The Secret Holocaust Diaries: The Untold Story of Nonna Bannister (12 page)

That night—Christmas Day—after all the excitement had died down, we gathered by the ochag. We heard Grandmother’s stories from her life experiences, and those stories never faded away. As we listened to her, it was almost as if we were there. We were surrounded by love—and magic: the warmth from the fireplace; the smell of Christmas itself; and Babushka, sitting there with her hands folded in her lap—still wearing her beautiful dark green velvet dress trimmed with plenty of handmade lace—with her very gentle and strong voice and such a kind look in her eyes. All this remains in my memory forever. I can see her—just as she was then—anytime I want to go back to that very magical time in my life. She will always be an unforgettable image in my mind. It will never change even if I live to be a hundred years old—those kinds of memories I can keep with me and use as comfort when I feel unhappy or lonesome.

That night, after we were all so happily bedded down, the last thing that we heard were the chimes from Grandfather’s clock (who knows how many chimes—perhaps twelve or less). None of us knew what Mother Nature was doing outside our windows. The big windows had shutters built from the inside, and they were shut to keep the cold from penetrating the house.

When we awakened the morning after Christmas, it was so incredibly quiet everywhere—we could hear no sounds from the outside. It was such an awesome feeling, and everyone was wondering what was happening. When the shutters were opened, there was nothing to see except the snow against the window panes all around the house. Petrovich was outside the kitchen and yelling loudly, telling us that he was working on moving the snow from the entrance. It seemed that he had dug himself out of his cottage. It was a long time before anyone knew what had happened.

All of this was very exciting for us, because we had never seen so much snow anywhere. The snowstorm had gone through our village and, with blizzardlike winds, had blown tons of snow—covering the two-story house up to the upstairs windows. Once Petrovich had uncovered the path to the door and freed the kitchen entrance, we were all allowed to dress and go help him shovel the snow away from the back of the house. No one cared how high or how much snow was up at the front of the house—we used the kitchen door for days afterward.

While we were busy shoveling snow, I saw something moving by the stable—it was a bushy red thing, and it disappeared behind the stable. Letting out a yell, I pointed in that direction; following the creature’s footprints, everyone ran behind the stable, and what was there? Crouched in a corner between the fence and the stable wall was a baby red fox. It was very small—no bigger than a little puppy or a large cat. It had somehow gotten separated from the mother fox and wandered into our backyard. We all wanted to pet it and hold it, but Petrovich told us not to touch it with our bare hands, because once a human touches a wild creature, its mother would reject it, and it would surely die from hunger. So he put the baby red fox into a sack, got on a horse, and took it back into the woods. We all stood there watching him ride off, waving good-bye to our unexpected guest.

We stayed outside even after dark (which was then about 4:00 p.m.). We had so much fun, and there was so much to do with the snow, which was by now quite sticky. We built igloos with long tunnels from end to end, and we crawled through them. It was warm inside the snow tunnels, and it was then that we learned why the Eskimos lived in snow igloos and survived the cold. It really was not that cold outside, since there was no wind, and with night coming on, a full moon was out. With everything being covered with snow, you could not tell whether there was a horizon—it just seemed to blend into the sky. What was amazing was the incredible quietness—both day and night. Occasionally one could hear a dog barking someplace, and at night the howling of a wolf came from the distant wooded area.

Of course, there was plenty of noise from the voices of us children playing outside. One could smell the smoke from chimneys, which blended with the smell of frost and snow—it was a combination of smells one could never forget. It seemed that the entire time we were at Grandmother’s house (twelve days), the weather remained unchanged—there was not much sun to see with, but at night the moon was always shining. After the big snowstorm on Christmas Day, no more snow was falling, but it looked as though there was enough snow to stay for months, and I am sure that it was cold enough to keep the snow there for a long time to come.

However, it was time for Mama, Anatoly, and me to head back home, and suddenly I really missed Papa and was ready to go back home to him.

These two weeks of my life made an impression on me that will last until I die. Almost every year as Christmas approaches, I can spend hours and hours remembering those glorious times. It is almost as though I am going back in time to relive it all over again, sensing all of it as it was then—the beauty, smells, love, tenderness, fun, and touches of loved ones, especially my dear Babushka. Thank God for letting me have that very special Christmas, one that will stay with me forever!

WINTER’S DAY

It was a magnificent December day,

With the frost-covered trees

Sparkling in the bright sun.

The sled runners squeaked

Over the frozen snow, as Papa

Was pulling the sled. I lay there

Staring into the bright blue sky.

What was going through my little head

At that time? I can’t remember but

I was absolutely in peace,

Very happy and secure!

