My grandmother Ira (the short form of her
name) is 85 years old and she lives in Russia.
She was
a doctor for 55 years and now, for some time, my grandmother is writing
memories
about her life. The young life in the small
Soviet village, Second World War, post war time,
years in the Soviet Union and the life in our
city now.
My
grandmother only speaks Russian and for her I translate her memoirs in English.
I love you Mama Ira!
The
memoirs are written from my grandmother’s name.
I was 13 years old when the war started. My
brother Sasha (Aleksandr) was 17.
It
was June 22, 1941.
The day was very sunny, me and my
girlfriends went to the river in the morning, we were laughing, talking and
making some small plans about what we will do after graduating from the school.
I think we all wanted to be teachers and doctors.
On June 18th was my birthday,
and it was school summer holidays, we did have to work in our collective farm,
because we were too young and the summer was all ours to enjoy.
We stayed on the river for almost entire
day and closer to the evening we went home. My parents and brother (who was on
summer holidays too) worked in the collective farm almost until the night and I
had time to prepare the dinner.
On the way home I noticed my father talking
to the neighbor, an old man. When I
walked by them, my father looked at me and told quietly: “Ira, the wars
started” and continue to talk the old man.
I did
not really understand what my father meant.
I went home, washed dishes, pilled potatoes
and cleaned up the room.
Then
I noticed from the window that people were running from house to house and some
women on the street were crying.
Our neighbor’s son, a twenty years old man,
walked out of the house with a bag and his mother was trying to stop him. She
was crying too: "No, no, no, my son, no! I don’t let you go". And she
would not stop trying to hug her son.
Very soon almost everyone from our village
was on the street.
