As the train stopped at smaller stations, some people would get off and others would board, quickly filling the vacant seats. And again, almost all the women were wearing black and gray babushkas, and the men wore long black rubber boots. Nobody smiled. Their faces revealed anxiety and gloom.
Rena and I finished our breakfast and looked out of the window. There was nothing to see but the monotonous landscape of burnt tree trunks and scorched earth. It looked like a huge grave for multitude of soldiers killed in the war. On rare occasion, when my eyes could catch sight of young green shoots stretched out to the sun, a feeling of joy would come over me. Seeing houses in ruins did not surprise me. I had witnessed the same ruins in Leningrad . . .
I moved back to my seat when Mother returned to the compartment.
“Girls, take advantage of the daylight; you’ll not be able to read in the evening. Please, take your books. We’ll have our supper when the conductor prepares the tea for the second time, in the evening. Listen to me; our trip will take a few days, and you should adjust to the arrangement in the train. Simona, where’s your Dostoyevsky?” I took the book thinking about the evening tea, a Russian prerevolutionary tradition. I loved the tradition of serving tea in the train and understood now why Mother insisted on buying the tickets to a compartment car—it is hard to be without fluid for three days . . .
By the third night, we arrived at the last stop—Minsk, the capital of Belarus. In the dull light in the car, a hammering of complaints began while people formed a line and began to move forward. The line suddenly stopped in our compartment, and a tall man opened the window to look for his relatives. A draft of air brought the smell of burning coal from the locomotive’s engine into our stuffy compartment. But nothing could stop me. When the line began to move again, I stood on a seat and leaned out the window.
The railroad station had no electricity, and the only source of light guiding us was a full moon covered with traveling clouds. Flashlights were blinking here and there amidst the dark gray moving mass of people. Against the background of the train whistles, anxious voices were yelling out names of relatives and friends as they were trying to find each other. Behind the darkness of the window, I couldn’t see my father. He knew the number of our car, and we were supposed to wait for him; but waiting was difficult.
My parents had always forbidden Rena and me to yell or speak loudly. Normally, I complied with the rules, but my yearning to see my father was so strong that it overcame discipline. With all the force of a good pair of lungs, I gave a yell, “Papa, Papa, we are here!” From afar I heard my father’s voice, “Simosha, don’t worry. Tell Mother to wait for me in the car.” The familiar voice calmed me down. We waited patiently in the car while a line of people passed us by.
It was no secret in our family that I’d been my father’s darling. Our mutual love for music had bonded us together. A very gifted and talented man, my father was a passionate musician, who never parted with his violin. The instrument had survived the Leningrad siege along with my father. In the city of palaces and monuments, while one million people starved to death, he began composing music. The violin had become his closest friend . . .
I knew all of father’s songs and quartets by heart. After the war, Father and I spent many evenings entertaining our family with concerts. I would sing the melodies my father had composed while he accompanied me on his violin. Those concerts had become the best times of our live . . .
When all the people got off the train, my father finally came on board. The three of us embraced and kissed him, but there was no time to talk. The conductor ordered us to vacate the car. Father quickly lifted two heavy suitcases, and we left the train.
In June, there were white nights on the Baltic shore of Leningrad. In the heart land of Minsk, the nights were black. In the darkness, we slowly followed Father to the dormitory designed for the faculty where he had a room, moving along a narrow path around a ruined building. Even with both of our parents nearby, I felt frightened. When the clouds moved and uncovered the full moon, the destroyed building stood like the shadow of a dying evil giant, terrifying me. Finally, we stopped at the door of a building that reminded me of a military barracks. Father put the suitcases down, pulled matches out of his pocket, and gave them to Mother. We entered a huge dark corridor and followed Father, while Mother struck matches to illuminate our way. The familiar smell of burnt coal suggested proximity to the railroad station.
Father led us to a big room with white plastered walls. The room had only one small window. Under a dim lightbulb on the ceiling, we could see a wood-burning cooking stove next to the door, then two narrow metal cots, and a mattress on the bare floor in the corner. In the center of the room was a table covered with a white sheet, and on it a pitcher with a bouquet of wild daisies. My father couldn’t meet his wife without flowers. Then Father told us that one bathroom shared by seven families living on the floor was situated at the end of the corridor.
Exhausted, we went to sleep, my sister and I on the two narrow metal cots, our parents on the mattress on the floor. This time, no dreams disturbed me—I slept like a log.
When I woke up, my father had already left, Rena still slept, and Mother was unpacking our luggage. In the open suitcase, I saw our big mirror among other things. I was glad to see it—my mother knew well her two girls.
“How did you sleep, Simona?” my mother asked, unpacking the biggest of our suitcases and not even lifting up her head.
“Very well. I am going to the bathroom. When I return, I’ll help you to hang our mirror. Do you know when Father will come back?” I asked.
“Yes, he’ll be back at two o’clock for lunch. The medical school is not far from here. By the way, Father won’t allow you to go out—”
“Why?”
“He’ll tell you.”
My parents loved each other dearly and expressed it affectionately. Besides many other warm words addressed to each other, my father always spoke to my mother with exceptional tenderness. She was a beautiful woman, and in her youth, some poets had actually dedicated poems to her. Her name was Vera, yet we have never heard that name at home, but only Verochka, a token of affection. My father’s name was David, but Mother affectionately called him Dodik.
At two o’clock, my father came with a big package wrapped in newspaper. He put it on the table. “Verochka, I brought a very tasty present for us all, from America!”
“Wow!” Mother exclaimed, while Father added proudly, “It’s a program called Lend-Lease, which provides food and clothes to the devastated areas of many countries including ours. Here you are.” He unwrapped and placed four cans of stewed pork from America on the table. He called them “tushonka.”
“That’s wonderful, Dodik, but I don’t know how to prepare it.”
“Don’t worry, comrades from the office explained everything to me. It’s very easy to prepare. You either eat it cold or just warm it up. I have more good news. I’ve received two coupons for our family to choose two items of clothing from LendLease. We can have shoes for Simosha and a dress for Renochka.”
“No, Dodik, Simona should get both the shoes and the dress. She’s a big girl and grown out of her dress. The shoes she’s wearing are tight. Where can we get the things?”
“I don’t know yet. The comrades from the office will tell me the address at the end of the week. And now, please, let’s go eat the American ‘tushonka,’ Verochka. I have to go back in an hour.”
How tasty the new meal was! My mother warmed it up in a pan, and we ate it with dry bread, which was dissolving in a plate of fat and juicy meat. The aroma of the tasty meat filled the air of our room. Nobody talked. For the first time, we were eating American food. I had heard a lot about America, our ally in World War II. Now, I could taste and smell America. Moreover, I was overwhelmed at the possibility of having an American dress and shoes. I anticipated with pleasure how I would wear them.