16: Reflections on Childhood

Editors’ Note:
As an aging woman, Nonna sat up in the attic, pen in hand, remembering and recording on yellow legal pads her memories of a beautiful childhood. Here she stops the history of her childhood and just reflects on the sights and smells of those magical years when she knew such happiness, peace, and security—recollections that stand again in contrast to general accounts of suffering under Stalin at this time. Possibly in retrospect, any suffering allowed to penetrate the genuine comforts afforded by her family’s wealth paled in comparison to her war experiences later.

Childhood! Why are these impressions so fresh, so vivid? I am now over fifty, nearing sixty years old, living in a foreign country far from all that is native to me, yet I clearly see them, feel them, sense their fragrance—and not only figuratively, but literally. The five senses play a primary role in the life of a child, and after sight, the sense of smell is, of course, predominant. If I want to be transported to the past, nothing makes me experience it more vividly than recalling a particular scent—for instance, the smell of French lilacs under my window at Grandmother’s Great House, or perhaps that famous plum pudding that Grandmother prepared so carefully and served at Christmas time. Rum was poured over it and lit, and it was brought flaming to the table.

Somehow, memories are mostly associated with the smell of favorite foods from childhood days—such as cherry turnovers, called
pyroshki.
They were prepared and fried in the kitchen. My mother prepared them by the same recipe as my grandmother’s, and the aroma would fill the whole house as they were fried. The fresh flowers—which were planted all around the house—and the blooming trees (cherry, apple, pear, peach, etc.) from Grandmother’s orchard also gave out remembered scents.

I spent much of my time in the fruit orchard reading and doing my homework. Those are the times that will always strongly remain in my memories. I also read books that were more of a curiosity to me than the schoolbooks or library books. I would go through my father’s library and sneak some of his books out. These books made little sense to me, at the age of eight to ten years old.

“IN THE FRUIT ORCHARD” . . . “THROUGH MY FATHER’S LIBRARY” •
Nonna is remembering times at the Great House other than her first visit at Christmastime. Probably the memory of her father’s library in conjunction with Grandmother’s orchard is linked to the time when Yevgeny and Anna moved in with Feodosija, later on.

My aunt Xenja allowed me to borrow some of her books also. Her books were romances of kings, princes, princesses. I would simply devour them, and I would have many sweet daydreams. It seems funny to me now, though, because they were so innocently written. Nevertheless, I really enjoyed reading them, especially since some of them were sort of forbidden material for a young girl of my age. They seem like innocent books when you compare them with the junk that the kids today read. I would enjoy those books. They were something to be compared to the Harlequin Romances of today’s times.

To me, my childhood was very exciting, as I look back over the past fifty-plus years!

17: Back to Reality

1933

As we boarded the train to go back to Rostov, I was excited that we would soon be back with Papa, but I felt sadness that we were leaving Babushka. Now that I am older, I realize that she had really worked hard to give her children and grandchildren a Christmastime that none of us would ever forget. Grandmother had been through so many changes, and surely she knew that more changes were on the way.

When we arrived home, Papa was so happy to see us, and of course, I had many stories to tell him about what had happened at Grandmother’s house during our visit. Life settled back into a routine, with Anatoly and me going back to school and Mama and Papa busy with their schedules. Mama was very busy with her social life and was giving a lot of concerts playing the piano and the violin. Papa was still working at the machinery factory, where he had many new friends. Mama and Papa also had new friends at the University of Rostov, and we made many trips to Nachichevan where the university was located. We went by streetcar—it would take us about forty minutes for the journey from our home. Papa had some extra jobs repairing some of the university’s medical and laboratory instruments, so he made many trips to the university.

BITS AND PIECES •
Nonna wrote snippets about this time in an early diary. Here is one entry: “Today we spent a lot of time in the park—it was a lot of fun—just Mama and me. We will be going to the university in Rostov (Nachichevan) to see Mama’s friends. Hope we can stay at Mrs. Solzhenitsyna’s house for a night. It was a lot of fun the last time we were there. Why do they live next to the cathedral? I always see the Pope (priest) coming out of the side doors.”

Mama had made friends with another very talented musician by the name of Mrs. Solzhenitsyna. I believe that we became acquainted with Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn during one of our visits to her home; he was with the chemistry department at the university. I always enjoyed visiting Mrs. Solzhenitsyna’s home. I remember her son, Sasha Solzhenitsyn, with his funny-looking white coat, coming home for lunch. His ears were big and he never talked much, but I thought it was funny the way he would gulp down his cookies, and he would drink his milk fast. I liked the “Napoleon cake” that her cook made—it was the best!

SOLZHENITSYN FAMILY •
Taissia Solzhenitsyna’s husband, Isaakiy Solzhenitsyn, had been a Cossack for Tsar Nicholas II at the same time as Anna’s father, Yakov, had. Isaakiy died in a hunting accident in 1918, six months before his son, Aleksandr (Sasha), was born.