[Although I’ve been out of commission for a while with an obscure form of misery caused by a dermatological virus of unknown origin, I seem to be, slowly, coming back to life. Not quite there, though. So if you’ll please bear with me a bit longer, here’s a piece from the end of last year, to keep you going until I can organize some of the new thoughts for posts that came in the night when scratching triumphed over sleep. Finding it helped remind self-referential me that my temporary distresses have been comparatively minor.]
[Re-blogged from December 29, 2013]
Until I was fourteen, I didn’t think I had any cousin at all. I knew my mother’s brother back in Russia had had a little boy six months younger than I was. [My mother always called it Russia; actually by then it was, and had been for a long time, the Soviet Union.] But when she talked about her family, which was rarely, she always said her brother “had had” a little boy. She never just said, “had.”
That’s because in 1937, her brother had been arrested during the Kirov Purges and was eventually sent away to Siberia. His wife went with him, at first leaving their son in Baku with his grandmother. [She was also my grandmother, although I had never seen her. We didn’t even have a picture.] Then the grandmother died, and his mother returned to take the little boy away with her to Siberia.
There was never another word from my father’s family about either my mother’s brother, his wife, or their child. In many ways a hard-nosed realist, my mother considered this silence to be the end of her family. For all practical purposes she was right; we never heard anything about any one of them again.
My father spoke even less than my mother about the past. All I knew was that his father had died by the time I was five, and that he had two older sisters back in Baku, both of whom were married. Their names were Berta and Bronia. Berta kept house and was fat; Bronia was a dentist and was not fat. His mother lived with Bronia and her husband. Perhaps my father was too busy trying to keep the three of us afloat in what was for him and my mother an entirely new world. Perhaps he had no time to dwell aloud on the past, or on the hardships of Soviet life for his sisters. In any event, even before my maternal grandmother died, correspondence with the Soviet Union ceased. No more letters arrived. Letters mailed to Baku were returned by the Soviet censor.
But after World War II, the foreign-looking envelopes of thin blue paper began again to appear, and provided news of what had happened in the interim. I was given to understand that the letters inside were written very cautiously. And they were all in Russian, of course, which meant that even if I sneaked into my father’s desk when he was away at work, I would be unable to read them for myself. But there were photographs in the letters, which my father took out of the envelopes so that my mother could put them in an album.
And that’s how I discovered the existence of Yulia. (Julia in English.) She was the only youngish person in a family photograph taken just after the war. The other people in the photo were middle-aged Berta, middle-aged Bronia and the two middle-aged men who were their husbands. There was a separate photo of my father’s mother, a formidably stern-looking old woman with nothing “grandmotherly” about her in the picture.
Yulia was twenty-nine at the time of the group photograph. [I later learned she had been born in 1916.] She was Berta’s only child, explained my mother. [Bronia was childless.] Unlike the sisters and one of the husbands, Yulia had small eyes. She looked like the other husband, who must have been her father.
“Why haven’t I heard about this Yulia before?” I demanded loudly. A real living cousin! (I forgave the small eyes.) After all, she must have been already out of her teens at the time of those Purges, soon after which the letters had stopped. In fact, she must have been already born and a young child when my parents made their escape to America. Now that I thought about it, I realized how remarkably secretive my parents were about almost everything in their lives that didn’t have to do with what we were going to have for dinner or the necessity of being careful with money. You had to dig for information, and even then you might not get much.
For instance, it was only when I bombarded my father with questions about the Yulia in the photograph that he mentioned Yulia had married someone named Volodya (Vladimir) Kalinin in 1940. She had also recently finished her schooling and was now licensed to practice medicine as a pediatrician. However, she and her husband still lived with her mother and father in a single room of the now crumbling apartment in which my father and his sisters had grown up before the revolution. [The rest of the apartment was occupied by another family, with whom they didn’t get along.]
“And that’s life in the Soviet Union!” my father exclaimed, with what sounded like bitter satisfaction. Was he somehow blaming his sisters for not having been able to get out when he did?
“But it’s great Yulia was able to become a doctor,” I said.
“I’ve got news for you,” said my father. ”A doctor is nothing there. Especially a children’s doctor. To be a somebody you need to be a big macher in the Party. Yulia can now earn a modest living. If you call that living.”
