April 17, 2009
Last night after dinner Irina as usual went to check her mail. The first message she saw was from her cousin, Sasha, who had immigrated to Israel a number of years ago. The message read that Sasha would be in St Petersburg next week for his mother’s funeral and wanted to visit with us. Irina quietly walked into the living room and told me “Annya died”. And then there were none; all of those old aunts, uncles, grandparents she remembered from her youth are gone now. It’s turning into a trip of tears.
I liked Annya Petrovna! Our first meeting was 5 years ago at the city library where she had worked for years. We met Annya and a group of giddy librarians who were more excited about getting a short break from stacking books and enjoying free tea and torts than meeting some American who knew only two words in Russian. As we left Irina said I acted too arrogant and didn’t smile enough.
“Whaaaat? This is my first trip to Russia and not being able to communicate at all makes it kinda difficult to be a instant social success. I thought I smiled to everyone. What else could I do anyways?” I replied. Since my only job, as I understood it, was to just stand there on display and smile, I thought I succeeded nicely – thank you.
Irina tried calling cousin Lena, Annya’s daughter, but the phone was busy. Finally Irina connected and got the details. Annya had died earlier in the day quietly lying in her bed in her apartment. Apparently pneumonia was the cause of death, brought on by a broken hip. The services will be next week.
I liked Annya Petrovna! I really got to know Annya later on during that first trip when we had her over for Mamula’s birthday party. She could speak German!!! I can communicate with someone here other than Vicky and Irina. Thank you God, I was about to go crazy here. I hadn’t used my German in years but remembered enough so we could carry on a pretty good conversation. “Where did you learn German?” I asked.
Annya told me that during the Great Patriotic War. She had been enlisted by the Germans to do some kind of ‘service work’ in their mess halls. “Ummmm” I thought. “Very interesting; a cute young girl of 15 working for the Germans. You have to do what you have to do to make it through – survival is the only winning game.”
I don’t know what happened back then but we can’t judge the picture from our soft, cushy couch watching the latest MSNBC blather on the big screen plasma TV, applying our current societal revisionists values to past history. Russia lost 30 million people in the Great Patriotic War and another 25 million to Stalin’s Great Socialist Experiment (never could understand exactly why the Russians were so mad about the Germans but Stalin got a complete pass).
As we dug into the second course of Mamula’s birthday dinner, stuffed cabbage and potatoes if memory serves me correct, I remembered vaguely that Irina had told me, “Annya was some kind of Jewish”.
I was thinking. “How could somebody that was “some kind of Jewish” possibly have worked for the Germans and escaped being shipped off to some concentration camp? Well I guess it’s easier to ID a Jewish boy than a girl. This lady must really have had some spunk and courage; working right under the noses of the hated Hun, knowing that at any second someone might walk in the door and denounce her as a Jew. A sure way to get a one-way train ticket to the ovens.” Credit luck, survival instinct, or what ever; here she is today enjoying a nice family event.
During the evening we enjoyed many old stories, we enjoyed the food, and we toasted every thing with a little vodka. At the close of the evening I was sure that I had another friend in Russia.
I liked Annya Petrovna! But I could tell there was something going on under the surface with Irina and Mamula’s relationship with Annya. Annya had retired and now called us everyday, sometimes 4 or 5 times a day, if I picked up the phone I would always have a quick little conversation in German and then hand it off to Mamula. Mamula always began by speaking softly, but as the conversation continued her volume elevated. Of course I didn’t understand what she was saying, or rather yelling, at our end of the line. She just sounded irritated and loud, but then most Russians sound like they are shouting when they talk. I really didn’t know what was up.
I asked Irina what was going on. Turns out there were a couple of things. First Annya was around 7 years older than Mamula, in her early eighties we thought, and as so many elderly people Annya had a tendency to accuse loved ones or any other convenient suspect of stealing. So it seemed like every time she called someone had again stolen another one of her most valuable sheets, or socks, dirty underwear, or food, or whatever. The accused is most often the one closest to the accuser, like a caregiver or child. In Annya’s case her only daughter Lena was stealing her blind and the only one she could discuss it with was Mamula. Irina called Lena after a while to talk about what was going on. Lena then told us that Annya had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and Annya was starting to display the symptoms.
However, there were also even deeper problems. Like every family there had always been ups and downs. During her younger years Annya apparently had a difficult personality and as the saying goes “you pick your friends, not your family”. They all apparently struggled, but over time the wounds faded and, as always, the good memories of the past win out and bring the family back together.
I still liked Annya Petrovna. Yeh, she had her weird points but from my perspective, which wasn’t tainted by the past, I just saw her as a struggling, lonely old lady with an interesting past.
Irina had told me that they did very well in Deep Soviet Times and I could tell she had money. Like the time Annya asked Irina and I to meet her at this pawnshop in the city center. Arriving at the address I saw no pawnshop, only a very expensive jewelry store. Annya waved us in and as it turned out the jewelry store would also take items on consignment and Annya had a beautiful antique diamond studded, solid gold cigarette case that she was trying to sell. Unfortunately it was of a different age and today people don’t want stuff like that anymore. The pawnbroker ignored any personal value or artistic value, he offered only a discounted value for the gold and diamonds. “Neyt” Annya said, stuffed it in her purse and headed for the metro back to her apartment.
