, in the 1960s, published for years books and periodicals for Russian and Ukrainian authors and organizations, and his own bilingual magazine, the Circassian Star, in English and Circassian, in order to disseminate Circassian history, culture, and folklore and to revive the national consciousness of the Circassian diaspora. He devoted his time and energy to helping the Circassian community in the United States; was chairman of the Permanent Council of the Circassian Benevolent Association in Wayne, New Jersey (1987–1991); was president of the CBA (1991–1998); and was a delegate of the CBA in the Congress of the International Circassian Association in Nalchik (1991 and 2000), in Maikop (1993), in Cherkessk (1996), and in Krasnodar (1998). He organized the Institute of Circassian Studies as a branch of the CBA for the study of Circassian history, culture, and folklore and translated the books Heroic Epos, NARTS and Its Genesis, by Asker Gadagatl.

Book preview

Copyright © 2010 by Kadir I. Natho.

Library of Congress Control Number:    2010914589

ISBN: Hardcover    978-1-4535-8898-7

ISBN: Softcover      978-1-4535-8897-0

ISBN: Ebook          978-1-4535-8899-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

82473

Contents

Chapter One

CHILDHOOD MEMORIES

1.  Hatramtouk

2.  The Caravan

3.  The New Village

4.  New Problems

5.  Back to Hatramtouk

6.  On the Beach of the Black Sea

7.  Back to Khutor Nekada

8.  The Unforgettable Shock

9.  During the Starvation of 1933

10.  In New Natukhay

11.  Lessons from the Elders

12.  Father’s Industriousness and Some Other Matters

13.  My First Punishment for Love of Horses

14.  Nagib’s Marriage

15.  In the School of Our Village

16.  The Expulsion from the School

17.  The Time Out of School

18.  Malaria and the Russian Woman

19.  Just for the Sake of Horses

20.  Back to School

21.  To the Summer Resort

22.  Nagib and Kimkery

23.  The Incident with Shahib

24.  Yeregib and Us—the Kids

25.  Shortage of Food

26.  My Mother and the Brigadier

27.  The Marriage of Kimkery and Liuba

28.  Magid, Me, and the Brigadier

29.  The End of School

30.  Back in the Collective Farm

31.  The Gold Watch and Me

32.  Before the Retreat

Chapter Two

UNDER THE OCCUPATION OF NAZI GERMANY

1.  The Arrival of the Enemy

2.  The Desire to Own

3.  Vanka, the Russian Prisoner, and Me

4.  The Request of the Elders

5.  The Find of Haystacks in Voyenved

6.  The Problem over the Harness

7.  Escape from the German Gallows

8.  Necessity Is the Mother of Invention

9.  The German Commandant and Me

Chapter Three

BACK UNDER THE SOVIET RULE

1.  January 17, 1943

2.  The Return of Our Soldiers

3.  The Struggle over the Family Cow of Our Neighbor

4.  The Battle in Which Mother Was Killed

Chapter Four

UNDER THE GERMAN OCCUPATION FOR THE SECOND TIME

1.  The Burial of the Dead

2.  Again Under the German Occupation

3.  The Request of My Sister-in-law, Leta

4.  The Trip to Aul Takhtamukay

Chapter Five

BACK TO HATRAMTOUK AND MY SHORT STAY THERE

1.  The Escape from the German Soldier

2.  The Group of Elderly Men and Me

3.  Ibrahim Koble, His Hospitality and Help

4.  In Panakhes

5.  On My Way Back to Hatramtouk

6.  Life in Hatramtouk

7.  The First Incident with Daut

8.  Working in German Military Storehouse

9.  Russian Teenage Girls

Chapter Six

THE LIFE WITH CIRCASSIAN REFUGEES

1.  Joining the Circassian Refugees in Crimea

2.  In Kaminets-Podolski, Ukraine

3.  The Incident with Andrey Vasilich

4.  Taking Arms for Self-defense

5.  To Proskurov

6.  In Proskurov

Chapter Seven

OUR ARRIVAL IN ITALY

1.  Settling in Italy

2.  Meeting the Sheretlyqo Family

3.  My Old Friends and Me

4.  With My Friends in Forni Avoltri

5.  The Day Shaban Began to Call Me Tsihan

6.  Getting Hay, Flour, and Potato from Italians

7.  Abduction in Italy, Circassian Style

8.  Taking the Bride to Forni Avoltri

9.  The Reception and the Wedding Ceremony in Forni Avoltri

10.  The Incident in Forni Avoltri with the Italian Partisans

11.  Freeing the Circassian Prisoners from the Italian Partisans

12.  Our Role during the Final Days of the War

13.  In Austria at the End of World War II

Chapter Eight

THE LIFE AND TRIALS AFTER THE WORLD WAR II

1.  The New Worries and Conditions after the War

2.  The Disarming British Treatment

3.  The Forcible Repatriation

4.  After the Forcible Repatriation

Chapter Nine

BRANDED DP’S—DISPLACED PERSONS

1.  In a DP Camp in Austria

2.  The Way We Had Saved the Turkish Gold Coins of the Sheretlyqo Family

3.  The Conditions We Had to Face in Milan, Italy

4.  Life in Santa Maria di Leuca

5.  Nechmaz in Santa Maria di Leuca

6.  Life in the Camp of Aversa, Italy

7.  Venturing in the Tobacco Contraband

8.  How a British Officer Had Freed Us from the Italian Police

9.  Peddling with Pelus

10.  The First Commission of the Allied Expeditionary Force

11.  How Were We Tricked Again

Chapter Ten

IN THE PRISONER OF WAR ENCLOSURE

1.  The Prison and Its Location

2.  Conditions

3.  The Commission of the Allied Expeditionary Force

4.  The Gleam of Hope for an Escape

5.  The Tunnel for Escape

6.  The Escape from the Enclosure

7.  The Second Forcible Repatriation

8.  My New Certificate of Identification

Chapter Eleven

BACK IN A DP CIVILIAN CAMP

1.  The DP Camp in Reggio Emilia

2.  The Sense of Freedom and Hope

3.  The Theft and Consequences

4.  Our Own Bingo in the Camp

5.  Meeting with Tcherim Soobzokov in the Camp of Reggio Emilia

Chapter Twelve

IN THE HASHEMITE KINGDOM OF JORDAN

1.  Our Voyage to Trans-Jordan

2.  The Problems We Had to Face in Haifa

3.  The Circassians Welcoming Us in the Hashemite Kingdom of Trans-Jordan

4.  Meeting with the Natkhos in Amman

5.  Adjusting to the Conditions of Life in Amman

6.  Grandma Fatima and Me

7.  New Friends and Me

8.  My First Employment in Amman

9.  New Life, Friends, and Problems

10.  Changing My Name for Citizenship

11.  Saleh al-Shami

12.  Antagonism for Leadership

13.  Applying for Visa to the United States of America

14.  The Offer of the Englishmen and Ismail Janbek

15.  My Unsuccessful Stay in Beirut, Lebanon

16.  Working in the State Department of Agriculture

17.  Working as a Watchman

18.  Quarrying Marble in the Desert