The letters kept coming, which did not please my mother. She didn’t like anyone in my father’s family because his parents had not been happy in 1925 when my father wrote he was marrying her. From their single room on the third floor of Ulitza Basina 35 (formerly Balachanskaya 35) in Baku, they apparently wrote back that she wasn’t good enough for him. Or not cultured enough. (Ni kulturnaya would have been the kiss of death.) Or maybe it was that her mother had been her father’s second wife. (Did that make her second-rate or something?) I cannot identify the basis for their objections because after my father died, my mother made sure this letter went into the garbage. I had only her word for what was in it. Fortunately (for my mother and later me), the no-longer-extant letter from Baku arrived in New York City too late. My parents had already gone to City Hall.
My interest in cousin Yulia was fleeting. Perhaps I had discovered her existence too late. Before you could count one, two, three (years) — I had left home for college, where I stopped concerning myself with anything going on in Baku. Yulia didn’t know English, I didn’t know Russian. What was the point of getting all worked up about a relative fifteen years older, with whom I – the Great Communicator — would be entirely unable to communicate? Boys – or by default, male faculty — were more interesting.
Nonetheless, over the ensuing decades, I would hear little bits of information from the letters whenever I came home and — after my parents moved to the West Coast and I married — whenever I would visit:
– Yulia and Volodya never had children.
– My father’s mother, who had been doing the letter writing since 1945, died in 1949, when she was 78 or 79. She had been ill and bed-ridden for some time. Bronia then took over the correspondence.
– Berta’s husband left her for a younger woman. Bronia’s husband died young, in his early fifties. She found a second husband, a former dental patient. It didn’t work out, for undisclosed reasons. Then she found a third. (Must have been a hot ticket, that Bronia.) The third husband died too, of stomach cancer.
– Berta died in July 1974, after two months of illness at home. She had been diabetic and hypertensive. She was 82. The funeral took place on my 43rd birthday. (Although I didn’t know it at the time.)
– Bronia died a year later in July 1975, after a severe heart attack. She was 81. Her funeral was a day before my 44th birthday. (I didn’t know that at the time, either.)
– On the death of her mother, Yulia and Volodya moved in with Bronia, and after Bronia passed away they stayed on in her apartment. It was in a building that had been built in 1935 and was considered ”luxurious.” It had a bath, telephone, and gas!
– Of all the family, now only my father and Yulia were left. He was 73; she was 59. She had not seen him since she was six. But she continued the correspondence.
After my father died in 1986, I persuaded my mother to give me his carefully saved letters from Baku. She was planning to throw them out. (She had already weeded out the offending 1925 letter, and perhaps others.) Although for six years I couldn’t read what I had brought back to Boston with me, in 1992 I managed to have the letters translated by a somewhat bi-lingual lady in St. Petersburg. (Another story. For another time.)
Here is Yulia in 1975 (in translation, and very much abridged), just after Bronia died:
Dear aunt Musinka and uncle Menichka! I couldn’t even write you because I was nearly killed by my sorrow — July 20, 1975, 12:30 p.m.,my second mom, dear Bronichka, died. Volodya, as usual when something happens, was away in Leningrad…to visit 90 year old mother who is living with brother and daughter-in-law. I was staying with Bronichka this time. It was very hot — 45 degrees. She was standing all this heroically….I went to my job, everything was all right. When Bronia sat for a breakfast she felt a pain in her heart and she could not breathe… [She describes the dying, the doctors, the injections. Then she continues.]
They made an artificial breathing, an injection in heart — but she was sleeping. Beautiful, with copper hair, clean, clever, kind…She was my friend, husband, mother, everything…. The emptiness is incredible….
Now I shall write you, I have no other relatives except you. Best regards to Ninochka and her family. Kiss you, love you. Yours, Yulia. We buried her in our place: there are grandmother, mom, Bronichka and her husband. But there are no more places left; they didn’t think about me.
She went on corresponding faithfully for another ten and a half years. Two-thirds of the letters remaining in my father’s collection were from her. Always ending: “Kiss you, love you. Yours, Yulia.”
