Journey to the End of the Century

By SACHAL

Titling his book Journey to the End of the Century, SACHAL puts us in the macrocosm of the culture of the Soviet Union through the microcosm of his life there. It was a harsh and difficult beginning: homelessness, starvation, loneliness, diseases, and a painful existence. Never complaining, little Sacha learns how to use experience in the most magical ways. He recounts how he bravely endured, how to use the system of control to survive and fully be himself. This severe beginning prepared Sacha for the horrors of war, for the harshness and severity of the German prison camp and the French Resistance. This hero received the Croix de Guerre in France. He learned how to survive homelessness, severe cold, no food, cruelty, and brutality, and all with a smile, ingenuity, a song on his lips, or his gift of art. He was a genius with poetry in his soul that he later put on canvas. This unforgettable history speaks to us about how to use adversity and to triumph in a sometimes cruel, brutal world. It is a powerful story of how one man learned to be himself, gentle, powerful, resilient, uncomplaining of himself or others throughout this saga of his life. While his story is devastating, it is magnificent that a man such as Sacha can endure and learn from every adversity that being true to himself is the greatest response. This book is an unforgettable read and will enrich all those who venture into Journey to the End of the Century. For more information on Sacha, the man and his art, see www.sachal.com.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887935898

Book preview

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Journey to the End of the Century

SACHAL

Copyright © 2023 Sachal

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-88793-568-3 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88793-589-8 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Agenda

Foreword

2

I Am Here

3

Early Years in Kiev

5

Railroad Station in Kiev

9

Moscow Mai

11

Studgaradok

12

First Lodging

14

School

17

My First Summer Vacation

24

The Struggle of My Mother for Survival

33

War Has Been Announced

35

What to Do?

38

Front

43–64

Krasnodar and the Northern Caucasus

Prison Camp and Journey to Germany

46

Chouter

63

Prison Camp in Krasnodar, November 1942

68

Journey to Captivity

Frankfurt, December 25, 1942

70–73

Life in the Iron Ore Mines

73

75

Lorraine, Germany

February 1944

76

France, March 1944

77

One-Month Odyssey through the French Countryside

78

Captured by French Gendarmes

79

Dijon Prison

80

Out of Prison: New Friends

New Friends

82

France

Dijon 1944

83, 84, 85, and 86

French Resistance 1944

95, 96, 97

110

Staying in the Reparation Camp, Beauregard

Paris, 1945

176

Philosophy, Art, Thinking, Commentary, View of Life

180

Trip to Europe and Russia 2003

About the Author

Agenda

Before Me

I Am Here

Early Years in Kiev

First Day in School in Kiev

Railroad Station in Kiev

Journey to Moscow

Losinostrovskaya

Escape from Losinostrovskaya

Moscow Mai

Escape from Mai to Viam

Studgaradock No. 3

First Lodging

Second Lodging: First Vacation with My Mother (Swimming)

School

Beginning of Art Education in School

Life in Studgaradock

My First Summer Vacation

Games and Sports

Fighting in Studgaradock

First Encounter with Sports

First Interest in Books

First Interest in Construction, Radio, Airplanes

School Activities

Struggles of My Mother for Survival

Friends, Comrades, Enemies

Life in Student Dormitories

Struggles and Joys During the Thirties

Active Sports Life

Interest in Literature: Russian, French, German, American, English, Indian, Mongolian, Georgian, Ukrainian, Middle Asian, and Jewish

Start Looking for a Job to Help My Mother

Found Job at Art School Called Izo

Sculpture Education

War Has Been Announced

What to Do

Big Decision Engaging into Military

Fighting Battalion

Marching to the Front

Front

December 1941, Back to Moscow

Life in Moscow Until May 1942

Problems to Get Out of Moscow

Journey to Krasnodar

Arrival at Krasnodar

Looking for Work in Kuban (Big River)

Life in Sovchoz Adyga

Chuter Yablanovsky (Smaller Than a Village)

Germans Advancing into Northern Caucasus

Back to the Army

Tachta Moukay (Organizing Army Units) Voyenkamat (War Committee)

