Totalitarian Trepidation

A Tale of Woe.

My earliest memory is travelling along a dusty and neglected provincial road, hungry, forlorn and accompanied by Pa and Ma. We had run out of provisions a day ago, and were travel-weary. To me, everything looked so foreign, so intriguing. I was profoundly and childishly awed as the alpine snow-shrouded forests gave way to the rustic housing and endless rolling hills of farmland common to the rural world, which gave way to the grey tiered residences, colossal factories and the intermediate bustling cobbled streets of Irkutsk. Never before had my innocent senses been so assailed with a cacophony of foreign noises and seemingly dancing vibrant hues stemming from a myriad of vendor products and ware. Staring from Pa's shoulders over the ragged, milling masses, I glimpsed a portly man clambering out of a black four-legged hollow horse wearing an assortment of ornaments and a shining circlet.

"That's the Tsar Len," Pa whispered coldly.

"He doesn't look hungry Pa," I whispered, stumped in confusion.

"Why isn't he hungry?" I exclaimed, louder, and while eliciting no visible response, he shifted restlessly as if silently agreeing.

To this day I swear to hearing a collective murmur of angry assent towards my innocently framed comment. All around me.

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Over the rugged hilltops, across the barren plains and nestled on the verdant banks of the torrential Yensei river laid a quiet, isolated village. Engels, my home. We were a tightly-knit jocular bunch, but we were sem'ya, and family is something undeniably precious.

If you ran through the village from Mrs Ivanov's rickety battered cottage and its signature wailing and groaning, as if it were alive, across the haphazardly arranged stone slabs, around the wilted yet trimmed hedgerow of the Orlov family, under the patchwork hay bale shed, over the village square and podium and around the cross tipped wooden orthodox church you could reach the other side quickly.

We produced what we could, and when we couldn't peddler Andros came, with his single spoke cart that felt like it crumbled when merely touched. He always brought presents for us kids, unique exotic wares of strange and mysterious origins and vital cloth and materials for the adults, required to sustain Engels. I remember excitement upon reading my first book about great men of our nation, but the book focused dominantly on Lenin, the father of the government, which I always thought was unfair to the rest of the great men.

Life was a constant struggle, with the elements in particular seemingly hell-bent on eradicating the village. The rain pitter-pattered endlessly, prohibiting my usual shenanigans with Eliezer, my Jewish best-friend. Most people think the eventual snowfall would be a relief, yet our winters were brutal. Collectively huddling together under Renat's sturdy pine hall before his crackling and dancing fire-filled hearth whilst singing traditional hymns to whisk away the time encompasses some of my most valued memories. The bone-chilling cold one year got so bad that we called breathing 'whisper of the stars', because as you breathed out, the water in the air turned into tiny icicles that fell down with a surprisingly melodic twinkle.

It was commonly believed that famine was lurking around the corner like an evil spirit of old, and rumours of anarchy in surrounding areas spurred everyone into action. Ms Ivanov gave up walking years ago, yet still assists in teaching youngsters and weaving the thick layered clothing of the village.

I was a forager, a vital job in collecting deadwood for fuel. Every day I travelled into the thick canopy of the nearby alpine forests. The beaten and dishevelled sparse green of the grass seemed to merge with the brighter hue of the moss-covered slab of the pathway as I swiftly followed the neglected mountain track. Sunlight filtered through dense forest, falling as a blanket of white upon the greenery. In their glow the nascent leaves of spring lay papery and delicate, seemingly drinking in the energy all life craves. It seemed nothing could compare to the beauty of nature, and I recall a constant sense of gratitude at being blessed with such an existence.

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One day, as the town was stirring to undertake standard morning routine, camo-covered trucks drove into the town square. Upon seeing such an unnatural sight, I envisioned myself about to begin an epic adventure after being taken away by the soldiers, like the childhood stories Ma preached so often.

I stood on the gravel track at dusk, covered in dust from the receding trucks as they mounted hilltop after hilltop. Reeling from shock, I was unable to process the significance of what had come to pass. Tears crystallised on my cheeks in the bitter cold of winter.

They took them away. Pa and all the other men. Heartbroken wives futilely resisted. Children sobbed until lakes formed at their feet. And then they saw Eliezer, pausing to regard the traditional half-cap worn by Jewish people. The next moment he was gone.

I often wonder whether I'll ever see them again. I often return here, to a place long abandoned by folk, yet I remember what stood here. A village. My home.

I remember seeing one image that has haunted me to this day.

The hammer, sickle and star.

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Over the rugged hilltops, across the barren plains, hundreds of miles away my back creaked in protest as I monotonously toiled in searing heat. Toiling for a foreign regime in one field of many. The industrial steel-towers of Moscow loomed off in the distance, and not for the first time I introspectively reflected on my late home.

Wondering if my family was alive, and if so:

Would I ever see them again?