The Secret Holocaust Diaries: The Untold Story of Nonna Bannister (7 page)

We were fortunate enough to have a
nanja
(nanny) to look after Anatoly and me. I can remember that she had long black hair and that she looked very tall to me. I really didn’t like her because she would try to coax me to eat Cream of Wheat, which I didn’t want. I would turn my head away as she was trying to force a spoonful into my mouth, and I would spit the Cream of Wheat out. This would make the nanny very mad, and she would try even harder to force me to eat.

“CREAM OF WHEAT” •
Developed in 1893 at a mill in North Dakota, Cream of Wheat might have been on young Nonna’s table. But it is also possible that in transcribing her diaries as an older woman and a naturalized American citizen, Nonna could have used an American brand name to describe a similar local product.

Mama had a Singer sewing machine that you would pedal when you sewed, and this machine held a fascination for me. I would sneak over to the machine every time I would get a chance and pedal the thing with my small hands.

There was a birthday party for Anatoly, and the parlor (living room) was filled with children. They were laughing and running around the table where there was a big cake with three candles on it. Anatoly was fussing with a large toy that looked like a train. I also remember our rocking horse—it was covered with brown fur (or horsehide), and it stood just a few feet away from Mama’s grand piano. These memories are so vivid to me that it seems that these things happened only a short time ago.

A COMFORTABLE LIFE •
Nonna mentions her mother’s grand piano, Anatoly’s birthday party with cake and toys, and the hired nanny—as well as silver skates (later) and a music teacher. She wrote in her childhood diary: “I like my music teacher, Mlle. Jarowski. However, she is strict. She makes me stay at the piano (sometimes two hours) until I play
Tales of Hoffmann
perfectly. I’d rather skip this one and play #6 from the book, ‘Barcarolla.’”

These, along with Anna’s freedom to pursue creative outlets, were luxuries under the Stalinist system.

Papa was busy with his work and hobbies, but he also had many people visiting him (quite a few foreigners). He would take them into the library, where there were shelves against two walls; the shelves were loaded with books all the way to the tall ceiling. Papa would sit and talk to these visitors in a quiet voice—no one knew what they were talking about.

PAPA’S VISITORS •
Foreign visitors serve as another indication of the good position Yevgeny held. Nonna remembered one “friend” in particular and wrote this about him in her childhood diary: “Papa’s friend came today. I really like him. He tells funny stories in German and Polish. He makes me laugh by making ‘frog’ faces. I like to play chess with him. I always win. Maybe he lets me win? I think he does!”

In the corner of the library, there was a small room, latched at all times by a small hook. It was a small darkroom where Papa spent a lot of time developing negatives. The room had a small, red light that provided light for Papa to see. This room was “off limits” for my brother and me, but being curious, I opened the door one day while Papa was working. He became angry, and called for Mama to “come get this child.” I saw a negative, which was on glass. When I reached to touch it, I cut my finger and got some of the fluid into the cut. I started to cry because it hurt and also because I was bleeding. I never opened that door again.

Mama was busy with her music and art, and she was quite active in the theater. Mama and Papa went out a lot at night, leaving Anatoly and me with the nanny. I have often wondered where they would go—to the theater perhaps. Times were hard and things continued to change as the world slipped into the Great Depression. However, my family was comfortable and so full of closeness and love, and I was at a young age where everything was so new and exciting to me. I knew that I was happy.

NONNA’S MEMORIES •
Throughout the war years, tucked into the secret pocket of the black-and-white-striped ticking pillow, Nonna saved photographs of her mother, Anna. Some showed a newly married Anna performing on the local theater stage, dressed in elaborate costumes. The smile on Anna’s face revealed her love for acting, singing, dancing, and theater.

Papa also “got into the act.” Some of Nonna’s treasured photographs showed Papa clowning in funny wigs and silly costumes and brought out a joyful, playful side of Papa. Despite Russia’s turmoil, Anna, Nonna, Papa, and Anatoly were able to deeply enjoy life and each other in those early years together.

7: Move to Rostov-on-Don

Editors’ Note:
Amid governmental turmoil, neighbors disappearing for no known reason, and the pain and suffering of friends and family, Nonna’s world began to change drastically over the next few years.

Three years before her birth, on January 21, 1924, Vladimir Ilyich Lenin died. Joseph Stalin, the “Man of Steel,” succeeded Lenin as leader of Russia, eventually expelling rival Leon Trotsky from Russia. Stalin began a brutal and murderous regime, ruling Russia with an iron fist by eliminating and executing his enemies, enforcing harsh new laws, and bringing cruel hardships on his people.

By contrast, Nonna’s family seems to have been spared much of their fellow countrymen’s suffering—including persecution of former Ukrainian elites, such as Nonna’s grandfather, a Cossack guard, had been.