19.  The Jegu for Khalid’s Return

20.  Working at the Hijazi-Jordan Railway

21.  Accident at the Railroad Station

22.  Letter to Fatima Natirboff

23.  As the Representative of the Circassian Refugees

24.  Preparing to Go to the United States of America

25.  The Last Two Weeks in Amman

26.  In Beirut, Lebanon

27.  Flight to the United States of America

Chapter Thirteen

IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

1.  My First Reception and Impressions

2.  Paying a Visit to Fatima Sheretlyqo

3.  During the First Days with the Soobzokovs

4.  The Surgeries on My Left Forearm

5.  The First Employment in the United States of America

6.  The Last Operation on my Left Forearm

7.  Working in the Alps Manor Nursing Home

8.  Working and Living in New York City

9.  The Circassians in New York and Me

10.  The First Letter from My Brother

11.  The Problem with My Friend Shahanchery Lee

12.  Meeting with Anne

13.  The Life with Anne

14.  My Studies and Other Activities

15.  My New Concern

16.  The First Dancing Group of Our Children

17.  Meeting Prof. Bruce Moody

18.  The Change in the Homeland

Chapter Fourteen

OUR FIRST VISIT TO TURKEY

1.  With My Friends in Turkey

2.  Touring the Aegean Coast of Turkey

3.  In Izmir

4.  With Izzet Aydemir in Ankara

5.  The Sad News

6.  Meeting Yashar Noghay in Istanbul

Chapter Fifteen

MY ACTIVITIES IN THE UNITED STATES

1.  Back in the United States

2.  Purchasing the Printing Shop

3.  The First Serious Community Responsibility

4.  The Major Problems I Had to Face

5.  The Problems in the Field

6.  Publishing Circassian Magazine

7.  The First Time I Owned a Car

8.  My Brother’s Visit to the United States

9.  My Novel, Nicholas and Nadiusha

10.  The Cause of Quarrel of My Friends

11.  Mike Pajak

12.  The Trouble with Garbage Collectors

13.  Shahanchery Lee’s Problem with His Doctors

14.  Ibrahim Koble

15.  Suing the Landlord

16.  My Neighbor and Friend, Mike Pajak

17.  Becoming Acquainted with a Lady Linguist

18.  Creating the Institute of Circassian Studies

19.  Request to Join the Masons

20.  Meeting with a Relative

21.  To Tulsa, Oklahoma, with Khalil

22.  Anne’s Death

23.  The Marriage of Shahanchery Lee

24.  Meeting Karabit Kosh and His Niece Fatima

25.  Fatima’s Friend

26.  In the Russian Mission in New York

27.  Meeting with Suad

28.  My Proposal to Suad

29.  Our Marriage

30.  Advanced Parole

31.  Recovery of My Wallet

Chapter Sixteen

THE TRIP BACK TO JORDAN WITH SUAD

1.  To Amman, Jordan, with Suad

2.  The Changes in Amman were Amazing

3.  The Incident with Gold Rings

4.  The Unforgettable Gelnish

5.  The Incident on Purchasing the TV

Chapter Seventeen

WORKING FOR THE CIRCASSIAN CAUSE

1.  Becoming More Active in Our Association

2.  The First Sunday School for Our Children

3.  The Problems with Qalechery

4.  The Problem with Karabit

Chapter Eighteen

OUR VISIT BACK TO THE HOMELAND

1.  The Dream and Fear

2.  The Problem at the Customs in Moscow

3.  In Gostinitsa Rossia

4.  On the Vnukovo Airport

5.  Meeting with My Relatives at the Krasnodar Airport

6.  In My Brother’s House

7.  Respect to Our Deceased Parents

8.  The Elder Group

9.  The Sacrificial Cow

10.  Guests from Nalchik

11.  Legal Procedure

12.  Summons to the Passportnyi Stol

13.  Reminiscences with Friends

14.  Visiting Katia’s Mother

15.  Meeting Ibrahim Koble Again

16.  Guests from Maikop

17.  The Visit of Ibrahim Koble

18.  Visiting Fenia Tlibzu

19.  Guests from Maikop

20.  In Maikop with Friends

21.  Meeting with Volodia

22.  Politics at the Party

23.  Farewell Party

Chapter Nineteen

MY ACTIVITIES IN THE UNITED STATES

1.  Resuming Our Activities in Our Association

2.  Meeting with a Group of Opposing Factions

3.  The Circassian Day

4.  Introducing Our Relatives

5.  Negotiations with Other Circassian Associations

6.  Fund-raising Trip to Saudi Arabia and Kuwait

7.  In Saudi Arabia

8.  Free Time in Jordan

9.  In Kuwait

10.  Back in Amman

11.  Invitations

12.  The Amusing Story of Fawaz Pasha

13.  Back to the United States

14.  The First Loan from the Bank

15.  Working on the Quota Problem

16.  Amanat

17.  My Fund-raising Trip to the Arab Emirates

18.  In Abu Dhabi

19.  In Dubai

20.  In Bahrain

21.  In Kuwait

22.  The Sunday School of Our Association

23.  Visitors from the Motherland

24.  The Second Guests from the Motherland

25.  Another Important Visit from the Motherland

26.  Our First Tourist Group to the Motherland

27.  All-Union Conference on the Question of Refugee

28.  Becoming the President of the CBA

29.  The Condition of the CBA when I Became Its President

30.  Participating in the First Circassian Congress in Nalchik

31.  Participating in the Circassian Cultural Week in Amman, Jordan

32.  Creating an International Circassian Fund

33.  Taking Mortgage for Our Association

34.  Sudden Antagonism

35.  A Campaign to Recruit New Members for the Association

36.  Participating in the II International Circassian Congress

37.  The Problem over the Leakage

38.  The Second Encounter

39.  The Third Encounter

40.  Pilgrimage in Mecca

41.  During My Presidency of the CBA

42.  During the International Circassian Congress in Krasnodar

43.  Invitation to Maikop

44.  In the Fifth International Circassian Congress

45.  With Our Friends in Maikop

46.  Zhanna Kushkhova, Our Guest

47.  Open-heart Surgery

48.  My Brother Nagib’s Death

49.  Having Setenay Guasha for Guest

50.  Our First Trip to the Caucasus through Istanbul

51.  Our Second Stay in Istanbul

52.  Meeting Imam Said Sami Shams Al-Din

53.  Our First Stay in Lesnaia Skazka

54.  The Story of My Play

55.  Evening Party in Maikop

56.  The President of the Republic of Adyghey, Aslan Tkhakushinov,Visiting Us at Lesnaia Skazka

57.  TV Channel for Circassians

58.  The Signs of Appreciation of My Work

59.  The First International Conference on Preservation of the Circassian Language

60.  Good News about My Play—Medea

61.  Gold Medal from the Republic of Adyghey

62.  Book-signing Events and Other Good News

63.  The Future Prospects

image003.jpg

Suad and I in 1981

Those were the days, my friend!

Dedicated to my lovely wife,

Suad.

Aknowledgment