War North of Kuban

Retreat to Krasnodar

Few Days of War in the City

Crossing of Kuban

Reorganization of the Army

Retreat into the Caucasian Mountains

Odyssey During the Campaign from July 1942 Until November 2, 1942

March from Gariachiklutch (Agua Caliente) to Novorosiske and Jubega

Back to Bisymianskaya

Encounter with Zagradatriade

Battles around Bismianskaya and Lisaya Gara and Wolf Pass

Prisoner

Gariachikluch, Saratovskaya, Krasnodar

Prison Camp in Krasnodar Ssupkey

Escape from Krasnodar Camp

Journey Back to Chuter Yablanovsky

Last Encounter with My Mother

One Month in Yablanovsky

Captivity Again and Journey to Germany

Dnyepropetrovsk, Perimishel, Permazensk, Frankfurt, Metz, Kneotingen, Fench

Life in the Iron Ore Mines

Life in the Camp

Free Workers, Germans, Poles, Italians, French, Luxembourgeois

Coming to My Decision: What to Do from Now On

Relationship with Free Workers, Hoff, Quyaba

Escape from the Camp

Crossing the Border from Germany to France

One Month Odyssey through French Countryside

Captivity by French Gendarmes

Dijon Prison

Out of Prison: New Friends

Working at the Farm

Joining the French Resistance Group: Journey along Bourgogne Canal to the Group

Joining the Group Les Madagasgars, Company Madagasgars

Life and Activity of the Maquis on the Hills Near Remilly

Found an Old Machine Gun

Contact with Religious Nuns

Rendezvous Near Blaizy-Bas

Aviateur and Me Making a Visit to Railroad Station of Blaizy-Bas

Capturing of an Officer and His Ordinance

Results of All of It

Two Days Later, Expedition Back to Charmois

Fatal Afternoon in Sonberneau

Shot and Wounded

First Encounter with Countess M. F. Montelembert

Wooden Shack up on the Hill

Hunting House at the Chateau in La Bussiere Sur Ouch

Recovering in La Bussiere

Visiting Hospital in Dijon

Victory Celebration in Malgasch House

I Am 20

My Sojourn in La Bussiere with Montelembert Family

Journey to Paris

Paris: Acquiring New Friends

Contact with Soviet Mission in Paris

Decision to Stay in France

The Montelemberts Figure out What to Do with Me

Arrival at the Farm, Rozay Enbrie

Sojourn on the Farm

Visiting Repatriation Camp Beauregard

Staying in the Camp

Return to Farm

Visit to Soviet Consulate

Journey to Marseille

Stay in Repatriation Camp, Chateau Gomber

Sport and Art Activities

Encounter with Monsieur Boje

Encounter with Soviet Colonel Pastouchov

Return to Paris and La Ferme

Countess Suggests to Me to Go to Argentina

Voyage to Argentina and Arrival at Buenos Aires

Meeting Vasia Verobov, Manager of Santa Rosa

My Life Deep in the Countryside

Visit to Buenos Aires on Weekends

Decision to Quit Bembergs

My Life in Buenos Aires

Decision to Go Back to Paris

Looking for Job and Lodging in Paris

Working as House Painter with Russian Immigres Zaitzeff

Summer Camp in La Fray: Camp Counselor

Back to Paris, Doing Various Jobs, Trying to Survive

Marina Vlady Family, Mother and Sisters, Tea Parties, and Salon Life

My Interest in Vedanta and Indian Philosophies and Religions

Practicing Raja Yoga

Renting Room at Volkonsky Villa

Malachoff

Evenings and Sunday Studies at Art Academies, Faberge Son

Meeting Various Artists at Montparnas, Grand Chaumiere

Disillusion with the West and Homesickness

Try to Sign on Foreign Legion

Met My First Future Wife, Svetlana

Marriage and Voyage to USA, 1955

Arrival at New York and Chicago

Short Stay in Chicago and Voyage to San Francisco

First Five Years in SF

Various Jobs, Study Photography in NY, and Painting Billboards in SF

Buying House in Berkeley

French Colony in SF

Citizenship and an Urge to Go to Spain

Reading Books about Spain and Meeting People Who Just Arrived from Spain

Voyage to Spain

Spain in 1960

Life in Fuengirola

Reason I Went to Spain Is to Work on My Art

Painting a Lot of Abstract Pictures

Buying House in Macharavialla

Trips to Madrid and France and Buying Car in Germany

Separation from Lana and Renting a House up in the Hills, Torre Blanca

Shows in Malaga and Madrid and Various Hotels on the Costa Del Sol

Living Gypsy Life: Friends, Beach, Bars, Learning Guitar, Women

1962 Came to Berkeley and Had a Show, Bought a Car

Drive Back to NY, Try to Open a Gallery/Atelier in the Village

Friend of Mine Organized Shows at Bloomingdales

Back to Spain

Colony of Foreigners, Painting

Back to NY in 1972 to Open Gallery with Ron Palfreyman as Silent Partner, Unsuccessful and I Had Allergy Fit and Went Back to Spain

Show in Paris

1976: Back to USA

SF Depression, D. H. Lawrence

Working on Billboards, The Michelangelo of Hwy 101, Painting and Reading in Spare Time, Renting Room in Berkeley and SF, Life On 18th Avenue, Astrid Comes to See Me, Chilean Lover, Russian Lover

Met Carol

Married Anne Marie for Four Months

Divorce

Carol Comes in My Life

Retire from Billboards and Begin to Paint Full Time

Movement from SF to Spain in Perla 5 with Carol, Complete Sharing of the Magic of Life; Marriage and Commitment and Finally, Fulfillment in the Personal Life; Trips to Paris and Spain; Carol's Tremendous Influence in Me and My Art

My Art and Philosophy

The Foundation on Which I Stand for My Art and Perceptions of Universal Understanding, Interests in Humanity, Music

Life in San Francisco and Then We Move to Petaluma and Finally a Studio/Atelier/Barn to Paint the Best Paintings of My Life

Projects for My Future Art

Foreword

During our first ten years together, Sacha's stories of his life featured daily, when we were alone, and whenever friends came to visit. I was always fascinated.

I said to Sacha many times, You must write your story, Sweetheart. It has huge significance in this sometimes brutal, cruel world, because you are a survivor, with no bitterness, no recriminations…just humor and empathy and compassion. Your story teaches people how to go through adversity. Men need to study you, Sacha darling. They might be better men.

Sacha would listen and say, Many people have told me that, my darling Sweetheart, but I am not a writer. I am an artist.

