She was only six years old...
A version of this was posted on Facebook on March 7
I was at my mom's place on Monday and Tuesday (for reasons those who read her LJ already know about, but which aren't really germane here). We both had stuff to do, but during one of the quieter moments, my mom showed me a few photo albums she retrieved from Grandma Nina's archive. There were photos of Grandma Nina when she was a kid and a teenager, and some of her old report cards and awards.
As I've written before, Grandma Nina started telling about what it was like to be trapped in my home city during the Siege of Leningrad when I was five. She never minced words when it came to what it was like - the daily bombardments, the starvation, dead bodies on the streets, that time someone tried to eat her. But looking at those photos, it hit me all over again. She was just six years old. SIX. Just one of the many, many kids trapped in the hell on Earth. She was one of the lucky ones who were evacuated during the Siege... but she still endured the worst of it.
She told me the best she could what it was like to live in that cold apartment, surviving on meager rations that tasted like glue. As I looked at her report cards, mostly As and a few Bs (well, Russian equivalent of them, anyway) I wondered - what must have it been like to go to school, far from the front lines, earning good grades, after living through THAT?
What must it have been like to come back to the city after it was liberated? What was it like to find out that her grandmother, the one who she spent the Siege with, died? I know she carries the guilt with her to this day - she knows it's irrational, but she feels it anyway. The fact that she feels it, still...
And here is another thing. As I mentioned in the comments to the original Facebook post, her experience, as horrible as it is to say, wasn't unique. She was just one of the many, many kids who were trapped in the city.
For this Christmas, I got John (my sister's husband, for those who don't know) an English translation of Grandpa Slava's book about his mom. And looking at the pictures. Like I've written before, I spent most of my life thinking of my great-grandmother as this remote figure, the inspiration for poets and playwrights who was immortalized as a brave fairy-tale princess. But looking at the photos of her holding little Grandpa Slava and Grandpa Roma, I felt unexpected tenderness. Not even because of the way she looked (though there's obviously some family resemblance), but because the pose, the expression, reminded me of photos of my mom holding my siblings.
The photos of Grandma Nina and her classmates drove home that she and her classmates were kids, just like I was.
They were only six years old
I was at my mom's place on Monday and Tuesday (for reasons those who read her LJ already know about, but which aren't really germane here). We both had stuff to do, but during one of the quieter moments, my mom showed me a few photo albums she retrieved from Grandma Nina's archive. There were photos of Grandma Nina when she was a kid and a teenager, and some of her old report cards and awards.
As I've written before, Grandma Nina started telling about what it was like to be trapped in my home city during the Siege of Leningrad when I was five. She never minced words when it came to what it was like - the daily bombardments, the starvation, dead bodies on the streets, that time someone tried to eat her. But looking at those photos, it hit me all over again. She was just six years old. SIX. Just one of the many, many kids trapped in the hell on Earth. She was one of the lucky ones who were evacuated during the Siege... but she still endured the worst of it.
She told me the best she could what it was like to live in that cold apartment, surviving on meager rations that tasted like glue. As I looked at her report cards, mostly As and a few Bs (well, Russian equivalent of them, anyway) I wondered - what must have it been like to go to school, far from the front lines, earning good grades, after living through THAT?
What must it have been like to come back to the city after it was liberated? What was it like to find out that her grandmother, the one who she spent the Siege with, died? I know she carries the guilt with her to this day - she knows it's irrational, but she feels it anyway. The fact that she feels it, still...
And here is another thing. As I mentioned in the comments to the original Facebook post, her experience, as horrible as it is to say, wasn't unique. She was just one of the many, many kids who were trapped in the city.
For this Christmas, I got John (my sister's husband, for those who don't know) an English translation of Grandpa Slava's book about his mom. And looking at the pictures. Like I've written before, I spent most of my life thinking of my great-grandmother as this remote figure, the inspiration for poets and playwrights who was immortalized as a brave fairy-tale princess. But looking at the photos of her holding little Grandpa Slava and Grandpa Roma, I felt unexpected tenderness. Not even because of the way she looked (though there's obviously some family resemblance), but because the pose, the expression, reminded me of photos of my mom holding my siblings.
The photos of Grandma Nina and her classmates drove home that she and her classmates were kids, just like I was.
They were only six years old