I am profoundly grateful to Fawaz Dair and Benjamin Akiuz (Sokhte) who kept coming to New York City without fail to solve the endless computer problems I had while writing this book. I am also deeply indebted to lovely Svetlana Kagermazova for translating into Russian my book Circassian History, and to charming Ms. Zhanna Kushkhova, the young attorney-at-law, for tirelessly helping me review and publish my books: Circassian History and Memoirs. May God bless them generously for observing the sincere traditional Circassian respect to elders with which they honored me constantly throughout all these years.

I would also like to express gratitude to my beloved wife, Suad, for standing by me throughout all these years. I would not have been able to complete any of my books without her love and encouragement.

Chapter One

CHILDHOOD MEMORIES

Hatramtouk

Dear readers, to say the least I had an unusual life, which may at times seem totally incredible. I will try to reconstitute it for you from a combination of my personal recollections and from the information I had received later on the subject matter.

Kadirbek is my name. Hatramtouk is the Adygha village I was born in Circassia, Caucasus. Some of my friends are apt to place the date of my birth two years earlier, but according to my official documents, I was born on May 25, 1927. As my inquiries showed later, it cannot be verified anymore due to the fact that the Soviets had burned all the documents before yielding our village to the German invasion during the World War II.

Anyway, I had just began to explore the streets and neighborhood of my native village, Hatramtouk, when I had to move from it with the rest of my villagers as helplessly as a small leaf of grass that is caught in the strong current of a river. This had happened in the spring of 1931, when I had just begun to love this place. I often wondered ever since, if this incident had not predefined the course of my entire life . . .

My father was Is’haq, my mother, Goshmaf. At that time I had two elder brothers, Nagib and Kimkery, and younger brother, Saleh, about two years of age. We were the survivors of ten sons and one daughter my parents had. Nagib, who was about sixteen years old, was not with us. My parents were worried about him as he was sent, with some other men, to till the land in the new village early in the spring.

I remember quite distinctly our house. It had whitewashed walls and well-trimmed reed-thatched roof. Our hatchesh[1] stood in front of it and under the shade of large acacia trees at the corner of the street. The long shed for our agricultural tools, machines, carriages, and stables for our horses and cows stretched behind our house. There was a heap of dung for tezek[2] in front of them. (While playing there, we used to chant with great excitement something like this: I fell from the sun and moon, down through seven layers of heaven, on the top of the heap of dung, and when I jumped up and said, ‘Brrrr,’ I frightened the birds, and, brrrr, they flew away!). The well and water and salt troughs for the cattle were located on the left side of the house. Behind them was the enclosure for our cattle, where they milked our cows in the mornings, and beyond it was located our large private fruit orchard. This was the main playground for me and the children of my neighborhood. The closest friends I had were Nakos and Baran, both somewhat bigger boys than me, perhaps older too. Our immediate neighbors were the family of Bor Bagh, across the street facing our house; the family of Hassan Khusht, across the street behind our hatchesh; and the family of Hamid Bage, behind our stables. I remember also the street where we used to sit late Friday afternoons under the shades of a row of poplars in front of my grandma’s house, waiting for the return of our villagers from the city, knowing well that they would shower us with various sweets they brought with them. Sometimes I would go, with Kimkery and with bigger boys, to the Black Sea shore to collect shells . . .

image005.jpg            image007.jpg

My mother, Goshmaf                      My father, Is’haq

As I have learned it later, Hatramtouk sat majestically on an elevated picturesque peninsula, not far from Anapa City, wedged between the Black Sea, Lake Psiashu, and Taman Estuary. It had a single overland access through the Large Gate along which is still visible the traces of the deep canal that was once built there for defensive purposes. According to the legend, this strategic spot had enabled my villagers to survive the long and cruel Russo-Circassian War, which is officially considered to have been fought from 1763 to 1864. Now, it was the only Circassian village left on the native tribal territory from the once populous and powerful Natkhuagia tribe that occupied this coastal land since times primordial. The rest of the Natkhuagias, like all the other Adygha tribes, were either killed by the Russians during the war or evicted from their native land to Turkey shortly prior to or after the end of it.

Another interesting thing about Hatramtouk was that genies lived there along with the people. On some nights, while coming back from the city, people used to see the genies having big dancing parties around the bonfires in the fields near our village. Moreover, people used to talk constantly about the things that happened between my villagers and the genies. They believed that genies ultimately became the guardians of buried treasures. Endless stories always circulated on how certain villagers had attempted to excavate the hidden riches, and the genies had prevented them. Among them even were my father, uncle Saleh, and their friend Indriss Hamafeqo (Khun). According to some of these stories, the people of our village used to see a genii pochta,[3] which delivered the treasure of the genies at every sunset; it invariably departed from the clay quarries of the village and disappeared behind the hill that was situated at some distance. I heard these and many other interesting and fascinating stories about the genies and the people of Hatramtouk in my childhood and much later.

image009.jpg

My villagers having a dancing party outdoors in Hatramtouk

The photograph was taken in late 1920s, before the collectivization.