It was intimately revealing. Sachal's paintings speak to me, and many others, in the richest of ways. He reveals his thoughts, values, love of life, extensive art knowledge, sense of humor, his personal philosophy, impulses, and his vast and amazing humanity through forms, compositions, color, even accidents, and his own creative and uniquely personal magic.

Sacha was a prodigious painter. Everything, except me, took second place to his painting. Watching his process was enlightening. He thought deeply about what he wanted to paint. Sometimes, in the case of the painting called Jazz, which he told me he wanted to paint, it took ten years to percolate and finally realize. Sometimes, in just a few hours, a masterpiece.

How did he produce this magnificent body of work considering all our travels, places we lived, exhibits, and our exquisite life together?

He began each morning studying art, from the most obscure to the best well-known. Music blasted out in his studio—Shostokovic, Prokofiev, Bach, Beethoven, and Ragas.

The thing he most feared was a white canvas, so he quickly covered the canvas in color. Form and composition emerged next. Sacha was a master of color, and his deepest impulses reigned.

In 2003, we went as we did every year to Andalucía, Spain, for three months. He painted daily. Then we spent a week as usual with our dear friend Genevieve Guilguet-Rouque in Paris, visiting the wonderful people who saved his life, the French count and countess, on every trip. That year, we flew from Paris to St. Petersburg, where we spent an enchanting week of white nights and a multitude of marvels.

Sacha had previously studied every painting in the Hermitage. When we arrived there, a long line stretched around the corner. Sacha instructed me to stay put. (Stay putt, he would say in his beautiful Russian accent.) And he went to the office in front of the line. There he swiftly engaged a guide, who piloted us into the summer palace of Catherine the Great.

Once inside, Sacha told her we were not interested in the paintings. We wanted the history of the palace and its various rooms. I had just completed a French book on Catherine la Grande and was in full agreement with Sacha. Our tour was superb. We loved, even better, the Russian Museum of three buildings of only Russian artists. After a marvelous week, we took a Russian cruise through Lake Ladoga and Lake Onega and were excited to see the great birch forests Russians find so poetic. Then, down the Volga to Sacha's Moscow for a week. This trip percolated in Sacha's consciousness for two years, and he came to me to say he was ready to write his story.

I cannot write and paint, Sweetheart. It is one or the other, he said to me.

He then, in 2005, immersed himself in writing his story. He wrote all day long, every day, and often in the middle of the night. He started with an agenda with 176 entries for his life. He did not write about every entry on that agenda…just what he deemed important in his life. Once he read and reread his writing, he came to me and would translate the writing from Russian to English. I would type it into the computer. When he finished that part of the agenda, he would then read it in English to make sure he had translated it properly.

He always told me, Russian is richer than English. I read Shakespeare in Russian and in English, and Russian is richer because there are five thousand more words in Russian than in English.

He was a little lazy when he would read a word in Russian and he didn't know the English equivalent. I would suggest, gently, that he look it up in the Russian dictionary I always kept near my desk.

He would nonchalantly say, Oh, just use .

I would respond, Please, Sweetheart, use the dictionary and find just the right word. And since Sacha never could refuse me, he would make that effort.

We worked this way, each day, for six solid months, on the book. He said what he wanted to express in his book. He titled it Journey to the End of the Century as he wished to write about his life.

When I edited the book on my computer, I worked on the form and the punctuation only. I never changed one word of it. Sacha's command of English was extensive. His form of using English was very Russian. Sometimes he dropped pronouns or articles. Once in a while, his verbs were not perfect English, but I loved the way he expressed himself, and I left his English, just the way he dictated it. I never corrected him or his expression. Personally, I found it very charming and colorful, and more than that, it was Sacha. If the world wants to know him, let it be he that tells his life, his way. Then the world has a chance to know who he was. He was always himself. Anyone who missed him in life has a chance to know him through his powerful paintings and his writings.

As for me, Sacha was the most vital person in my life. No one ever loved me like Sacha.

Carol Sachal

July 2022

2

I Am Here

Very often, my friends were asking me, Why don't you write a book? All these happenings, adventures, experiences…and so on.

I would shrug and say, What for? There are so many books that have been written…millions of books, and on every subject.

Well, they would say. All the same, war, prison camps, hunger, and all the adventure…it is interesting. Why don't you share it with people? It is part of your life.

Dear reader, if there will be one, all the same, I will share with you part of my journey in this world. I must admit that I am not a philosopher. I am not a scholar or a scientist. I have no access to archives and documents to get a great quantity of information, like so many intelligent people have already extracted, many facts and dates and chronologies and so on. And I don't have any desire for dates and facts.

I read many books and got acquainted with many different facts, opinions, memoires, experiences, and witness testimony. From my side, I try somehow to sort out all these piles of happenings and experiences. Well, let's pause ourselves for a second and hold our breaths for a few instances. If there is a mirror nearby, let's go and look in that mirror. What do we see? Ourself! Of course. Of course, we see ourself under a specific angle. It depends on our mood. We are joyful, sad, we worry. There's a big drama, illness. I won a big sum of money in a game, or I lost all my capital, and so on. Then tell me, what do we see? Do we see the same face? Do we see the same expression? And we simply must admit that it is not, not the same face. Different face, different expression, different shine of eyes. In the sum of all of it, we see ourself in reflection in the mirror, and we want to see ourself in an improved state. We want to see ourself beautiful with noble nuances, see ourself thoroughbred and with an intelligent face. Then what we see often in the mirror, to our surprise, many other people do not notice very well. But we will still believe that we are much better than many other people think of us or see us a little bit differently. This little example, this little innocent example, leads us to a thought on a different surface. That little simple, naïve example of just looking at yourself in the mirror sometimes can cast a great question: So who are we? What for? And what really, in essence, do we have to do, and what for?

