WE GO TO MARIA’S BIRTHDAY PARTY IN TELIZCYNCI; VISIT A 100 YEAR OLD PRABABUSA; RETRACING THE KIDS' EARLY YEARS

Saturday, July 28, 2007

The car trip to Telizcynci is about three hours long but seems longer on a hot day like today. The VW van has no air conditioning and Vasilly drives as fast as Michael Schumacher on a four lane German autobahn. But this highway has more than an occasional rut and it’s only two lanes that are filled with trucks. Because of the heat, the windows must be wide open and you’re windblown in the middle seat and just short of suffocating in the rear seat.

We stop for lunch at Vasilly’s favorite truck stop which is a series of linked open door buildings, each with a homemade metal barbeque and sticks of meat grilling. We’d been here once before. The meat was tough and tasteless but the flies were ravenous anyway. No air conditioning and only one horrible-beyond discussing-toilet shared by the half dozen “restaurants”. I’d been a good sport the last time we were here and sat down to rough it out again.

But the day was too hot, the flies too many, and my patience too worn and in tatters. I said, “No way,” and got up and led everyone back into the van and we hit the road again.

As soon as you turn off the main road about an hour and a half from Kiev, the scenery becomes really picturesque. I love our own farm in the North Carolina mountains; the scenery in the Carpathian mountains is majestic. But this landscape is incomparable in its own way.

This is part of the Steppes, the land is gently rolling, all farmland with the tall skinny trees as windbreaks.


The highway becomes a winding road in between large shady trees, the fertile farmland changing from deep green to light green depending on the crops growing; alternating with large swashes of yellow and gold of planted grain and sometimes even fields of sunflowers.


We’re told this area had the finest collective farms in the Soviet Republics. There are still mammoth columbines and other machinery to plow, seed and harvest the crop. Today, some fields were being plowed for a second crop, other fields were being burned. This was big business farming on the scale of the American Midwest. If Ukraine was considered the ‘bread basket of the Soviet”, this area, Tetiiv, is where the grain was grown for the bread.

Bila Cerkva is the big town of the region, not really a city, but the closest thing to one. We circled around Bila Cerkva and forty minutes or so we come into the much smaller town of Tetiiv, perhaps the “county-seat” of the region. We stop here to find a restaurant. We discover there is not one to find, “used to be one”, the passersby tell us, “but it was years ago”.

We search around and find a small grocery that, to our big surprise, was air-conditioned. We loaded up with cold drinks, ice cream bars, slices of bologna and bread and headed on towards Telizcynci.




Yelena says this chocolate was the best during the Soviet time.


We stopped about five minutes from Telizcynci and ate our snack. We thought there would be a table of food for Maria’s birthday party, but we weren’t certain of that and so we needed to take the edge of our hunger. Some of us took a pee break behind one of the big trees lining the road because we all knew we could not face again the outhouse at Maria’s.


The village of Telizcynci is just lovely. It a cluster of individually decorated homes curling around a large lake on one side, rolling hills of grain forming an idyllic view for the villagers on the opposite side of the lake.

There were children of all ages on the single village road: toddlers on tricycles, pre-teens on bikes, trios of stylish teenage girls, giggling at us as we walked past them, boys in soccer shirts surprised when we greeted them with “Dobry Den”.

We saw a small group of girls swimming in the lake that quickly dissuaded Andry and Olya from taking a dip in the lake’s popular swimming hole.


Ignoring the swimming girls was a picturesque babusha collecting reeds from the lake’s edge for a new broom.


This is an ideal place to spend your early childhood as did Olya and Andry. In fact I can’t imagine a more perfect place, unless of course, your father happens to be a notorious drunk, a wife and child-beater, shiftless and lazy. That was also the early childhood of Olya and Andry.


As we pulled into Maria’s part of the village, Olya had her hands in prayer and kept repeating, “Dear God, Dear God, please don’t let the girls see me.” The “girls” she was referring to were the village babushas who swarmed her and kissed her, roughing her cheeks with their ‘beards”. Olya wanted no repeat of that. As we pulled into what pretended to be a driveway and no “girls” in sight, Olya said. “Thank you, God.”