I remember that in my childhood I had experienced the presence of the genii myself. Once I had persuaded my parents to take me with them to the city. Sitting with them in the carriage, we had set out from the village in the morning while it was still dark. The horses were fresh, and we were moving at a good pace for quite a while; but then they suddenly stopped, frightened and snorting. My father tried to urge them on again and again, but they couldn’t move, no matter how they tried. "We must have entered a genii shilakha,"[4] said my father. My mother started mumbling prayers. My father left the carriage, went to the horses, rubbed their heads and necks, praying and talking to them gently, and led them on for a few paces. We left the genii tripod, he said, joining us back in the carriage. He urged the horses again, and they moved on vigorously. I had seen it with my own eyes. They say that people saw these genies last one night, holding lanterns and calling each other, shortly after the Communist Revolution, but never again.

Interestingly enough, they also say very seriously that some black cars, called Black Ravens, had replaced these genies in the wake of the Communist Revolution, when the Bolsheviks came to power, having overthrown the czarist regime. However, unlike the genies, these Black Ravens began to appear suddenly at nights in Hatramtouk and other villages of the land, stop quietly in front of the houses of the most influential people of the communities without any warning, and take them away, never to return or be heard of again. And the terror they had created in the hearts of men was so great that people still shivered from mere recollection of it for many years thereafter.

Then the people had a short respite and quite a prosperous life during the NEP (New Economic Policy), which the Bolsheviks had introduced, supposedly to entice the people to reveal the private wealth they had hidden in order not to share it with the poor and downtrodden segment of the population of the country. But that change for the better was short lived. It was followed by the rigorous, forcible Bolshevik policy of collectivization. As a result, the sudden changes that had taken place in our village and in the lives of our prosperous people were great and devastating. One day, like in the entire Hatramtouk, nothing was left in our yard except for a single cow! My parents had to give to the kolkhoz (collective farm) everything they had accumulated during their lives: all the agricultural tools, machinery, cows, and horses they had. The sadness it had caused to my parents was deep and profound. To make the matter worse, every evening, while the herd of horses of the village was driven back from the pasture lands to the new kolkhoz enclosure, my father’s riding horse would escape from the herd, run back into our yard, and refuse to leave it for a long time. The herdsmen would catch it back after a long struggle and lead it away, as my father watched it sadly. It had deeply affected me as well, because it was on the back of this beautiful horse that my father would often let me ride, while holding me with his hands.

The Caravan

The inevitability of resettlement was in the air for some time in Hatramtouk. It had, in a way, gradually conditioned our people to finally accept the sad task of abandoning their native village. Ultimately, the time had come for it. Some people, mounted on horses, had driven away the herds of cattle of the village early that morning. Now, countless of horse-driven carriages came out from the village, loaded with household goods—on top of which sat elderly people, women, and children—and followed by the members of the families who could walk, and they all formed a long caravan on the road outside of our village. The single cows the families were allowed to own had already been driven out in a separate herd, but behind each carriage of this caravan was ingeniously fastened a wooden cage filled with chickens. We, too, joined them, sitting on the carriage loaded similarly with our household goods. Many women and children, even some men among them, were crying loudly. My mother, Saleh, and I joined them. I hated the idea of leaving our home and village. My father and Kimkery looked very sad, pensive, and grim, while several mounted young men kept galloping to the village and back in order to make sure that everyone had left it. Finally a long caravan was formed, and we moved forward, as ordered by the t’hamata[5] of our new kolkhoz, leaving behind us our native village desolated.

Our t’hamata and several dozens of other mounted men rode along the caravan that stretched for miles like the stream of a large river winding its course through a gorge. It was carrying me with it against my will farther and farther from my beloved home and native village Hatramtouk, with which I did not want to part. I don’t remember exactly how long this voyage had lasted, but I believe it took us more than a week, moving during the days and resting on the roadsides at nights, before we arrived to the place assigned for our new village. All this time, I could not help but admire the mounted horsemen of our village, who kept galloping back and forth along the caravan, protecting their people, helping them to proceed in an orderly fashion, and repairing vigorously the broken wheels and carriages of any families of the caravan. The spirit of mutual concern and care and common enthusiastic, reciprocal devotion for the well-being of each other of my villagers had impressed me so much during this trip that I can still clearly visualize these mounted horsemen in my mind and distinctly hear their voices, particularly when I am alone at night.

The New Village

When we arrived at the assigned place for the new village one late afternoon, our caravan was divided into two groups; and thirty families from it, ours among them, were ordered to stop at the Khutor[6] Nekada, which had one well and three long dilapidated sheds that were said to have been formerly built for storing and drying tobacco. The rest of the caravan moved about one mile farther south to the former estate of Kukharenko, which was the actual site for our new village.

Interestingly enough, both these abandoned and dilapidated old settlements were located on a somewhat elevated ground on the west side of the dirt road, which ran from north to south—that is, from Krasnodar City to the stanitsa[7] Kaluzhenskaya in the northern foothills of the Caucasus Mountains. Moreover, a young forest stretched commencing about a quarter of a mile east from the site of our new village and immediately beyond the road east of Khutor Nekada. Similarly a small stream, running from south to north, formed two sizeable reedy swamps, the breeding grounds of mosquitoes: one west of the site of the new village; the other, a few hundred yards southwest from Khutor Nekada. Just before the sunset of the same day, it became evident that the entire place was infested with mosquitoes, which began to have a feast on us and our animals. That problem in fact became suddenly so serious and unbearable that our people built smoky fires, especially around the animals, in order to drive away the mosquitoes.

Our people and animals were not used to such a climate or conditions of life. They could hardly believe that this was not a nightmare. To make the matter worse, the t’hamata of the collective farm told them bluntly that ten families were to settle in each of these sheds and live there until they built new houses. Our people swallowed this bitter statement with dignity, trying not to show weakness in the face of this tragic situation, and kept on struggling silently with the chores at hand.

Our shed was the nearest one to the road. As it had no partitions of any kind, people divided them into ten equal parts, marked them, and started moving their goods in. They placed their chicken cages outside of the sheds, drove the tired horses to the pasture, and tied their family cows to the unloaded carriages for the night.

Women had made fires under the tripods outside and started cooking for their families, who had not eaten properly during the long voyage, and the men were discussing how to partition the sheds and make them suitable for living.