Well, it looks like I got stuck in a deep wilderness or bottomless swamp. Maybe life is to get into those swamps and then put all the effort and intelligence possible to get out of it and get back to God's light of day. I brought this example that we could see with a side vision, not to look straight on, and maybe notice a very tiny, little movement somewhere, there in a corner, not very clear. But suddenly, we know that it happened…there on the edge and not clearly. And so, from this simple bizarre or market curiosity, we ask a question: What is life, and what is it for? Let's fill ourself with patience for those questions that have no quick answers.

Many smart philosophers, prophets, God's people, priests, rabbis, they always have a great assortment of different answers and indication or pointing out and waving with elderly fingers, a multitude of different and colorful truths for all of us. There were a lot of books written, many of them with horrible threats, if we are not following the rules as was indicated, and it was given to us from God personally. You will be terribly punished…punished for the thirst of living.

My mother and my father, by some kind of reasons, and the reasons that we can only guess about, they started another creation. After some time, Mama pushed me out from my little heaven to this world. And so here I am from the other world to our world. Now tell me, what should I do? And here I already raised terrible screams and cries. They say I started breathing because of that. Mama was awfully happy, maybe, or maybe not very much. Why? Very simple. I was born in the country, in the period of horrible destruction, famine, unemployment, terror. Death was hollering all over the country. People disappeared without a trace. Little children who lost their parents had to survive as they could. They spent the night under the stairs, in the hallways, under asphalt tanks, in the parks. We don't know where they got their nourishment…only Gods knew. One must be around to know that. And here, Mama, with a screaming baby in her hand. All right. There is milk, so far…but what's tomorrow? Tomorrow must run to the work exchange (employment agency) and maybe get some kind of job for a day or two, and that's already a piece of bread. So what kind of thoughts were going through my mama's mind? How to survive! Now we are two. Two mouths to feed, and how to do it. Industry is in full destruction, totally destroyed. Awful persecution to people. The rulers, it looks like they fell off the moon, behave not like human beings. Bestiality changed to bestiality, and one more horrible than the next! So what kind of endless band of thoughts could be in Mama's mind? We can only guess. The nature gave biological happiness to be a woman, and to create to this world, this little human being. Now we have to take care of it, to feed it, to protect from dangers, cure from all kinds of diseases that will take probably fifteen years, a great stretch of time in this frightful epoch of destruction and terror.

Now, let's ask of those many scholars and philosophers and religious leaders, What does this woman have to do?

Most probably, there will be silence as an answer. Maybe God's men will tell us to pray. And to pray, you have to be very careful in these times, because by praying, you might be liquidated by the anti-class element.

To be alone, there is more chance to survive. Now with a little baby, what to do? And poor endless bitter tears of helplessness to change the situation.

I just brought this an example to freshen our mind. And I, with our reader, probably agree that mamas in different civilizations, different countries, different epochs could have the same thoughts, joys, sadness, and a multitude of different and mixed feelings.

3

Early Years in Kiev

I never thought I was going to write some kind of book and describe all kinds of joys and griefs. So many books have been written about that. And so what? Life goes on, in the same way as always. Did people become better or worse because so many books have been written? It's not to me to judge. Let smarter people deal with it, like historians, sociologists, and philosophers. Politicians are not invited to discuss these things.

In the meantime, the gang of clowns from the circus of death took over power in Russia. They started to dance their death dance all over the country, and this dance was exuberant because the result was that from the richest and greatest country, it was reduced to a huge garbage dumping site. All industry perished. Also perished millions of people. The peasantry, that was 80 percent of Russia's strengths, was destroyed, and the country sank into a deep famine and poverty. From the richest country, it became the poorest in the world and the most enslaved. Also, the genetic fund of Russia was destroyed. They just celebrated the seventh-year anniversary of the accomplishment of the revolution (it was a celebration of a takeover by those artists of death and death arts). Somebody somewhere made a comment of comparison of those accomplishments of the revolution as the Hundred Years' War in Europe, the Black Plague, and the invasion by Genghis Khan all put together in only seven years. What a gift to the people! And our genius of revolution, teacher, leader, philosopher, sufferer for the working class, our greatest comrade, Lenin, is dead. Seven years from 1917 to 1924 of his incredible rule. In this year, 1924, little Sacha was born.

He soon started to crawl, then finally walk, and there was no end of joy. He wanted to jump, to play. All the world seemed to him blue and rosy. His innocent blue eyes were looking out. Oh, there will be so much play, so many other children, very tasty food. But then, there appeared a huge strong hand of hunger, cold, and no shelter, grabbing his frail chest, and he started coughing, endless coughing fits, and he was suffocating, this little child…of coughs, hunger, and cold. And his darling mother rushed about with low-pitched wailing and groaning in this nightmare, with the only thought How to save the child? And this pitiless and huge hand was squeezing his little chest, and instead of food, it put in his mouth its bony thumb.

