A Letter from the Past

I don’t like to store any unnecessary papers--like 20-year-old postcards, paid bills, manuals for toasters, etc. But I keep several things that are really important, and maybe even sacred, to me. One of them is my father’s letter--the only one that has survived from the past, after our family’s many moves from one place to another.

In the late 70s, we found the letter in a pile of old junk when we were cleaning our attic. The paper it is written on is old, crumpled and yellow; part of the letter is lost. The handwriting is very clear, and the grammar is perfect. My dad wrote this letter to his parents, my grandparents, informing them about my birth and other family news. He writes, “The child is beautiful, but she doesn’t sleep well. It is almost midnight now, but we can’t calm her down.” And later, “Valia and I decided to name her Nadia, even though the girls wanted to give her a different name.” He sounds a little bit tired and overwhelmed. As fate had it, I didn’t get to know my father, personally. All I know about him I learned over many years from many second-hand sources.

My parents met in Moscow at the end of 1953. They got married soon afterwards, in a very simple civil procedure. The country was still in ruins after World War II, there were shortages of housing and food, and life was very hard. For a short while, my parents lived in a dormitory, sharing one room with a few others. My mom told me, that they occupied a corner of the room, separated from their roommates by a curtain divider, where they had a simple metal-frame bed and a couple of plywood suitcases with all their belongings. My father was just out of the army,
and my mom worked in construction. They earned very little money, didn’t have much education, and had few prospects in Moscow. They were just like millions of ordinary Russians at that time. So when the Soviet government announced a new large-scale project “Tselina” (Development of Virgin Lands) and asked for volunteers to move to North Kazakhstan, promising them a new better life in exchange for their hard work, my parents, along with thousands of others, jumped on it.

When they arrived at their destination they found nothing but vast steppes and harsh weather. The first year, my parents lived in a cold cattle car. In the winter, my dad would find his mustache frozen in the morning. Every day was filled with hard work. The main purpose of their small community was to produce grain, but their first task was just to survive. Some people died during the first winter, many left, but those who remained just kept working. Most of them, like my parents, were young, hardy, and believed in themselves and their happy future.

My father was an irreplaceable worker: a blacksmith and a handyman, who could work and fix any agricultural machinery. Alex, my dad’s old friend, said: “People loved Ilia because of his easy-going personality, sense of humor, and willingness to help others. They nicknamed him batya (wise father in Russian) despite his young age.” My dad also enjoyed reading, watching movies and playing guitar. He was a good husband and father. My mom and two my older sisters loved him dearly.

He was 35 when I was born, and a year later he passed away. At that time I was too little to understand what happened. Growing up without knowing my father, without any memories of him, I didn’t even know what it meant to have a father. But pretty soon I started noticing that all my friends had fathers who cared for them. I began to realize that I was missing something. Then I started asking my mom and sisters about our father--did we even have one? They explained to me that our dad died from cancer, but at that age I just couldn’t comprehend it. So I just began to collect any information I could find about my dad. I liked to hear all those stories from the past. My sisters recalled that dad really enjoyed playing with them, reading books for them and tickling them until they burst in laughter. I explored our family albums and analyzed everything – appearances, poses, smiles, clothes and hairstyles. Basically, I tried to create my father’s image in my mind.

Many years later, when we found a piece of his letter, my first thought was that it was just like my dad’s life: short and unfinished. Then I thought my job was now complete: the last piece of the puzzle was found. There were only a few legible sentences in the letter, but they made an incredible impact on me. It was like talking with my dad, seeing his kind smile, and hearing his calm and soft voice.

Since then I’ve always kept my dad in my heart. When I feel like I’ve achieved something, I wonder if he would be proud of me. I tell him how my life is going, I ask him for advice in difficult situations, and somehow he always helps me.