While my father and Kimkery were busy organizing our household things in our section of the shed, my mother ran to the well, brought two pails of water, cooked sheps-pasta,[8] called me and Saleh outside, placed us in our legen,[9] and bathed us with cold water. This may help save you from the mosquitoes, my darlings, she said and put on us long sleeves and slacks. She didn’t call Kimkery for the same purpose, knowing well that he would not allow her to wash him. He was about ten at that time and preferred to act like a man rather than to be treated as a child. But he came to us with father, took the towel from my mother, placed it over his shoulder, picked up the kumghan,[10] and started pouring water into the scoops of our father’s palms as he began washing his hands and face. When father finished washing, Kimkery placed the kumghan on the ground and dutifully handed to him the towel. Taking it, our father said to him, "Aferim,[11] my son! I think you will be a real Adygha, when you grow up!" That was the biggest praise anyone could earn. So Kimkery smiled proudly and gratefully at Father and started washing his hands and face by himself.

My mother had just brought in the shed the sheps-pasta served on the ane[12] when Nagib rushed in. He shook our father’s hand respectfully, who looked at him proudly, standing reserved and dignified. Then Nagib embraced mother and all of us one by one.

Mother asked him, while drying her tears, why he was so late to come. Nagib said that he was working and couldn’t leave any earlier. He looked at the ane and started rolling up his sleeves to wash himself. Kimkery took the kumghan and the towel and helped him wash his hands and face. Thanks, little brother! Nagib smiled at him.

I am starving, Nagib said to Mother. "I see that you cooked sheps-pasta."

Yes, I did, but I cooked it today without any meat or chicken, she said, looking guiltily at my father and then at us. I hope you’ll like it. Please, eat it before it gets cold.

We, the four brothers, sat on low stools at the ane and began devouring the food, while frequently slapping ourselves to kill the mosquitoes. We already knew that my father would not eat with us. That was part of Adygaghe.[13] He would eat later with Mother or with some other guest or neighbor.

When we finished eating, Father and Mother sat at the table and started eating. Nagib was standing over them, ready to serve them respectfully.

Son, you look much slimmer, said father looking at him.

No wonder, said Nagib. We are working very hard from sunrise to sunset, every day! The land has to be cultivated, and houses must be built in the new village. Most of the people who came there today have no roofs over their heads. We are lucky to have these sheds.

You call this luck? My father was grim. This is hell!

You shouldn’t say things like that, said Mother, looking around her, frightened.

I know. I know, he said, but I couldn’t help it.

The evening darkness had set in. The air of the khutor was filled with heavy smoke, but it didn’t seem of much help against the mosquitoes that had swarmed the place and kept biting us brutally. Mother reached for the kerosene lamp and lit it, but Father blew it out, saying that the light would bring in more mosquitoes. The sound of a galloping horse resounded in the khutor and then the loud voice of a man. It declared to the people that all the adults—men and women—together with the horses and carriages, should report for work in the new village at sunrise.

Nagib recognized the man by the voice. He said it was the brigadier[14] of the kolkhoz, whose orders were to be strictly obeyed by all the people of the village. Nagib told us also that the new collective farm of our village was called Kolkhoz Krasnyi May (Kolkhoz Red May); and the new Hatramtouk village was named Aul[15] Novyj Natukhay (Aul New Natukhay) due to the fact that this was the only village left in the motherland from the once powerful and numerous Natkhuagia tribe of the Circassians that numbered 240,000 persons, according to Novitski, a Russian spy who lived among them during the Russo-Circassian War.

New Problems

The problems our people had to face in the new village seemed to be multiplying during the first year. The new rules required that our people work daily in the fields of the collective farm from sunrise to sunset without any respite or day off. As a result my parents were away working in the collective farm most of the time, and Kimkery began taking care of me and Saleh during the days. Coming home from work after sunset, Mother would fetch water from the well, cook for us, feed us, and do all the household chores. Similarly, having come from work and eaten something in a hurry, Father would water and tie our cow, take Nagib with him to the young forest, bring some wood, and build wattle walls for our section of the shed; or he would make clay bricks and leave them in the sun to dry in order to build a stove in the house before the winter sets in—a stove that would be used for cooking and heating the house at the same time. Mother would milk the cow early in the morning, feed us, mostly shepasta,[16] and hurry to work at sunrise with my father and Nagib.

By fall our section of the shed was completed with walls, a door, a small window, and a good stove, the zigzagged chimney of which was designed to heat one of the walls. However, late that summer, Kimkery became very ill, burning with fever. My father took him several times to the doctors in Krasnodar, but the medicine they gave him didn’t help. He was so sick that sometimes he would be tossing in bed wildly and singing in delirium. Sometimes he would even jump out of the bed, start running, and we had to catch him, put him back in bed, and restrain him there. When my mother requested leave from the collective farm in order to look after him, the t’hamata of the collective farm refused. His answer was simple: too many people of the village were becoming sick. If he were to start giving leave to everyone who requested it, he simply would not have enough hands left to till the land. He categorically refused to give permission to either of my parents to stay home and to take care of Kimkery. Therefore, that duty was placed on me and my little brother, Saleh.

Soon my father, who was well built and strong, began to lose weight. His cheeks and blue eyes sank in. At first my mother suspected that this was due to Kimkery’s sickness. But in the fall, when Kimkery had recovered, my father’s health kept deteriorating. It began to worry Mother. One day, in my father’s absence, she confided to us, especially to Nagib, that our father is too proud to complain about it, but that he keeps moaning terribly at night in his sleep. She said she asked him several times about it to no avail. Then she added, The wrong side of all the Adygha men is that they are too proud to complain! You have to find out what is wrong with them against their will.

We didn’t have to wait for long in order to find out what was ailing my father. Soon he was confined in bed with high fever. As the t’hamata of the collective farm would not give a day off to my mother, Nagib took father to the doctors in Krasnodar, who put him in the city hospital. A few days later, they operated him in it and drained out the liquid that was formed, I believe, in his chest. He had won the admiration of doctors by letting them operate on him without any sedative or anesthesia. When Nagib went to bring Father from the hospital, the doctors told him that they never saw a man with such an endurance and self-control. Naturally, we were very glad and proud to hear it. My mother said she wouldn’t doubt that he would do something like that.