However, her old biological grandmother, Hannah, was making a bee-line for her. Olya avoided contact without being too obvious about her evasion; she was now terrified of catching their “lices”. (Pippa had put Olya's hair into a tight bun as a precaution.)

On our previous visits, Olya was too over-whelmed to be concerned about the squalor around her. This time however her fanatical fastidiousness was in full-force. She would not go into the house and cautioned all of us if we got near the entry door. For Andry, it was a different story; he went in and out without concern. This was his home and I thought he was not even aware of the filth in the yard and inside the house. (However, that night, when we returned to the apartment, Andry had Pippa check his head and hair very carefully, then rushed into the bathroom to take a shower.)

There was the predicted table of food. But a few, new guests than before wwere present. There was the husband of the aunt from Tetiiv, a, friendly man who never stopped talking to me whether Yelena was nearby to translate or not; he took the lead in the numerous vodka toasts. Hallah, the aunt from Kiev, with her grandson, showed up and joined the group at the table.

There were dozens of plates of food, the typical bowls of vegetables, potatoes, and other harvest from the garden, but also a number of dishes with sardines and cuts of fish.


But the table was swarming with flies and I couldn’t forget the outhouse was only about six feet from the table. I just couldn’t bring myself to eat this time as I had before. I looked at Olya swatting at the flies and ignoring the food as I was, knowing she was as uncomfortable as I.


If I lived here, or even if I had to be here for a two more weeks, I’d be compelled by my nature to build or buy a screened garden house, located further away from the outhouse, with a stable table and benches. Their benches were so makeshift, you had to negotiate with the person sitting next to you when you wanted to stand. Otherwise you’d send the person sprawling as when one person jumps from a see-saw, leaving the other to fate.


I had a few vodka toasts, only taking a sip each time, instead of downing the shot glass as expected. Olya kept telling me I was going to get drunk. Pippa reassured her and Andry that they would never see such a thing. I got up from the table using shooting photographs as an excuse.

After a short time, Olya and Andry joined me and wanted me to go with them to show Olya the village. Great! Pippa saw the opportunity and joined us. So did Yelena and Hallah (Hallah is the sister of Hannah, the biological grandmother of Olya and Andry. However, Hallah looks many years younger than her alcoholic, babusha-looking sister although there is only four years between them.)


Andry led us to the cemetery only a few minutes walk from the house.


On the walk, Hallah was going on and on about the shiftless Nikolai, recanting stories as well of his beatings of Maria. How for never working Nikolai sure was strong.

Hallah also said she couldn’t understand why Maria and Nikolai were taking care of Nikolai Senior; that the Senior had placed Nikolai and his sister in an orphanage after their mother had died. While Nikolai kept running away from the orphanage his sister had stayed and gone on to technical school. She married a military man and they live a good life. Soon the sister was coming to get Senior and share in the care for him.

When we came to the graves of the grandmother and grandfather, Andry told the story of the ‘fiesta” that he and Olya attended with the family as they celebrated the deaths of the grandparents, apparently a day similar to the Mexican “Day of the Dead.” Andry told how everyone gathered around, and something “white” was spread on the ground and the grown-ups drank vodka and ate food, while the children had sweets. Andry said Olya had been there, but she had no recollection of it. Hallah was disgusted with the weeds on the gravesite, linking the outrage to Nikolai, who should show respect and take care of the graves. True, but few of these gravesites showed any care.



Hallah pointed out the area next to the crosses of the grandparents and said that more family ancestors were buried there, apparently in a mass grave. During the time of the Holomodor, the famine forced on Ukraine in the early thirties when Stalin sent all the grain grown in Ukraine to Russia, starving many millions who grew the crops. This was done deliberately by Stalin to bring Ukraine to its knees in subjugation to Russian domination.

Andry then lead us around the village, telling us about the owners of each house, usually focused on whether they were nice to kids or not. Pippa, Hallah and Yelana trailed way behind Andry, Olya and me. I knew the reason, Pippa was interrogating Hallah, getting every minute detail she could extract from the woman, a technique she learned from her mother. I have to say, I think the daughter has surpassed the mother; Olya and Andry agree.