A few days later like clockwork, a scandal developed. Of course the cigarette case turned up missing, of course it was stolen only in Annya’s head. No matter, Annya of course rounded up the usual group of suspects and the accusations began flying. Of course in her mental den of thieves the prime suspects were Irina and Potrick the last to be with her when she could remember having the stolen object. The concerned accused only defense was “maybe some quick fingered gypsy stole it out of her purse in the metro” and that indeed it had been stolen. It wouldn’t be the first time Gypsies had used a crowed metro car during rush hour to pinch an item. But of course detective Lena, her daughter, found it exactly where Annya had placed it, in her purse.
I still liked old Annya Petrovna. The last time I saw her was at her small little birthday party in her apartment. It was lively and it was sad. We arrived at her apartment with cake, vodka, and a small gift. But Annya’s Alzheimer kept her from remembering we were coming and when we arrived she didn’t know who we were. We stood outside in the cold waiting for someone to come out the door so we could enter the building; Annya wasn’t answering her entry buzzer. Finally we slipped in the door as a tenant exited, but were stopped at her landing by the second security fence. A neighbor, no doubt privy to all of Annya’s problems with thieves was suspiciously looking us over and I suspect getting ready to call the police to arrest this old man, older lady and some young gal. Before she could call Annya wandered down toward the gate wondering what thieves were these at her gate. As she got closer and could more clearly see these three cornered thieves he memory slowly returned. “Oh Lucy, Irinia I couldn’t see that it was you.”
The mystery solved, the foursome could start the party. We, had a little cake, exchanged the gift, toasted Annya twice and Annya then promptly got typsy. Party over. Irina and I carefully helped her to bed and she immediately went comatose as soon as her body went horizontal. Not another peep was heard, we don’t count snoring, for the rest of the time we were there.
Lena, her daughter arrived in a while and filled us in on Annya’s condition. Not good, but what to do. Lena pretty much was the only caregiver, she lived with Annya until the end. Such is the Russian way.
We left and saw her no more.
Now all of the familiar family faces of Irina’s youth are gone, her father Anatolia, Uncle Valodia, Grandmother Zoya, Grandpa Vitctor, Aunt Annya. Mamula is the last link to that generation.
Rest in peace Aunt Annya.
Last night after dinner Irina as usual went to check her mail. The first message she saw was from her cousin, Sasha, who had immigrated to Israel a number of years ago. The message read that Sasha would be in St Petersburg next week for his mother’s funeral and wanted to visit with us. Irina quietly walked into the living room and told me “Annya died”. And then there were none; all of those old aunts, uncles, grandparents she remembered from her youth are gone now. It’s turning into a trip of tears.
I liked Annya Petrovna! Our first meeting was 5 years ago at the city library where she had worked for years. We met Annya and a group of giddy librarians who were more excited about getting a short break from stacking books and enjoying free tea and torts than meeting some American who knew only two words in Russian. As we left Irina said I acted too arrogant and didn’t smile enough.
“Whaaaat? This is my first trip to Russia and not being able to communicate at all makes it kinda difficult to be a instant social success. I thought I smiled to everyone. What else could I do anyways?” I replied. Since my only job, as I understood it, was to just stand there on display and smile, I thought I succeeded nicely – thank you.
Irina tried calling cousin Lena, Annya’s daughter, but the phone was busy. Finally Irina connected and got the details. Annya had died earlier in the day quietly lying in her bed in her apartment. Apparently pneumonia was the cause of death, brought on by a broken hip. The services will be next week.
I liked Annya Petrovna! I really got to know Annya later on during that first trip when we had her over for Mamula’s birthday party. She could speak German!!! I can communicate with someone here other than Vicky and Irina. Thank you God, I was about to go crazy here. I hadn’t used my German in years but remembered enough so we could carry on a pretty good conversation. “Where did you learn German?” I asked.
Annya told me that during the Great Patriotic War. She had been enlisted by the Germans to do some kind of ‘service work’ in their mess halls. “Ummmm” I thought. “Very interesting; a cute young girl of 15 working for the Germans. You have to do what you have to do to make it through – survival is the only winning game.”
I don’t know what happened back then but we can’t judge the picture from our soft, cushy couch watching the latest MSNBC blather on the big screen plasma TV, applying our current societal revisionists values to past history. Russia lost 30 million people in the Great Patriotic War and another 25 million to Stalin’s Great Socialist Experiment (never could understand exactly why the Russians were so mad about the Germans but Stalin got a complete pass).
As we dug into the second course of Mamula’s birthday dinner, stuffed cabbage and potatoes if memory serves me correct, I remembered vaguely that Irina had told me, “Annya was some kind of Jewish”.