Father seemed to be recuperating for a while. He even had resumed working in the collective farm, but Mother suspected that something was still terribly wrong with him. She kept insisting that she still hears him groaning in his sleep. Gradually the reason for the secret sufferings of my father became obvious. He had excruciating pains all over his legs and feet. It gradually made him unfit to work. When Nagib took him again to the medical doctors in Krasnodar, they diagnosed his ailment to be chronic rheumatism. For some time, they gave him a leave, due to sickness, and some medication, but nothing helped. His pains were becoming more unbearable with the increase of the cold weather of the winter. Finally, when my father refused to let the doctors amputate both his legs, they gave him a certificate, testifying that he is an invalid unfit for any kind of physical work due to illness.

My father was very ill throughout that winter. He kept treating himself with all sorts of folk medicine in addition to the medications prescribed to him by the doctors. He tried every conceivable thing: rubbing his legs with all kinds of ointments, keeping his feet in hot salt water, and even wrapping himself well and lying in the stove up to his waist, all to no avail. It had deeply affected my mother too, who now had to do all the household chores by herself in addition to working in the collective farm and helping my father with his endless treatments.

Finally our family resolved to send Nagib back to Hatramtouk. We would follow him as soon as he finds a job and establishes himself. My aunt Kiaba and cousin Khizir would assist him in that endeavor. They still lived in our former house in our native village Hatramtouk, because uncle Khizir was working as the chauffeur of a company in Anapa City, which was situated on the Black Sea shore only a few miles from Hatramtouk.

Back to Hatramtouk

Nagib went back to Hatramtouk early in the spring of 1932, found an employment, and sent us a message within a month that we should proceed as the family had planned. The pleasant news had filled the hearts of my parents with a new hope. You could see it in their faces. I was delighted by the prospect of going back to my beloved native village, Hatramtouk. As the family had planned, I was to accompany my father, who could hardly walk. Kimkery was assigned the manly duty of staying at home and taking care of Mother and Saleh.

Soon Mother packed up the necessary things for me and Father. Having said good-bye to Mother, Kimkery, and Saleh, we sneaked out from Khutor Nekada early one morning in the end of May, went to Enem with a horse carriage, and took a train from there. I don’t remember exactly for how long we had traveled by train, but when we left it at a railway station, aunt Kiaba had met us there instead of Nagib. She helped Father walk to the hired carriage, which took us to our native village, Hatramtouk. Strangely enough, however, it did not look the same anymore. Now Russians lived in it instead of our villagers who owned it, which made it look completely different. When we reached our house, my father stopped at the gate and stood looking at it for a long time. Then he was silently wiping off his tears as Kiaba, who lived in it now, was leading us in.

Before the sunset, Kiaba served the table, and we had supper. After that she explained gently to Father that Nagib was arrested for leaving the new village without permission and the authorities had taken him back there early that morning. Father was shocked but tried not to show it. To encourage him, Aunt Kiaba told Father not to worry about Nagib. She was confident that they simply took him back to the new village, where the new bosses of the collective farm were badly in need of young tillers of the land like Nagib.

On the following morning, I ran to our orchard to explore the favorite playground of my childhood, but I could not experience the joy I used to have there. I simply missed my friends, who were not there anymore, and I couldn’t understand the boys and girls that were running around and playing there. Moreover, they reminded me of the stories I heard so often from our elders about the Russian invaders who fought our brave ancestors for a long time and conquered them.

A few days later, it revealed to be that Aunt Kiaba was right. Uncle Khizir brought a letter to father, proving that Nagib was back in the new village. He and Mother informed Father that they are all well and urged him to spend the summer in Hatramtouk. They expressed the hope that the summer climate in the native village would help him to recuperate. The relief my father felt was obvious, almost magical. He thanked God for the good news, and his face brightened up instantly.

Suddenly, my father seemed himself again. He looked intently at Aunt Kiaba and Uncle Khizir. He told them in a firm note to please listen to him without any contradictions and requested of them to take us early next morning to the beach of the Black Sea, where we would stay day and night at least for a week or two. Aunt Kiaba tried to object, but Father interrupted her instantly and firmly. Just help me to get there, he said. We’ll take with us an umbrella, two blankets, some water, salt and bread. Whenever we need something more, I’ll send my boy to you.

Father had left no other choice to Aunt Kiaba and Uncle Khizir but to consent with a slight nod.

On the Beach of the Black Sea

As father had requested on the previous evening, Aunt Kiaba took us in a hired carriage to the beach of the Black Sea on the following morning. It was a clear and beautiful sunny day in early June. We selected a good sandy spot on the beach, unpacked there the two blankets, the umbrella, a large canister of drinking water from our well, and the imperishable provisions of food, such as hatiks,[17] smoked Circassian cheese, and salty dried meat, with which Aunt Kiaba had provided us. Now we are all set, said Father, looking at the sea and beaming. Then he thanked Aunt Kiaba for her kind consideration and service and urged her to go back home with the carriage. Don’t worry about us! he called after her. Should we need anything, I’ll send my little Aslan to you. It was the first time Father referred to me with that name. I never forgot that moment. Aslan meant lion! It meant that he considered me brave and strong as a lion. And I was very proud of it.

My father undressed quickly as soon as Aunt Kiaba had left us. Wearing only his lower underwear, he kneeled with difficulty and started feverishly collecting the dry sand into two long heaps next to each other. I ran to him and began helping him in the same manner. He smiled at me, wiping the perspiration off his face, and said to me, "Aferim, my son, aferim!" Then he opened the umbrella so that it would shade his head, dug its handle deep into the sand, stretched himself, faceup, between the two heaps of sand, placed a rolled towel under his head, and told me to cover him up thoroughly with the hot sand up to his neck. When I finished covering him with the sand, he thanked me for being so helpful to him and told me to go and play, but to stay nearby and keep an eye on our goods.

I nodded, left, and started playing in the vicinity. Slowly I went to some boys of the people who settled next to us on the beach. They were Russians. I went to some others on the other side of us. They were all Russians. But I had to play with someone. So I did.

They were surprised that I did not speak their language except for a very few words, such as idi, na, dai, zdrasti, and spasibo. I had played with them for quite a while on the sand and in the sea, when I heard my father calling me.

So I ran back to him, panting.

He looked at me, smiling. Did you make friends, already?

I nodded. Yes, Tiat, I said, using the Adygha term father for the grown-up men. I was playing with Russian boys.

