Unspoken Memories: A Russian Jewish Childhood Revisited

By  Ellen Usatin
Published by American Russian-Speaking Jews Alliance

The walk from home to daycare is probably less than a mile, but back then, it feels like an eternity. We walk mostly in silence, except for occasional stops at our beloved hidden places where he points out a lonely bird building a nest or the footsteps of an unknown animal imprinted on the white, crispy snow. Occasionally, he tells me a story from his childhood, about the long trips he would make to his school all by himself, rain or shine. He didn't have many friends and was frequently ridiculed by his classmates, who saw him as socially awkward or weird—too smart, too skinny, too fat, too stubborn, or just an outsider.

Born in Siberia, he traveled frequently with his family from one military base to another because my grandfather, his father, was a colonel in the army. My grandfather never advertised his Jewishness, but he didn’t hide it either, so my father was listed as a Jew in his birth certificate, giving his peers another reason to bully him. I once asked him how old he was when I was born, and he said, "I was the age of Jesus Christ," and laughed. I didn’t know what it meant, but I didn’t question it.

As much as I enjoy listening to his childhood stories—anything to distract me from the bitter cold and the long, unpleasant commute—I wait impatiently for spring to come and the snow to melt. Long before there is a hint of leaves on trees, we come across a few snowdrop flowers here and there. He points them out to me and reassures me that spring is on its way. There are  faint sounds of bugs and birds and other creatures slowly waking and talking to us, whispering in our ears. He teaches me to pay attention to these messages, to look for and hear them, and to avoid disturbing them.

With each passing day, we see more and more signs of revival. One day, we hear the magical, pure sound of water dripping beneath our feet, and he rejoices—our creek is alive. This creek is small and unpretentious, a hidden gem deep inside the park. I love stopping by and looking into its crystal-clear water to see my reflection. He teaches me to make faces into it, and we both laugh at the distortions. I cherish these moments of connection with nature and with him. I feel loved and protected.

And then years go by—decades, to be precise. My father and I no longer share morning routines, no longer live in the same town I grew up in  or even the same country. I have my own children to wake up and care for.

But one day, I decide, to return to my hometown and make it a priority to visit the park, to walk down memory lane and revisit our creek.

It's summertime, hot and humid, but I am determined to find it. It shouldn’t be difficult; I know exactly where to look and how to spot it. My heart races with anticipation as I walk through the park, eager to reconnect with an old, dear friend I haven't seen in years. The park is now lush and overgrown. I struggle to navigate the path, tangled with tall grass and spiky thorns of untamed weeds, but I am resolute.

Finally, I arrive at the spot, breathless and impatient. I look around desperately, searching for the creek but can't find it anywhere. There is no crystal-clear water or anything resembling a creek. All I see is an old, rusted pipe with drops of water dripping onto the ground..

I feel lost, bewildered, and disappointed. I’ve let go of so many things dear to me, but this is too much to bear. I feel as if I’ve lost a good friend. What was I thinking? That the creek would survive decades? That time stands still and nature remains unchanged? How naive and foolish of me. I am no longer 3 or 4 or 10 or 20 years old. How ridiculous.

Then, out of the blue, it dawns on me... What ...if? What if the creek was never there in the first place? What if my father invented it to keep me entertained? What if my imagination filled in the gaps to support the illusion? What if it was meant to be?

I feel a mixture of anger and gratitude. Is it possible to love someone so much that you create a whole world for them that doesn’t exist? How? Am I capable of such love? Will anyone ever love me the way he did? I wonder what he will say when I return to our new home in a new town and country and tell him what I discovered. Will he get defensive? Upset? Disappointed?

All  these questions circle in my mind on the long transatlantic flight back.

And then I see him. He is dressed in an old flannel shirt and worn-out jeans that hang loose from his skinny, aged body. I tell him about my adventures overseas, sharing everything. Everything except this unspoken question in his eyes, a question I want to ask him. 

Does he know that I know ? Is it worth it to inquire ?  I hesitate, unable to speak out of fear of disturbing something magical that he created for us, and forever hold my peace.