I just wanted to write these little comments to show what kind of world and times totally small Sacha was born.

It is difficult to remember all the details of my early childhood. Most of the time, I was lonely. I spent my time by myself. Mama was somewhere…there…searching for any kind of job, if there were any…or she worked until the late night. So in this way, I had a lot of free time. What to do for a child three to four years old? First, I cried, bitterly. I cried and sobbed, and when I exhausted all the energy and interest for crying, I went wondering in the big building, from floor to floor.

Sometimes a good-hearted student would take me by the hand, take me to his room, would give me a little piece of bread, and put the radio on for me so I could listen to music. I would look at some reviews and magazines, and it would quiet and comfort me. I would go out, walking from floor to floor, then to the patio and courtyard. There was a big pile of sand pebbles and bricks left over from the previous construction, and I would play for hours.

And for a time, I would forget where my mama was. Then I wandered back to the building. We didn't have a room. There was a bed and a little table in the hallway, in the corner, kind of under the staircase, so I would come back and lie on the bed and start crying, crying, crying. The people walked by as shadows, forth and back to their own business. Everybody had their own preoccupation, hardships, and problems. We must understand that all that was in the twenties and a period of great collapse, unemployment, and famine. And each one tried to survive the way he could. What did I know all about that in four years of my life? People walked by, and I still continued to sob and cry.

Mama, where are you? I want Mama. I'm hungry! Mama, I want to eat something.

Sometimes the shadow which walked by came over, stroked my head, and gave me a little piece of dry bread. My sobbing was interrupted, and I would eat this little piece of bread and felt myself very, very happy, and a wide smile would appear on my wet little face. And again, I felt the tide of energy, and I would go again from floor to floor and to the courtyard. To the street, I wouldn't go.

Mama very often told me, Be careful. Don't go out on the street. You might get lost, and you won't find your way back home, and some other uncle might take you away, and you will never see your mama again.

There were gossips that some children were stolen, and the sausage were produced in the factory!

On that street, there was a green tramway running with very loud ringing. Sometimes Mama and me would travel and pay a visit to Mama's sister, Anna. First, we would take the tramway. That tramway was really mad and out of control, running to vertiginous speed, shaking and tilting to every side of the wagon, and everybody had to hold on very hard to stay on their feet. It was surprising that this tramway didn't run off the track. I was thinking that one day, it would just fly off the track in such a mad run on this old, ancient rail track. The tramway was always overfilled, and everyone was like traveling on a swing together, with loud protests! We were always happy when we got off that tramway.

Then we had to go up a severely inclined street up to the aunt's home. There was also a shortcut. We had to climb uphill on a little narrow path, but it was much shorter.

My aunt lived in two rooms. Surprisingly, I still remember the number 22 on a white enamel sign on her door. She lived alone. Sometimes, we could see a man there. One time, he brought for me a little toy automobile, and I was playing with it all day long while Mama and her sister were having their own conversations. One day, we went to see a big family. I really don't know if they were my relatives or just acquaintances or friends. I remember a house with a fence and a little gate to the street. There were many, many women in this family.

They all came toward me, and they stroked my hair, disclaiming, What a sweet and beautiful child you are!

It bothered me very much, and I walked into another room. Suddenly, there was confusion and turmoil in the house. Everybody started grabbing glasses, cups, bottles, and running out of the house. When we ran out onto the street, I saw the source of this commotion. There was a horse cart with a broken wheel, so the cart was leaning sideways on the street, and a huge barrel full of honey fell on the street and broke. There was a stream of honey on the street. All these people descended with their little glasses, cups, containers, and bottles on this honey stream like a swarm of bees and started to collect it. Then, with all their sweet load, they ran back to the house and started to clean this honey. The honey was full of mud, dirt, dust, pieces of straw, little stones, and soil. After they cleaned this honey as well as could be done, everybody sat and started to have tea with honey. It was a feast.

I went to the adjacent room where there was a huge bed and a mountain of big pillows. I had the urge to climb on that bed, but the bed was too high for me. I barely could reach the top of the mattress with my chin. I was looking for something to make a step. Then I saw the tree in the corner with new year adornment, with all kinds of silver, glass, bowls, and little birds that were slightly swaying on the branches.

I took a little silver duckling from the branch and put this duckling on the floor. Now I have a step to climb on that high bed!

When I stepped on it, it smashed under my little foot. I was astonished and flabbergasted. I was frightened!

What did I do?? Now I will get punished for that broken little duckling!

I started to wail. Everybody ran into the room and looked at my foot to see if I cut myself and tried to quiet and comfort me. I felt their goodness, and my fright passed.

One lady had a little baby, and she was breastfeeding it. After that, she expelled her remaining milk into a glass. So she gave me this glass to drink, and I really quieted myself down, and I then went out to play.

Early each morning, Mom was getting ready to run out and look for work. She would go to the work exchange, the earlier the better, so she might be the first in line and would have more chance to get some kind of work for a day or two, maybe more. She left very early in the morning, and it was still dark.

Mom, where are you going?

Son, you'd better sleep. I must go to work. We don't have any bread.