"Aferim, my son, he said. You are confident and bold with the heart of a Nart, but you should learn to be cautious. Come. Sit next to me and let’s have some lunch." He began unwrapping the food.

I was glad that he compared me to the Narts. I already knew that they were big, strong, and very brave men. Tiat, I said, sitting next to him, will you tell me a story about the Narts?

Of course, I will, he said, but later on, in the evening, after all the people go home and this place gets empty and quiet. Then he paused pensively for a little while and added, I wonder how Kimkery is taking care of Saleh, while your mother and Nagib are working every day in the new kolkhoz. Do you miss them, my son?

Sure, I do, I told him, especially Saleh, my little brother.

He pointed at the food and gently ruffled my hair. It made me feel wonderful. I was never so close to my father, or so happy.

We ate some cheese, bread, and scallions and drank water from a bottle. Then he stood up with difficulty and, leaning on his walking stick, kept pacing back and forth in the sand, occasionally stopping for a short rest and resuming it again. Having practiced this painful exercise for quite some time, he returned to his spot, stretched himself again on his back, faceup, and let me cover him again with the hot sand.

I sat next to my father when the Russian boys came running to me and asked me to go and play with them. My father was happy to see it. Go, my son, he told me. Go and play with your friends, but don’t go too far.

Delighted to hear it, I joined them and played with them all that afternoon, until I saw my father leaning on his stick and pacing back and forth. How are you, Tiat? I ran to him.

He stopped, wiped off the perspiration from his face, thanked me, and told me to keep an eye on our things until he comes back. Then, leaning heavily on his stick, he headed in his painful way toward the nearby bushes of some low hedges.

People had left the beach and gone home late that afternoon when Aunt Kiaba came to see us with some freshly cooked hot soup, bread, and fresh water. She greeted us warmly and asked us how we spent the day as she placed the food on a towel. She chatted with us while we ate her food with relish, but as soon as my father thanked her for the delicious meal, she hurried back, saying she would like to reach home before the darkness sets in.

We were left alone on the beach, my father and me. Listening to the sound of the waves of the sea, I asked my father to tell me a story of the Narts. Sure, I will, he said. This is the ideal place for it. Then he thought for a little while and began. Once upon a time, they say, my boy, there was a brave Nart, by the name of . . . I instantly rested my head on my father’s lap for the first time in my life, and looking sometimes at him and then at the stars, I started listening greedily to the fascinating story he so masterfully unfolded before me. Gradually, Chechanuko Chechan appeared in front of me in person, sort of Herculean in built, confident, and proud; fully armed with quiver, sword, and dagger; and setting out on his bay steed in search of his missing father. I could see very vividly every detail of this young hero as well as of his manners, conduct, and actions.

This routine continued to be our daily chore for more than a month. My father began to feel less pain and walk better although with extremely small steps, moving almost inch by inch. In the meantime, I learned to speak Russian better, much better than Father. Gradually, however, some Russians, mostly women, began to come, sit, and chat with him. One day, one of these women, Vera Dmitrievna by name, came to Father who was covered up to his neck with a thick layer of sand. She greeted him, exchanged a few words with him, and asked him what was ailing him. Heavily perspiring, he explained to her, in broken Russian, that the doctors told him he has severe chronic rheumatism and that they wanted to amputate both his legs, because they had no remedy for it. She listened to him, shaking her head, and said to father that she could cure him if he would wait for her on the beach until the month of September. My father smiled, with a spark in his blue eyes, thanked her for her kind concern, and assured her that he shall certainly wait. She wished him well, promised to bring him the medicine, and left.

My father could hardly believe it but broke the good news first to Aunt Kiaba and Uncle Khizir, then to Mother and Nagib. All of them had advised Father to wait for her, and we remained on the beach.

After about mid-July, Father resolved to attempt walking back to the village that was located about half a mile from the Black Sea. We packed up our things early one afternoon and left the beach. It took us more than three hours to cover the distance, and my father had to sit down and rest more than a dozen times, but we made it. From that time on, until September, we kept going to the beach every morning, spending the day there as usual and returning home in the evenings.

Finally, the Russian, rather the Ukrainian, woman, Vera Dmitrievna, came to Father in September and brought him, as she had promised, the medicine wrapped in a thick layer of newspapers. I believe it was a jellyfish, the sea creature, which the Russians call meduza. My father looked at it rather surprised, but she handed it to him and told him to cut it in small pieces and put them in bottles with rubbing alcohol. She warned him that after a week it would begin smelling terribly, but he should rub himself with it twice a day, once at bedtime and once in the mornings. It is a good medicine! she added emphatically. It will cure you if you use it regularly and persistently. Mark my word for it.

My father thanked again Vera Dmitrievna for the medicine, especially for keeping her word as promised, and we headed back to Hatramtouk with the jellyfish. Father was excited and much more talkative than usual. He said, as we frequently rested and then resumed walking again, that spending these few months on the beach was a real blessing to him. He already felt better, and we were a real burden on his sister, Kiaba, for quite a long time already. He would cut the jellyfish and mix the medicine as soon as we reached home and tell his sister, Kiaba, that we should go back to our family.

On reaching back home, Father showed the jellyfish to Aunt Kiaba and explained to her Vera Dmitrievna’s instructions. Aunt Kiaba took the jellyfish from him and put it in the foyer. She said that we should wash and eat something first. Afterward, she would find some empty bottles and rubbing alcohol and prepare the medicine. Father agreed.

After dinner, Father came out to take the jellyfish inside, but he could not find it there anymore. Soon Aunt Kiaba and I joined him and began searching for it. It really had disappeared. Finally, Aunt Kiaba retrieved the half-eaten jellyfish from a rat hole in the house, washed it thoroughly, and fetched some rubbing alcohol and empty bottles. Father cut it in small pieces, put them in the bottles, added rubbing alcohol in them, and sealed them with corks. Now, although I hate to part with this place, we must go back and join the family, he said to Aunt Kiaba and thanked her for all her loving care. She understood the situation her elder brother was in and nodded gently. I knew that I would miss the fascinating stories my father was telling me here every night, but I had no choice. I also missed my mother and brothers very much.