This house won our award for most flowers and decorations. The elderly woman who lives here wears glasses that make her eyes enormous. She was orphaned by the war and grew up in Siberia.


As we circled around, a babusha neighbor of Maria cornered Pippa’s group. She was actually a handsome woman, with a kind face and a row of magnificent gold teeth. She insisted we come into her house and meet her 100 year old mother, 101 in only a week. Pippa jumped at the chance, as did I, thinking of the photo opportunity.

Her yard, as we came through the gate, had chickens, ducks and geese as did all the homes in the village. But hers were neatly penned and organized. Her yard was not dirt, but spotless concrete. She had the requisite trees of apple, pear and cherry. There was a single fallen apple and you knew it would soon be picked up; there were no cherries or pears on the ground. On the left, the cordwood was stacked ever-so neatly.

Neat was the word for the first impression as we came into the house. And clean was the second and third.




You could eat off the floor in this home. There were the typical Ukrainian embroideries on the wall, flanking old ancestor photographs. But no pin-ups as in Maria’s house. Everything on the wall or on a table was carefully organized and tastefully presented. This was Olya’s kind of place. And mine as well.

The old woman had inventively hung utensils so they were easy to each. Pot lids were hung by size. Stirring spoons and forks organized by function. It reminded me of my father’s workshop, everything placed just so in typical Germanic order.

She took us into the bedroom to meet her mother who was curled up, under covers in bed. The mother pulled back the covers on her mother. Her mother was tiny, with little muscle left on her frame, hip-bones protruding against her thin nightshirt. The mother gently lifted the grandmother upright, speaking non-stop to both our group and her mother. I took photos of both women not sure the grandmother was really aware of what was going on. But when the group left the room, I was the last to go; I turned to the grandmother and waved; she waved back at me and smiled.


This is where our new friend sleeps, on the stove heater.


We found out later that the 100 year old woman had been sent to Germany during the war and because of what happened to her there, she and her family received monthly compensation for life. What actually happened to her there and which government was paying the compensation was not made clear. Apparently however, it was the reason for the somewhat higher level of living they enjoyed in the village.

At the exit, the babusha stopped us and insisted we drink a glass of her Kvas (a non-alcoholic drink made from bread). I hesitated, but she insisted, saying the water was from her clean, safe well. So, I gave it a shot. It was cool and not so bad after all, my first taste of kvas.

We had a tour of her root cellar, spotless and organized with nothing out of place nor anything un-necessary; rows of canned fruits and vegetables on shelves above buckets of potatoes. The grain shed was the same. Grain bags. Grain bin.
Shelves full of more jars of preserved fruit and vegetables; all in a tidy row with no dirt or debris anywhere.




This was a handwashing place.

The babusha plugged in an electric wire to a receptacle in the last equally spot-less storage shed we toured. We discovered that wire had electrified the water well outside. The kids rushed over and drank the cold water, then doused their face and head to cool off.

Before we left the woman gave Pippa a loaf of bread she had made.


Andry said she gave him candy whenever he visited her. We promised to send the old lady photographs and she closed her gate behind us. Hallah explained what was already obvious. This 75-year-old woman was kind and worked hard. Her husband, who died 10 years ago, had been a good, hard working man and was very handy.

As we walked past the few houses between the old lady’s and Maria’s, Hallah said, “You can tell a house with a good man. The house has a good gate.” Then we returned to Maria’s gateless, pig-stye of a place.

Our friend is on the left with a cane seeing us down the street. The rest of us are standing in the street in front of Maria's gateless house.


Here are other gates in the neighborhood. As you can see people take great pride in the entrances to their yards.





The stork nest on the corner probably inspired this gate.


Maria brought out the eggs she had decorated for us. We were prepared to buy them regardless of their condition. But we were floored by what we saw. They were beautiful! Every design was different from the other. The technique was remarkable.


How did this happen? This woman is indeed very talented. What a pity she has wasted her talent all these years. There is no reason she had to live in such poverty. With some ingenuity and hard work, surely she could have found a way to use her ability.



Probably not. That’s easy for me to say. I had to remember she milked cows on a collective farm; there was no outlet here for initiative, if she had it anyway. Besides she married a terrible man who beat the shit out of her every time he got drunk. On the other hand, Maria stayed with the bastard. She’s the stereotypical “victim.”