Don't go, Mom. Stay with me.

I can't, my son. I must go. You try to be a good boy and don't cry. When I come back, I will bring something to eat.

But I started to cry, grabbing her by her skirt, trying to hold her. She carefully tried to unhook me and get free. She was already in the yard. I ran after her.

Mom…don't go!

So she ran away around the house. And in the back of the house, there was a big vacant lot. This vacant lot or piece of land was dumped on with sand, like fill-in. A big truck would bring in sand from somewhere and just unload it, and it looked like something like a desert with small dunes. By then, Mama was running away from me, and I was after her over those sandy dunes, climbing over, rolling down, up and down, up and down. When I was on the top of this pile, I could see my mom in the distance. And each time I got on the top of the dunes, she was farther away.

I cried, Mom! Mom!

She would disappear in the trees in a nearby park. I would stop and look for a long time, trying to see if I could see her.

When I realized that I could not catch her anymore, I would wander back home, or I would go to the park. There were no people in the park in the morning. I would wander by the empty alleys. Sometimes I would find myself in the thick of the trees and the bushes, and in those moments, I would forget about Mama and forget that I was hungry. I was stunned by the abundance of so many flowers and plants, many of them I saw for the first time. I would tear up a big leaf and look at it. What a wonderful form! What a marvelous little transparent network of lines from the center to the edge of the leaf. What a delicate network of veins. In those moments, I would lose all sense of reality. Inside me would stir up some sense of limitless happiness, some kind of sense inside of myself, a memory that I know this! I was there!

I didn't feel that I was hungry or that I was alone. I didn't understand that Mama was there, somewhere there, struggling for a little piece of bread. Some passersby would stop and ask me what I was doing there by myself at this hour.

Where is your house? Where is your mother?

Sometimes they would give me a piece of bread. I would thank them with my eyes and go on looking at those flowers, plants, and leaves and stroll around most of the day. At the end, I don't know how, but I would come back to the house. In those days, I didn't cry but patiently was waiting for Mama to come back. By the evening, Mom would appear. Oh, what a joy! She always would bring something to eat.

One day in deep autumn, Mama was very busy getting ready.

Son, we are going to dig out carrots. Let's go fast because there's a horse carriage outside waiting for us.

We arrived at the vast field with a multitude of people. The shovels appeared, and we were shown an area where we should dig.

They told us, Dig out ten bushels or sacks and one for yourselves.

And all those multitudes of people began digging out as many carrots as one could and filling the sacks with carrots. It was a gray day, and there was light rain. This black mass of hungry people were digging out life for themselves. A couple of carrots for a couple of days of life. The field was saturated with black silhouettes, rhythmically moving like black crows digging worms in the field, driving the shovel in, digging out a piece of soil, taking out the carrot, shaking off the dirt, and then into the sack. A full sack would be tied by the foreman, and he would make a mark on his black pad, a check sign for that name, so many bags. Ten sacks…one for you.

Ah! What a blessing, and life is beautiful! To live is a blessing! Life is wonderful, and it is good to be alive. Mama gave me a big shovel.

Come on, son, push on!

I was digging as much as I could. It was a huge shovel, but I was pushing and throwing those carrots in the sack and cried to Mom, Mom, look, here, one more! and so on.

I probably was boring her with all my enthusiasm and joy.

Okay, okay, son, just push on. You're a good boy!

We stopped when it was already dark, and we earned two sacks. It was already night when the horse carriage got us to our place, and the man dragged our two sacks into our room. What happiness! And we were eating these carrots, it seemed to me then, endlessly. We ate it raw, cooked, but the best fried.

By that time, we moved from under the stairs into a room. The building where we moved had two entrances. The entrance had an outside door and an inside door. In between, there was an entrance room of the size of eight by eight. When you opened the outside door in cold weather, the cold from the street wouldn't get to the building because the inside door was still closed. It was about eight feet to get to the inside door. In the meantime, the outside door would close itself automatically because of a spring or coil, so the cold air wouldn't get into the building. So there were two entrances.

One day, Mom said, They gave one entrance for us.

This entrance was closed for general access. No one could use it. We moved from under the stairs to this cold entrance passage. We were very happy. What luck! Now we had a door. And now we were able to fry and cook our carrots, and those carrots helped us so much to survive that severe winter.

Winter came. Mom was running for jobs or for work in various temporary jobs which lasted a couple of days, sometimes weeks and even a month. So I was free all day to the evening, and I would go to promenade myself in the park, by the alleys, without any direction. By that time, I knew all the alleys and was not afraid to get lost. I always found my way back to the building and to our room. By then, everybody knew me.

Ah! Here's the little boy coming!

Oh! He went to the park again!

Ah! Well, he's coming back home!

Sometimes, one would come close to me, pat my shoulder, and stroke my head. Well, little man, what direction are you taking now? I got the impression that everybody knew me, and they were so dear.

I would come from the park to our room. The door was never locked. There was a latch outside on the door, and I had to jump to release it. That way, I could open the door. Sometimes what happened was on my arrival, I would find Mom already in our room.

She was worrying. Where is that Shurka, running around? Why he is not home? Something may have happened!

Normal worries of all mothers when the child is out of sight, far away, without any supervision, not knowing how to avoid all the dangers. But this child, of course, never thought that there might be some kind of danger. Once, back from the intensive promenade, I found Mother home already.