 Are you all right? Let me hear from you, don’t forget me. You and Musinka [my mother] are my only relatives….Nothing has changed, only the sorrow is so heavy. She [Bronia] was an outstanding person. She was clever, she knew life, could understand a human soul and could appreciate everything. Such a sorrow for us! They say that time is a doctor, it is not true. It smooths a little bit but the wound still exists. She was a big friend of mine in life. I have never had and never would have such a friend…I am so lonely…. Kiss you, love you. Yours, Yulia.
My father was kind, and wrote back. He sent money, and little gifts. My mother was exasperated. ”So sticky, so sweet.” I don’t think she actually said, “Feh!” but her voice said it for her.
 Let me hear from you, my only and dear one, just a little bit. Take care of yourself, don’t get sick. Kiss you, love you. Don’t forget me!
 Today is Bertochka’s birthday. In the morning Volodya and I went to the cemetery and put flowers on the graves of grand mom, Bronichka and mom. I am in bad spirits. I came back and decided to talk to you, my dear friend, by letter. I read all of your letters from the recent time and I felt better. Your letters are as a medicine for me, they calm me down. Your letters [in Russian] are so grammatical, not a single mistake! You are so clever and kind. You are a wonderful couple, you and aunt Musinka. Kiss you once more. Loving you so much, Yulia. I have no one except you…
 My dear, you smile when I advise you something. [About his health. Which was now bad.] Of course you remember me to be very little. I remember many funny things when we lived with you in grandmom’s and grandfather’s house. Now everything is over. Nothing but the memory remains… Kiss you, love you, Yulia
Before my father’s death in January 1986, he left an envelope addressed to Yulia in which my mother should put a letter telling her that he had died. She took her time doing it. (I can’t blame her for that.) Yulia answered:
Dear Aunt Musinka! I received your letter in the envelope with poor uncle Menichka’s hand! I am in despair: such a wonderful, talented man has died…I have no words to console you…It is awfully hard to be alone. I am crying with you, kiss you, love you. Was he conscious when he died? What date? If you can, please, describe me his last hours. I know, it is very difficult, if it is not too much trouble for you. How are you staying alone — it is so terrible to sleep and stay alone. Maybe, you would better move to Ninochka. I shall continue to correspond with you with pleasure. Give me your address if you change it. You have a beautiful hand, not a single mistake. I would never say that you have not been writing [Russian] for 65 years….Let me hear from you….Lovingly, Yulia.
My mother never answered this letter. She could not forget the letter of 1925. [Written when Yulia was nine.] I used to remonstrate with her. But I got nowhere: ”What do I need her for? What is she to me? They never liked me!”
Six months later, Yulia wrote once more:
My dear aunt Musinka! I did not get an answer to my letter. Maybe you left for Ninochka and did not receive it. Still I cannot believe in dear Menichka’s death. …Happy New Year. I wish the coming year to be better than 1986. It was so sad. Kiss you, my dear. Let me hear from you and I shall answer you immediately. I wish you health and happiness. I’ll write you in detail when I learn where are you now. Best regards from Volodya. Lovingly, Yulia.
My mother stayed in California until she died near the end of 1993. However, this was the last letter from Yulia. She may have been emotional and lonely, but she had her pride.
Perhaps I should have taken on Yulia myself, although we had not ever been in touch. I had the address: Baku-370010, Az.S.S.R., Ulitza Solntzeva 24, block 12, Apt. 116. But during his lifetime, my father hadn’t wanted me to. He had the idea that if I contacted her, the Soviets would come after me and force me to spy for them — or else! Or else what? They would kill Yulia? And what would I spy on? The inner workings of Public School 166 Manhattan?
But after he died? I tell myself — now — that the mid-80′s were a bad time for me. Besides, I still couldn’t write Russian. And what was the likelihood that anyone who lived at Ulitza Solntzeva 24 could read English? Yulia was my mother’s job!
That doesn’t really cut it. Although Yulia almost certainly is no more, I feel I must do something. Even if it’s too late.
Because maybe, just maybe, it isn’t too late. If Yulia’s still alive, she’s 97. Are there nursing homes in Azerbaijan? Is she still in Apartment 116, with someone from the state taking care of her?
If you’re out there somewhere, Yulichka — your first cousin Ninochka wants you to know you still have a relative, who is so sorry we never met. And who loves you. And kisses you. And wishes you a very happy New Year.