I was thinking. “How could somebody that was “some kind of Jewish” possibly have worked for the Germans and escaped being shipped off to some concentration camp? Well I guess it’s easier to ID a Jewish boy than a girl. This lady must really have had some spunk and courage; working right under the noses of the hated Hun, knowing that at any second someone might walk in the door and denounce her as a Jew. A sure way to get a one-way train ticket to the ovens.” Credit luck, survival instinct, or what ever; here she is today enjoying a nice family event.
During the evening we enjoyed many old stories, we enjoyed the food, and we toasted every thing with a little vodka. At the close of the evening I was sure that I had another friend in Russia.
I liked Annya Petrovna! But I could tell there was something going on under the surface with Irina and Mamula’s relationship with Annya. Annya had retired and now called us everyday, sometimes 4 or 5 times a day, if I picked up the phone I would always have a quick little conversation in German and then hand it off to Mamula. Mamula always began by speaking softly, but as the conversation continued her volume elevated. Of course I didn’t understand what she was saying, or rather yelling, at our end of the line. She just sounded irritated and loud, but then most Russians sound like they are shouting when they talk. I really didn’t know what was up.
I asked Irina what was going on. Turns out there were a couple of things. First Annya was around 7 years older than Mamula, in her early eighties we thought, and as so many elderly people Annya had a tendency to accuse loved ones or any other convenient suspect of stealing. So it seemed like every time she called someone had again stolen another one of her most valuable sheets, or socks, dirty underwear, or food, or whatever. The accused is most often the one closest to the accuser, like a caregiver or child. In Annya’s case her only daughter Lena was stealing her blind and the only one she could discuss it with was Mamula. Irina called Lena after a while to talk about what was going on. Lena then told us that Annya had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and Annya was starting to display the symptoms.
However, there were also even deeper problems. Like every family there had always been ups and downs. During her younger years Annya apparently had a difficult personality and as the saying goes “you pick your friends, not your family”. They all apparently struggled, but over time the wounds faded and, as always, the good memories of the past win out and bring the family back together.
I still liked Annya Petrovna. Yeh, she had her weird points but from my perspective, which wasn’t tainted by the past, I just saw her as a struggling, lonely old lady with an interesting past.
Irina had told me that they did very well in Deep Soviet Times and I could tell she had money. Like the time Annya asked Irina and I to meet her at this pawnshop in the city center. Arriving at the address I saw no pawnshop, only a very expensive jewelry store. Annya waved us in and as it turned out the jewelry store would also take items on consignment and Annya had a beautiful antique diamond studded, solid gold cigarette case that she was trying to sell. Unfortunately it was of a different age and today people don’t want stuff like that anymore. The pawnbroker ignored any personal value or artistic value, he offered only a discounted value for the gold and diamonds. “Neyt” Annya said, stuffed it in her purse and headed for the metro back to her apartment.
A few days later like clockwork, a scandal developed. Of course the cigarette case turned up missing, of course it was stolen only in Annya’s head. No matter, Annya of course rounded up the usual group of suspects and the accusations began flying. Of course in her mental den of thieves the prime suspects were Irina and Potrick the last to be with her when she could remember having the stolen object. The concerned accused only defense was “maybe some quick fingered gypsy stole it out of her purse in the metro” and that indeed it had been stolen. It wouldn’t be the first time Gypsies had used a crowed metro car during rush hour to pinch an item. But of course detective Lena, her daughter, found it exactly where Annya had placed it, in her purse.
I still liked old Annya Petrovna. The last time I saw her was at her small little birthday party in her apartment. It was lively and it was sad. We arrived at her apartment with cake, vodka, and a small gift. But Annya’s Alzheimer kept her from remembering we were coming and when we arrived she didn’t know who we were. We stood outside in the cold waiting for someone to come out the door so we could enter the building; Annya wasn’t answering her entry buzzer. Finally we slipped in the door as a tenant exited, but were stopped at her landing by the second security fence. A neighbor, no doubt privy to all of Annya’s problems with thieves was suspiciously looking us over and I suspect getting ready to call the police to arrest this old man, older lady and some young gal. Before she could call Annya wandered down toward the gate wondering what thieves were these at her gate. As she got closer and could more clearly see these three cornered thieves he memory slowly returned. “Oh Lucy, Irinia I couldn’t see that it was you.”
The mystery solved, the foursome could start the party. We, had a little cake, exchanged the gift, toasted Annya twice and Annya then promptly got typsy. Party over. Irina and I carefully helped her to bed and she immediately went comatose as soon as her body went horizontal. Not another peep was heard, we don’t count snoring, for the rest of the time we were there.
Lena, her daughter arrived in a while and filled us in on Annya’s condition. Not good, but what to do. Lena pretty much was the only caregiver, she lived with Annya until the end. Such is the Russian way.
We left and saw her no more.
Now all of the familiar family faces of Irina’s youth are gone, her father Anatolia, Uncle Valodia, Grandmother Zoya, Grandpa Vitctor, Aunt Annya. Mamula is the last link to that generation.
Rest in peace Aunt Annya.
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