My mother's stories (chapter seven)

My mother's stories 
chapter seven
My mother's struggle for freedom

         The mass loss of cattle at the beginning of collectivization was not completely in vain. Communist leaders thought better of it and peasants were allowed to have some livestock of their own. According to my mother, they could have a cow, a pig, some poultry and goats in one yard. And that milk in the kettle, that she used to carry to the reception center, was a tax upon a cow that their family had to pay to the state. My mother remembered their cow clearly: it was black and white and aggressive with long sharp horns. No wonder she was afraid of it. It was not very productive, but, of course, they got much more milk than those three liters in the kettle. Her mother, however, preferred to sell it.

         “Of course, she drank a lot of milk in her childhood,”  my mother always finished her story about her longing for milk in quiet rage, “And money she usually lent to someone or spent on clothes. But she never got her money back and the clothes were mostly black. Nobody wanted them except her!”

       Hatred – that was the main feeling my mother had for her mother. Was it really mutual? My mother always believed it was. Their neighbours scarcely had any doubts about it, watching how fiercely her mother punished her for any fault she could find. And their children liked to have some fun telling her mother, when she was coming from the field-work, tired and sulky, how they had seen her elder daughter beat her little one. After that they had a real entertainment, watching the process of punishment over their fences. When my mother’s younger sister Zina grew slightly older, she always rushed forward to protect her sister, shouting that it was not true – it was their neighbours’ slander. She waved her arm, pointing that their neighbours were just laughing at their mother, not even hiding out of sight and calling her “thick-headed goose”.

       So that was how everything was going on in my mother’s childhood. Actually, I was growing up listening to my mother’s stories about her childhood and youth. How often I heard in response to my complaints that it was nothing in comparison with what she had when she was a child. My mother was right, of course, but somehow it didn’t make my tribulations less painful or more bearable. Nevertheless, in spite of all those pictures of poverty, starvation, people’s envy and malevolence, that usually prevailed over their kindness and helpfulness, her stories left me with a feeling of an extremely interesting and exciting life. I think it was her passion and inspiration as she was telling her stories that did it.

         How much bitterness there was in her voice when she used to tell about her sister playing with her ball while she was working hard. Surely their mother was so fond of Zina because she was black-haired, rosy-cheeked and had a good appetite! And, of course, everybody thought her younger sister was sweet because she was lisping something funny till the age of five. And what a surprise it was when one day a 5-year-old Zina came running into the kitchen-garden, where my mother was working, and shouted that their mother called her to join them at the dinner-table. “Why!” exclaimed my mother in shock. “You can speak properly”. And her sister confessed that she was making up her baby-talk so long because everybody was laughing and loved her for that. “But I won’t do it any more!” finished Zina eagerly. “I am going to be like you”.

         It was, I think, the beginning of their friendship. Yet, my mother has never appreciated her sister’s devotion in full measure. She could never forget and forgive that Zina was their mother’s favourite. She was always too small to work and had never been beaten. Except once when during an argument Zina recklessly called their mother a slut and provoked her fit of fury. An ax that their mother threw, as she was chasing Zina across the yard, missed her favourite daughter’s head by inches. “And imagine,” my mother used to finish this story with a note of admiration in her voice, “we had to call a man to pull that ax out of the fence pole”.

         Her voice trembled with vindictive joy when she told me another story – how she made her mother stop beating her at last. She was twelve or thirteen at that time and one or two centimeters higher than her. So no wonder she managed to look steadily into her mother’s eyes and warn her she was going to fight back. “Can you believe it?” my mother usually finished this episode in triumph. “Her fist came to a halt just in front of my eye and she never touched a hair on my head since then!”

         She was rather sarcastic when she told me how their neighbours and relatives disapproved of her blond hair, calling her “White”. She used to mimic eagerly their loud whispers telling me how they pestered her mother with questions about her appearance. How could it be that her blond daughter had black brows and eyelashes? Why has she allowed her to dye them? My mother was, actually, chuckling with pleasure, describing vividly how her mother lost her temper at last, rushed upon her with a white wet cloth and began to rub her brows vigorously - only to discover that it was their natural colour.

       To be continued… 

(c) Anna Shevchenko

1. Festive demonstrations
2. A merry-go-round
3. The settlement in the steppe
4. The settlement in the steppe (the ending)
5. Urban life and its advantages
6. Collectivization and electrification of all the country
7. Roaming through the village and a man with two horses