Well, anyway, this woman knows how to decorate eggs beyond our expectations. We’ll be very proud to pay her for eggs and to give them to our friends. Of course we’ll eventually run out of friends to give them to. But we’ll have the best pysanky collection in Miami Beach, for sure.

There was some considerable time spent getting correct addresses translated from the Cyrillic alphabet into English. The only stable table to write on was in the house and despite Olya’s warnings, we had to go inside the house. We gave them the money for the first batch of 24 eggs plus the cost of shipping the eggs to the USA ($120 for the eggs, 50 hrivnas for the shipping).

Pippa suggested to Maria that she could decorate more eggs and possibly sell them to tourists on Souvenir Street or one of the other spots that artists gather to show their work. Maria smiled and looked down as Nikolai walked up saying, Maria couldn’t sell her eggs. Pippa, who had found out from Maria that Nikolai was the one who put all the sexy girlie pinups all over the walls, said of course Maria could. Pippa also pointed out to Nikolai how low it was of him to hang up pictures of other women all over the house.


As we were leaving, Nikolai brought up the subject of the winter coats he was asking us to give them, worried about whether we’d get the sizes correct. I’m sure he wanted the cash. (We saw stacks of windows and doors outside that had not been there before. We’re certain they were paid for out of the money we had been giving them for bus transportation to Kiev from Telizcynci. I think they inflated the cost of bus tickets. At least it went for home improvement, not vodka.)

The business was completed and Maria brought out a sack of candy for the children as she has on every visit. (Way too much sugar.)

I think Maria sensed this might be our last visit, her last chance with the kids. We did not tell them we would not be back again, but we won’t. In fact, I doubt that Olya will ever come back here again. Unless, of course, as an adult she feels some need to do so. But for now, she has found all she needed of her missing childhood.

Andry is a different story; his history is in this village and in this house. He will, in fact, inherit this house when the grandmother dies. He will be back in some circumstance, for some reason or another, I predict.

Perhaps he will return when Miami Ad School begins a branch in Kiev and needs someone to speaks English, Russian and Ukrainian. Or perhaps Andry will return as a real estate developer and expand on his “vast” holdings in Teliizcyci. This village, curled around this beautiful lake, three hours from Kiev would be a gold-mine for an American developer.

We left at the golden hour just as the sun turns off the heat and puts an orange glow on the rolling fields. We pass a few horse and wagons and are passed in return by some speeding brand new sedans rushing past one century into another. Olya has her head on my lap asleep; Andry and Pippa are playing cards in the rear seat.


Our only stop had been in Tetiiv: to pick up some cold drinks and to drop off Nikolai’s and her garrulous husband to view their house under construction. As we left, he remained at the gate entrance according to custom and he said something about bad luck in walking back through the gateway in this kind of circumstance. The Ukrainians have a superstition for every occasion, we’ve found since we’ve been here.

On the way back, Vasilly pulled into the entrance of the World War II cemetery of fallen Germans from the battle of Kiev. Olya was fast asleep in my arms, so I passed on the opportunity. The outside granite sign was in Russian, so I had to depend of Vasilly’s version of the inscription passed through Yelena. The graves from where we sat appeared to be very well kept, by the German government or the Ukrainian government, was not revealed.

We arrived in Kiev around eight. The children, before Olya fell asleep, had pleaded to eat at the apartment. Pippa whipped up a tasty meal of pasta, pine nuts and black olives, an altogether satisfactory ending to an unusual experiece. It has been an interesting day in the midst of so many other interesting days.


Tomorrow? Well, tomorrow’s another day.

ANDRY'S GOOD IDEA

While we were playing cards on the drive home Andry asked me (Pippa) why people are small when they are old. Using a lot of hand motions I explained how, as people age, the disks in the spine become thin and make us shorter; how 100-year-olds can’t absorb the nutrients from their food and so their bodies gets thinner.

Andry then surprised me with his concept. He wishes that people who are good and helpful would get bigger and stronger and live forever. Bad people would get smaller and weaker. We both laughed at the idea of being “held up” by a three-foot tall weakling.