Look, Shurka, what I got for you! And with her eyes, she pointed to the corner of the room.

I turned around, and I saw a beautiful yellow sleigh. I looked, and I couldn't believe my eyes! A yellow sleigh! There were a few alleys in the park which were very steep. In wintertime, big crowds of children and adults would ski down the alley and come down the hill on ice skates and all kinds of sleighs and some iron trays. It was a very, very colorful crowd…everybody so excited and red-cheeked! I would stay there for hours, watching, seeing how all the children would go down the hill with vertiginous speed so it would take my breath away.

Now I have my own yellow sleigh, and I am overwhelmed with joy. Now me too. I will go down the hill like everybody else!

The next day, I was triumphantly dragging my treasure to the park! The way we were riding down the hill is we would lie down on the belly on the sleigh, with the face forward, and downhill, the wind in full face, deaf from the speed, the speed taking your breath away, down, down, down! What a joy! Once we stopped, we dragged our sleighs back up the hill and again, down, down, down, and again and again. What a delight! And so we were riding endlessly. A few seconds downhill and some minutes dragging the sleigh uphill. And we would get drunk from the rapture! Intoxicated to the fullest, and we wanted more and more. We lost the sense of time. By now, there were only a few people left around, and it was getting dark, and I needed to go back home.

The next day, dragging my little sleigh to the park, and there I went again, back to the drunken ecstasies, down and up, down and up. To keep direction on the way down the hill, lying on my belly, I controlled with my legs so I wouldn't drive into the trees, which were all along the alleys. One day, I lost control and drove right into a tree with my face. I felt an awful blow and lost my sleigh as it went by itself down the hill, and I was sitting on the snow, dazed, and didn't know where I was.

People came over. Ah! My god, the little child hit the tree with his face!

Somebody dragged my little sleigh to me. Here is your sleigh, little kid.

Ah! At least my sleigh isn't lost!

Where are you living? Where is your mother?

I got up and brushed off the snow. I'm okay, I said. I'm going home.

Oh, but you must go to the doctor!

I'm okay… I'm going home.

I was walking home, dragging my sleigh, my face hurting, but much more… I was so ashamed! How could I miss the alley and hit that tree? I arrived home, and Mother was there, very busy.

Ah, Shurka, how was the riding?

Oh, it was wonderful.

I tried to keep the distance not to show the wrong side of my face so Mother wouldn't worry, and I was ashamed I scratched my cheek.

What do you have on your cheek? she said.

What cheek? I said, and I tried to turn around so she wouldn't see my black and blue and red cheek.

Come here and show me what you have on your cheek.

Oh, Mom, there's nothing.

Of course, I couldn't hide this forever, and to my great shame, I had to admit, Oh, it's nothing, Mom. I just hit the tree with my face.

Mother looked at it. Tsk…tsk…tsk…it's okay, no problem, nichyvo. And she put hot compresses on it. Then she started laughing and took my head to her heart and said, What a stubborn little man I have growing here!

The next day, of course, I went to the park again. Again, that intoxicating ride. I went downhill and stood there with my little sleigh. Two boys approached me.

Hey! You, little one, give us the sleigh to take a ride. We'll just go downhill once, and then we'll bring it back to you, okay?

Oh, those are good boys. Of course, take it! I was standing down there, watching, wave after wave of riders coming down the hill, in the wonderful sunny and bright winter day with bright sun and snow. All around, noises, screaming, laughing, somebody crying down there, and I was standing, magically entranced. How long I was there, I could not say.

Ah…where are the boys with my sleigh?

I started searching for them, looking around. I couldn't see them anywhere. I was standing there a long, long time, looking at the crowd riding downhill, and I couldn't see those boys. I couldn't believe it! They just said they would come back and bring my sleigh back to me. Where are they? To my great bitterness, it came upon me. I could not believe they said to me that they would come back, and they did not come! And so I went slowly home, this time without my sleigh. I was afraid to come home.

Finally, when I decided, Mother said, Where is your sleigh?

Oh, there in the park. The boys took it.

What do you mean took it?

Well, they asked me to let them take a ride, and they took it, and they never came back.

Mother took me by the hand, and we went down to the streets, and we were running around for a long time, asking people if they had seen two boys with a yellow sleigh.

Some people said no.

Some said, Yes, they went that way.

It seemed to me that we had been running on those streets for a long, long time. Finally, we came back home. We never found my sleigh.

Son, today you are going to school.

No, no…no! I don't want to!

You go. You go. You will play with other children, all kinds of games. You are all the time by yourself. There, in the school, you will play and learn.

Mother took my hand and led me out. School was very close, about a five-minute walk, a spacious building, big windows, children running forth and back, teachers and parents, wall-to-wall game, singing, promenading, making cube structures, books with illustrations. In a few days, the teacher was writing on the blackboard the alphabet.

Children, you are repeating after me. A… B… C…

At the end of the school day, everybody got a copy of the alphabet, and Shurka was glued to the list of the alphabet and reading the alphabet, walking on the sidewalk, repeating enthusiastically the alphabet. At the entrance in the hallway, there was a crowd of people, and I saw my mother.

Mama! Mama! Look and listen! A, B, C, D…etc. Look! I am reading!

She stroked my head gently. Oh, that's wonderful, my child!