It must have been in early fall of 1929 when Papa accepted a job as an interpreter with the largest and newest machinery factory in the city of Rostov-on-Don. We were moving into a very large apartment near the factory, and the factory was furnishing the apartment at no cost to us. I suppose that it was a part of his compensation package. The apartment was located near the housing that was provided for foreign visitors and was very close to the large park called Rostov’s Theatrical Park. That is the place in Rostov that has stayed in my memories so vividly throughout my lifetime—it was a park in which Mama and I spent a lot of time together. I remember so well when we moved from Taganrog to Rostov-on-Don—I guess that I was two or two and a half years old. We rode the train from Taganrog to Rostov-on-Don, and after getting off the train, we rode on a streetcar to the place in which we would live for the next few years.

It was a large apartment complex with three buildings positioned so that it would look like a circle of houses with a large yard inside the circle. There in the yard were many flower beds with a fountain in the middle. On the opposite side of the apartment buildings (to complete the circle), was another large building, which was a police station (militia station). I am sure that it was a police station because there were many uniformed policemen at all times, and they had a fenced-in area with police dogs inside. Around the apartments, there was a tall wooden fence with three large gates (one between each of the buildings), and I remember that many times they would open those gates to let trucks drive up to our section and dump coal and wood down the chute under our kitchen window—it was the way down to the cellar. Each apartment dweller or family had their own cellar, and their section was a two-story one (something like America’s townhouses). Our apartment was on the end of the building, and therefore it was the largest one.

We also had a private balcony—the rest of the apartments were smaller, and two families had to share the balconies and patios. I guess this was because Papa had a good job at the factory and many foreigners visited us regularly. On the back of our section, there was a hall-walkway (past the stairs to the basement, which led to the back door and out into the small backyard). It was fenced in and looked like a small garden with some trees and flowers. The upstairs bedrooms and the downstairs living room faced the backyard, and the bathroom, kitchen, and foyer faced the front entrance. We children spent most of our time playing in the backyard, but occasionally we would play with the rest of the children in the main square of the apartments.

There was also a small room with a large window; Mama called it her art pavilion. It was a place where Mama did her painting and sketching—there was an easel with brushes and oil paints, and there was always a framed canvas in the process of becoming one of Mama’s paintings.

She also spent a lot of time at her piano or with her violin. There was also a bandstand, and during the Russian holidays, there was a band playing music. On the weekends (Saturday and Sunday), all the people from all the apartments were rounded up to work around the flower beds and do whatever else needed to be done to maintain the apartments. This was called “friendly labor,” mainly to have something to occupy the people on Saturdays and Sundays—especially since the churches were closed down and people were discouraged from worshiping gods of any religion (Jews or Christian).

Most of the visitors to this extraordinary factory were from Germany, France, Spain, Sweden, and Norway—but there were some from America, England, and the rest of the European countries. The Russians were proud of their new factory, which produced heavy equipment and farm machinery, and they kept it open to any visitors from the West. Because Papa spoke several languages, he was very hopeful that he could still work out plans to get his family out of Russia. We had many foreign visitors come to our apartment and visit with Mama and Papa. They went out in the evenings, and sometimes they would take us along when they attended concerts or plays, but most of the time, we stayed home with our new nanja.

Her name was Varvara (Barbara), and I didn’t like her very much since she was always wanting me to sit on her lap or rocking me to sleep. I just hated the way she smelled—she used too much powder and she perspired a lot, and I never liked for her to hold me close—but who could complain? We were lucky that we could hire help, since it was against the law to hire domestic help of any kind.

8: A Day in the Park

Editors’ Note:
In 1932, when Nonna was five years old, she wrote “A Day in the Park” with her mother. While she wrote most of her transcripts in the past tense, she translates this experience in the present tense. Since Nonna learned to read and write at a young age, and her father began her language studies early, it is possible that she wrote this event in her diary soon after the event. This snapshot of their life also showed the close relationship between mother and daughter.

Mama and I are walking and walking—but I skip at times. I am happy—so happy. It is 10:00 or 10:30 a.m., and it is springtime. The sun is bright and its warmth feels so good on my face and shoulders! Mama is humming a song quietly—something she does all the time. We are almost there. The park can be seen from the short distance. There are not many people on the streets this morning, but the nearly empty streetcars pass us by. Finally, I see the huge gates leading into the park. We walk through the gates on the wide sidewalk, and there are flowers (so bright with colors), and it smells wonderful!

My little feet are tired, and I ask Mama if we could sit for a while on one of the park benches, and Mama agrees because she is tired too. We sit on a bench, while on the ground there is a procession of ants moving very fast. I am so fascinated by the way they all march, carrying little bits of insects or whatever food they could find. Mama is explaining to me that the ants must be having a wedding.

“See these two larger ones at the front of the procession? They must be the bride and groom,” Mama says.

We sit there watching the ants, and it feels good to rest our feet. Then we start to walk again and are soon in the middle of the park. There are some children with their mothers, swinging on the swings. I want to swing, and Mama thinks it is a good idea so we swing for a while.