Back to Khutor Nekada

When we arrived back to Khutor Nekada, not only my mother and brothers, but also the entire population of the hamlet had gathered to welcome us back. At first, their eyes were fixed on Father, who was walking toward them with very small steps, leaning heavily on his walking stick, donned handsomely in his tall gray Astrakhan hat and bearing himself with great dignity. As soon, however, as we stopped in front of our shed in the khutor, they began asking father about his health, about Hatramtouk, and about the condition of their former homes. Mother ran to me and embraced me. Then Nagib, Kimkery, and Saleh did the same, but no one of my brothers, or Mother, tried to display such an affection to Father as such a display of affection in public was one of the taboos of Adygha Khabza.[18] Father even avoided eye contact with the members of his family while answering the questions of his friends, neighbors, and relatives who had come to see him. He told them that the rheumatic pains he experienced have become more tolerable due to the great benefit he derived from the summer months he spent under the hot sands on the beach of the Black Sea. Then he added sadly that all their homes are completely taken over by the Russians except for our own in which Kiaba and Khizir lived.

My little brother, Saleh, kept holding my hand firmly as the kids of my age and older had gathered around me, anxious to know about our trip to Hatramtouk and back. They were surprised to hear that we traveled by train, the train of which most of them had not the slightest idea. They could hardly believe also that I played with Russian boys and girls all summer on the beach and in Hatramtouk and learned to speak Russian.

Gradually, the conversation with Father touched the life and vital problems of our people in Khutor Nekada and New Natukhay: the daily work the kolkhoz was demanding from the people continued to be endless, without any day offs or respite. Regardless of it, the collective farmers hadn’t received yet anything from the new harvest they had reaped. Instead, the kolkhoz was busy delivering daily half a dozen of carloads of grain to Enem, in order to fulfill the norm of the state zagotovka.[19] The people of the village feared that completion of the norm of zagotovka would still take at least another month or two and practically drain the harvest of the collective farm. In the meantime, more and more people began experiencing health failure due to the shortages of food, malnutrition, and hard work . . . Finally, Hatukh Khuazh, the eldest man in the khutor thanked Father for the information and wished him good night and good rest after the long trip. People dispersed, following Old Hatukh who headed home.

We soon joined our family in our section of the shed in Khutor Nekada, which looked terribly small compared to our spacious house in Hatramtouk. There, Nagib, Kimkery, and Saleh ran to Father and embraced him. Mother lighted the kerosene lamp and seated Father on a wooden stool. She had lost some weight, but she was lively as ever. Thank God, she said, looking at Father and me. You both look well. Kiaba must have taken very good care of you.

Father confirmed it with a nod, trying to control his emotions.

I knew why Mother did not embrace Father. No respectable Circassian woman, who lived and functioned according to Adygha Khabza, would ever do such a thing in public or in front of children. That was one of the things I learned from the fascinating stories my father told me during our stay in Hatramtouk and on the beach.

Just the same, it was obvious that Mother was very happy to have us back. You must be tired and hungry, she said, smiling. I’ll give you something to eat. She served sheps and pasta[20] on two anes, one for us, the boys, and the other, for Father and herself.

After dinner Father showed to the family the bottles of medicine we brought with us, told them that he had to start rubbing himself with it twice a day—once at bedtime and once in the mornings—and added that it will have a bad smell. Mother was quick to let him know that the whole family would be willing to stand behind him and bear any difficulty for his sake; she just wished it would cure him.

We all applauded her loudly.

The Unforgettable Shock

The kolkhozniks[21] of our village, including my parents, were terribly shocked later in the fall when they received only a few hundred grams of grain for each trudoden[22] they earned during that year. That was the only reward their collective farm could give them after delivering the required zagotovka to the Soviet government and stashing away the necessary seeds for the next harvest. The collective farmers were certain that this condition foreboded imminent starvation for them, but they submitted to it meekly in order to avoid being branded enemy of the people, kulak, spy, and capitalist agent, and exiled to Siberia, or shot. The same fear reigned over them in their everyday lives ever since the early days of the Communist Revolution. Hadn’t our people been so terror stricken, they would have returned to Hatramtouk long ago. I know it well, because I heard it repeatedly from my parents and other villagers.

During the Starvation of 1933

Father kept rubbing himself throughout the winter with the folk recipe Vera Dmitrievna had given him. The obnoxious smell of that curative concoction was so difficult to bear that we at times had to leave the house gasping for fresh air, but it proved to be a potent medicine. It purged the ailment from Father practically through his toes, and he was able to walk again without the use of his walking stick, although with very small and unsteady steps.

That was early in the spring of 1933, the period when the infamous starvation of that year had set in throughout the land of the region, and our villagers began experiencing the pangs of it for the first time. As a result of it, when the starving people began failing to report to work due to weakness and malnutrition, the collective farm, in the spirit of necessity is the mother of invention, started serving one meal in the fields for the villagers who reported to work. It usually consisted only of a slice of bread and a plate of soup, mostly a mix of cabbage and potatoes, which was served to them during the lunch break, but it proved to be good bait. It enticed not only the able-bodied people to work, but the field kitchens that served these meals became the gathering places for some of their dependent children and elderly, who went there hoping to share the meal with their able-bodied family members. These field meals offered some relief to the families with few or no dependents. A slice of bread and a plate of soup per day ensured for them a chance of survival no matter how difficult and miserly. However, it did not offer any solution to the families that had several dependents. Only two members of our family, Nagib and Mother, were working in the collective farm. The rest of us—Father, Kimkery, Saleh, and I—were their dependents. There was no way we could survive on the half of the food ration they saved for us daily. Therefore, we had to seek for a way of survival until the new harvest, which could be reaped only in another four or five months.

In the meantime, some of the starving villagers began stealing mokhukha[23] pieces from the mixed, wet fodder of horses and eating them. Kimkery had joined them soon. I remember tasting the first piece of mokhukha from him. Afterward, I started going with him, or with other kids, to New Natukhay, sneaking into the long stable of the collective farm, picking wet mokhukha pieces out of the mixed fodder in the manger directly from under the mouths of horses, eating them, and bringing some of it home for my little brother, Saleh. I wished many times I could offer some of it to Father, but I never dared to do so, knowing well that he would prefer to die rather than condescend to eat such a thing. Anyway, he somehow found out about it soon, reprimanded us strongly for the disgraceful behavior, and told us gravely that it would be more honorable for us to starve rather than disgrace ourselves and our race by eating fodder like animals. That was the end of the mokhukha for us.

Indeed, this incident must have been