Somebody in the crowd said, Well, well, there's a future scholar or scientist.

From now on, Shurka would run to school without Mama, with great enthusiasm, so much he wanted to read all the words and understand the texts under the illustrations.

A few days later, Mom came over to pick me up from the school. She was having a conversation with the teacher, and we left school on the way home.

Mom said, Shurka, the teacher told that you cannot come to school anymore. This is a Ukrainian school, and you must go to a Russian school. You and we, we talk Russian.

Mom talked Russian, mixing Russian with Belarus words and accents. I cried for a while, and that school was ended for me. We never found a Russian school nearby. To travel far away, we had no means. It was expensive for us.

Mom said, Don't worry, Shurka. Soon we go to Moscow, and you'll go to school there.

I don't know how it happened, but sometimes a boy of nine or ten years old would pop in our room and would sit with us, and we would share what we had. Mom told that he was orphaned and very hungry. Where he spent his time and where he lived, we never knew. He would suddenly appear in our room. Our door never had a lock; it had a latch. Sometimes we could come home and find him sitting on our bed, waiting for us. I didn't know his name. I don't think that Mother knew either, so we called him Julik (light-fingered, pickpocket, thief). Nothing negative or pejorative we used it…so that was Julik. That's all.

Sometimes Mom said to me, Ahhh… Julik came by. And in that Julik, there was nothing despising. She would ask him, Nu, Julik, how's everything?

He wouldn't talk, and he never told us his name. At that time, I began to read slowly.

Once, Mom said, Ah… Julik came by, and he brought you a book…a children's book with beautiful little illustrations, fairy tales. There was no limit to my joy! Mom said, Oh, he probably stole this book somewhere for you.

Julik had come a few more times, and then we never saw him again and never heard a word about him.

In this period of Kiev of Shurka's life, I went through a lot of illness—the high fevers, lying in this cold passage, shaking, trembling, deliriously hallucinating in some unearthly space. Some kind of men and women would appear in my field of vision, talking, open my mouth, exploring my stomach. They would direct the bright light into the eyes, and Shurka would glide in some unknown world in very colorful clouds. Geometrical forms would fly by, straight line would suddenly bend, mix among them, disappear to suddenly return with frightening speed, piercing as needles. All his substance and feeling are falling apart and would stop somewhere into the midst of melting undefined forms. Some kind of roads would suddenly split, and suddenly, like a cascade, falling on top of…it was very hard to breathe.

He wanted to say something to Mama, and there was no more air in the lungs.

Mama, where are you?

I'm here, Shurka.

He would half open his heavy eyelids. Ahhh…there's light from the window…oh, there's Mama.

She would put her hand on his face and gently stroke his head. Then she would take her kerchief and wipe her wet eyes. She would stand for a while and then, Shurka, I must go. I must go to look for work. We don't have any food.

Those were very light conscious moments, when Shurka saw the daylight through the window and Mama's silhouette. And then again, he would plunge into that different heavy multicolored world. Again, he would hear some muffled voices and some mysterious conversation, bright light into the eyes, and again, would fall into the bottomless precipice and into no being, no life. The bright moments, window, daylight began to appear more often. The breath came back. The hearing came back, and he sat without help on the bed or on the little stool.

Nu, Shurka, I am exhausted with you. What can I do? I am out of energy. There is no work. No food. These good people brought for you sometimes something to eat, and the result is you survived.

Mama, what was it? What happened to me?

You had inflammation of the lungs. Doctors didn't know what to do. There is no medication, and there is no food. And doctors say you need milk, eggs, and butter, and where can I get it?

And turning around, she was wiping with her kerchief her wet face from tears. And this skeletic child looked at Mama.

Mama, what it is? Mama?

Mama was holding her wailing and swallowed her tears.

She said, Shurka, I cannot anymore. I have no more energy. I don't know what to do with you. I don't know where is your father. Who can help us? Tomorrow, we will go, and we will ask for some aid.

The next day, she was taking me by the hand. We went somewhere in the center of town. She took Shurka toward a big entrance of a building.

Shurka, you know what? You go inside and go to the window [like the teller in the bank] and tell them you don't have a mother or a father.

She turned around and left. Shurka stood for a while, looked around, and walked into a big reception hall, and approached one of the windows. And behind the window appeared a big red face with an elaborate moustache that turned up at the ends.

This face asked with a thundering voice, Well, little one, what do you want? Why did you come here?

The little one couldn't tear his eyes off this frightening red face. He was frozen with fear. He couldn't utter a word. He was in panic.

Again, this face loudly shouted at him, What do you want? Nu? What? Why don't you say anything?

Shurka was invaded with great fear and started backing out toward the door. The doors were very huge and very hard to open. He couldn't do it by himself. At that moment, somebody entered, opened the door, and Shurka ran through the open door to the street. The street was full of people, walking forth and back. He looked around.

Ohhhh…where's Mama? Mama! Mama! Where are you?

Passersby stopped and looked at him. Hey, you, got lost? Where is your mother? Where are you going? Where is your home?

I don't know. And he started running in these full of passersby sidewalks with no direction where to run.

Where is my mama?

A lot of people all around, and he couldn't see far away. Maybe Mother was in that direction. Maybe a different direction. Where was she? He ran up to the corner of a